Favourite Poems

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…. 10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes; 25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go 35
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— 40
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare 45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress 65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 85
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— 95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while, 100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . . . . .
110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use, 115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old … 120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me. 125

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

 

New Begining

My time has come
there is only one way now.
The choice I must make
Holding the knife so tightly,
I close my eyes.
Kneel.
I feel the pain of the blade cutting across my guts,
I know it will be a long and painfull death,
But I fear it not for I am ready.
How got to this point is no longer important.
Now there is no pain left.
I have left me
wating my mortal body die as I begin the acceend
I long for what's about to come.
Rebirth.
100% Beast.
I am Alphe and Omega...The begining and the end

 

The Darkness Of My Soul

Deep within the darknes of my soul is a hunger,
a hunger wanting to escape the prison of self,
longing to cast away the shakels of captivety,
awaiting to set my spirit free.

within me is will to escape the life I live when I am awake.
I know the light is there and I catch a glimpse of it every now and then.
I fight to to be released, I want my freedom like never before.

I close my eyes, and dream for a while,
I feel the power of enlightment shine through me,
and I know the time is here,
I know my time has come.

Finally I am free

 

lost

 

In light

 

A New Night Same Memory

 

No

I do not wish to be dead.
Just unborn.

by Michael Strunge

 

The Raven
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!

 

My sweet tooth, loves a candy girl.





My Sweet Candy Girl
By Handsum-Hart


She’s my Tootsie Pop
and I hunger to know
how many licks of love
it will take to reach
the center of her heart

Richer than
a Milk Chocolate Bunny
a wealth of sweet delight
is my gift
when she melts all over me

Her love is soft and yummy
like warm Gummy Bears
and thrills my little tummy
like my favorite flavor
of Cotton Candy

She flows
with so much sweetness
my palate is pining to know
the ingredients in her kisses
as they please my lips
more than a million
Hershey's Chocolate Kisses

Her Candy Bracelets
and Necklaces
are the sweetest jewelry
I have ever seen
and her Candy Lipstick
makes her one very cute Chiclet
I go Bonkers over

More addicting
than Candy Cigarettes
are her fingers and toes
and I smoke them daily
just to inhale their sweet aroma

The taste of Laffy Taffy
in her laughter
is quite chewy
and very gooey good

Her thoughts I chew on
like Bubblicious Bubble Gum
and blow big brainy bubbles
which burst her delicious
thinking all over my mind

My Sweet Candy Girl
is no Junior Mint
rather she's sweeter than
Peppermint Paddy and her love
is Good & Plenty enough
for this Jolly Rancher
eating cowboy

As my days melt to an end
like Hot Caramel Fudge
she blows Candy Powder
into my eyes
causing me to fall deeply
into the land of nod
where I dine on sugary dreams
about My Sweet Candy Girl

I can't wait
for my box of Sugar Daddies
to adopt her bags of Sugar Babies
turning us into a family
and making her
my Sugar Momma


© 2003 Ronald Howard Moman

 

If only I was a poet by Lion1978

If only I was a poet,
I'd write you a thousand poems.

If only words would flow from my tongue,
I'd sing to you a love song.

But when my eys dwell upon you I stutter and become numb,
There are no words that I can find,
no words that can describe they beuty that is you.

All of heavens angels pale in comparison to you,
your kindness and your good is above everything alse.

Though my words are weak, though my tongue falls numb,
KNow that you'll alway be withing my heart,
My love for you is unconditional,
and without you life would be nothing but empty and hollow.

 

First they came -: Martin Niemöller

Sadly one can easily add to the list

• Black,
• Disabled,
• Gypsy,
• Homeless,
• Homosexual,
• Immigrant,
• Mentall Ill
• Transgender,
• Uneducated
• Unemployed

*Etc ....
First they came ... - Wikipedia...
The message is the same, - lest we stand up against injustice, it it only a matter of time before/that we are only a category away from receiving persecution

 

Sadly this is still the battle we must fight.

 

History is far too often a lesson seldom learned

 

I agree I found that on my unusual photos thread.

 

The Charge of the Light Brigade
Alfred Lord Tennyson - 1809-1892
Half a league, half a league, - Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death - Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade! - Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death - Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!" - Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew - Some one had blunder’d:
Theirs not to make reply, - Theirs not to reason why, - Theirs but to do and die:
- Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, - Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them - Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death, - Into the mouth of Hell
- Rode the six hundred

Flash’d all their sabres bare, - Flash’d as they turn’d in air - Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while all the world wonder’d:
Plunged in the battery-smoke - Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian - Reel’d from the sabre-stroke - shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not - Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them,,Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,,While horse and hero fell,They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them, Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade? - O the wild charge they made! All the world wonder’d.
Honor the charge they made! - Honor the Light Brigade, - Noble six hundred!

• Glory comes in many guises

 

Wise words and a sound credo

 

One of my favourites. X

 

Another Tennyson piece: The Lady of Sharlott
. . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . .

(Though there are a few different versions /verses)
The Lady of Shalott - Wikipedia

 

A Pagan's Prayer: