Today's poet

[Harry H Howgill]

A full moon, hairs on my palm
I howl at the night
Off to my lair, before i cause a fright
Goodnight all

Hey! I've just realised I never congratulated you on the job Merry. Nice one.

[freckle]

The Stars

The stars appear one by one
like small songs,
like small terrors
rattling bright in their cages.
The moon so skin.
Pale rice paper
awash in blood.

The wolf—
a brilliant blue flame
through the trees.

Laura Lush

love it !

[freckle]

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

[stevefoster]

Hey! I've just realised I never congratulated you on the job Merry. Nice one.

Cheers Harry

[N-dubya]

evenin all

[mr brightside]

This is about the only bit of poetry i 'get', the author's sense of dispair and anguish is almost tangible, we did it in english at school.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

[freckle]

This is about the only bit of poetry i 'get', the author's sense of dispair and anguish is almost tangible, we did it in english at school.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Evening.........

I adore this poem mr brightside a classic, gets me every time thanks for posting

[Hes]

Evening.........

I adore this poem mr brightside a classic, gets me every time thanks for posting

me too...it says it all perfectly.

[Hes]

Young Crows
Susan McMaster

Your voice on the phone—
cancer — and their wings
start beating in my chest
black crow wings
leathered and soft
with bending spines,
handfuls of wings
fluttering, caught
between heart and ribs
pressing in on lungs
catching my breath
in spurts, starts

You ask for reassurance
but, this time, I can't tell.
Once or twice before
I've somehow known:
this one will fail
this one heal—
but now the air is still
now, when more than ever
I want to feel
the direction of the wind
strain for a clear view
silence suspends me
a foggy calm
neither feathers nor sky

I don't know what to say
We must wait for the tests
their uncertain light
keep a grip on this shifting
nest of bones
while the harsh winds swirl

wait, hold tight—

till a gust sends you spinning
out into the blast
we follow as we can
through storms, gales
inversions, calms

We don't know yet—
will your wings tear apart
in the tempest's wail
drop you crashing into rocks

Or will a gentler breeze
catch you, carry you
lift you against hope
to a nest of long grasses
on the hill's shaggy side

wings beat at my heart
fear takes flight

I thought this was really moving too.

[Hes]

Wow she is really good...it is almost 21.00...time for some passion (ooh I remember the days...)!

The Pleasure of Lusting
Susan McMaster
From: Uncommon Prayer. Kingson, Ontario: Quarry Press, 1998.

—the pleasure of lusting
after you is to stroke, with my finger
the hollow beside your eye so lightly
you only shift and turn in your sleep—
hmmm— a small, satisfied sound
and your arm drops across me
in sleepy caress, and fits
under its weight, the arch
leaves my back, I become soft
as the sheet, waver down
your snores

—or to lie, blanket to chin
while you warm last night's coffee, lie
with one knee turned out, fingers idling
casual as the stroke for the cat
who sometimes rumbles beside us
as we toss, feeling everything
become fluid, rounded
a watery terrain

—and then to pull you
down to me, turn with one motion
from back to front, close my hands
around your ankles, close the triangle
as you rock me from below, as we
climb a long, slow wave to the
top, glide down

—what pleasure, then
to drift into dream of rocking
together up wave after wave
or wake, cup palm around
your shoulder as you drowse
beside me, watching

—three small, sleek, blackbirds
in the tree outside the window
whistle and preen

—roll again over you