Linda |
Truths
Who Me?
Poets and Meditations
by Billy Collins
Tue, January 3, 2006 - 9:01 PM
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Each one is a gift, no doubt. mysteriously placed in your waking hand or set upon your forehead moments before you open your eyes. Today begins cold and bright, the ground heavy with snow and a thick masonry of ice, the sun glinting off the turrets of clouds. Through the calm eyes of the window everything is in its place but so precariously this day might be resting somehow on the one before it, all the days of the past stacked high like an impossible tower of dishes entertainers used to build on stage. No wonder you find yourself perched on top of a tall ladder hoping to add one more, Just another Wednesday, you whisper, then holding your breath, place this cup on yesterday's saucer without the slightest clink. 
"Mercedes Benz"
Sat, December 31, 2005 - 7:57 PM
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Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz ? My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends. Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends, So Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz ? Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a color TV ? Dialing For Dollars is trying to find me. I wait for delivery each day until three, So oh Lord, won’t you buy me a color TV ? Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a night on the town ? I’m counting on you, Lord, please don’t let me down. Prove that you love me and buy the next round, Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a night on the town ? Everybody! Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz ? My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends, Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends, So oh Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz ? Made famous by Janis Joplin
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
Sun, November 27, 2005 - 10:34 AM
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And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made, Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart's core. W.B.Yeats (1890) 
By Eliza Gilkyson (2005)
Thu, November 24, 2005 - 5:40 AM
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I pulled out of shakeytown Goin up country, sinkin’ down I think about you I’m a sucker for the thrill of the chase A little damage and a little grace I think about you Think about you I pulled out of the sad cafe Midnight waters of half moon bay I think about you I’m a sucker for the fountain of youth Til I bang my head on the mountain of truth I think about you Think about you Gotta turn my collar into the wind Turn my lover into a friend Turn my loss into a win And my heart over to the road again I pulled into the night owl inn Front desk clerk with a backdoor grin Made me think about you I’m a sucker for a heart half closed A part withheld and a part exposed I think about you Think about you LL* pickin' this song to ease my heart ~~thinking about you thanks for another lesson in love. 
Old Walt Whitman
Sat, November 12, 2005 - 8:40 AM
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Went finding and seeking, Finding less than sought, Seeking more than found, Every detail minding Of the seeking or the finding. Pleasured equally In seeking as in finding, Each detail minding, Old Walt went seeking And finding. Langston Hughes - Selected Poems 
by Mountain Poet aka Daniel McTaggart
Thu, November 10, 2005 - 7:38 PM
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www.authorsden.com She last looked at me like Autumn when the energy of our season had drained and all her looks after that fell apart like parchment pieces in the wind. Our love, such as it was, had shriveled and I would not touch it then for fear of reducing its memory to a gust of ashes swirling and salting over dead scars. Once her gaze was crisp like the bite of an apple in Spring. My teeth snapping through its skin gouging heavier chunks with every juicy gulp. Would that I could return to those days but our hearts had barely survived a season's turn and I did not think to stop the juices spilling over the corners of my mouth. 
November 2, 2005
Mon, November 7, 2005 - 4:52 PM
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What is the meaning of “IS?” If they don’t call it a lie, it is not a lie, right? If they don’t call it torture, it is not torture, right? If they don’t call them prisoners, they are instead detainees, right? If they don’t call it spin, it is just a conversation with a reporter. But the truth IS the truth. And the truth IS, that …' They did lie to the USA and the world. They do torture prisoners in violation of the Geneva Conventions …' lots of prisoners. They use words/semantics to violate the human rights of prisoners. They do spin, maliciously. And we are paying them? The present administration IS a failure. They are using our tax dollars, not only for an unjust war they started without due cause; They are using our tax dollars to lie and torture and spin and violate. It IS wrong! It IS an outrage! It IS a crime! By my sister, Julia Just another disillusioned American in response to Bush. 
By Bruce Cockburn
Mon, November 7, 2005 - 4:44 PM
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Living in the past is not living at all The old fear going fast Everybody’s scared to fall Turn with the times Change your mind Sullen and profane The ancient temple stands Dissolving in the rain The gods long turned to sand Forgotten childhood rhyme Change your mind. Listen for the ring Of tomorrow’s bell Be the first to sing From beyond the wishing well Know what’s behind But change your mind. 
Pulled into the Suns
Sun, November 6, 2005 - 6:08 AM
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release~ humble to the praise of the day~ seeing songs held in place while watching the Sky's mind~ sailing to the being of both~ Dance in featherd' flamed' rain~ feel cool still air move to my motion~ lifting grey shadow and damped' sage scent~ simply sway waiting for Moons dawn~ ~~~mlh~~~ Martin L. Hebert www.authorsden.com 
After having loved we lie close together
Sat, November 5, 2005 - 2:42 PM
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and at the same time with distance between us like two sailing ships that enjoy so intensely their own lines in the dark water they divide that their hulls are almost splitting from sheer delight while racing, out in the blue under sails which the night wind fills with flowerscented air and moonlight --without one of them ever trying to outsail the other and without the distance between them lessening or growing at all. But there are other nights,where we drift like two brightly illuminated luxury liners lying side by side with the engines shut off, under a strange constellation and without a single passenger on board: On each deck a violin orchestra is playing in honor of the luminous waves. And the sea is full of old tired ships which we have sunk in our attempt to reach each other. Henrik Norbrandt - Selected Poems 1978 
I go down to the edge of the sea.
Fri, November 4, 2005 - 8:29 PM
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How everything shines in the morning light! The cusp of the whelk, the broken cupboard of the clam, the opened, blue mussels, moon snails, pale pink and barnacle scarred-- and nothing at all whole or shut, but tattered, split, dropped by the gulls onto the gray rocks and all the moisture gone. It's like a schoolhouse of little words, thousands of words. First you figure out what each one means by itself, the jingle, the periwinkle, the scallop full of moonlight. Then you begin, slowly, to read the whole story. Mary Oliver 
Don't call this world adorable, or useful, that's not it.
Mon, October 24, 2005 - 7:02 PM
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It's frisky, and a theatre for more than fair winds. The eyelash of lightening is neither good nor evil. The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold. But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white feet of the trees. whose mouths open. Doesn't the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance? Haven't the flowers moved, slowly across Asia, then Europe, until at last, now, they shine in your own backyard? Don't call this world an explanation, or even an education. When the sufi poet whirled, was he looking outward, to the mountains so solidly there in a white capped ring, or was he looking to the center of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea that was also there, beautiful as a thumb curved and touching the finger, tenderly, little love-ring, as he whirled, oh jug of breath, in the garden of dust? Mary Oliver
My Tribes |
