I like that, Michael. ^^ Give a bad love A small reason to leave And watch as it walks Out the door Give a good love A small reason to stay And watch as your life Changes forever By Topher Kearby
"Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver "You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting - over and over announcing your place in the family of things." Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!
On June 18, 1818, If Bonaparte won at Waterloo There would have been no need for world war One or World war Two Had Napoleon Bonaparte got what he desired A united Europe, under Napoleonic law, would have transpired A reformist Tsarist Russia would have dispelled of Communist Lenin and tens of millions would not have expired From the Holocaust to the Cold war would not have been (Bernard Wijeyasingha)
Axes & Wings Some friends carry axes to cut you down when you grow tall Others fit you with feathered wings to make sure that you soar --Topher
After a Rainstorm By Robert Wrigley "Because I have come to the fence at night, the horses arrive also from their ancient stable. They let me stroke their long faces, and I note in the light of the now-merging moon how they, a Morgan and a Quarter, have been by shake-guttered raindrops spotted around their rumps and thus made Appaloosas, the ancestral horses of this place. Maybe because it is night, they are nervous, or maybe because they too sense what they have become, they seem to be waiting for me to say something to whatever ancient spirits might still abide here, that they might awaken from this strange dream, in which there are fences and stables and a man who doesn’t know a single word they understand."
Neat Water A poem by Michael George Woodhams written over 40 years ago Placed on website Poem.com which is a Vanity Publishing site and currently up for sale Why is liquid water wet? I haven't found the answer yet. I've looked in oceans, lakes and streams. No answers there, or so it seems I've looked in showers, baths tubs too. Everywhere but still no clue. I wonder should I look again, And go out in the pouring rain? I'm standing here, I'm soaked all through, From matted hair to soggy shoe. I think, I think, I think and yet, I still don't know why waters wet. Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!
The Smoke Off In the laid back California town of sunny San Rafael Lived a girl named Pearly Sweetcake, you prob'ly knew her well. She'd been stoned fifteen of her eighteen years and the story was widely told That she could smoke 'em faster than anyone could roll. Her legend finally reached New York, that Grove Street walk-up flat Where dwelt The Calistoga Kid, a beatnik from the past With long browned lightnin' fingers he takes a cultured toke And says, Hell, I can roll em faster, Jim, than any chick can smoke! So a note gets sent to San Rafael, For the Championship of the World The Kid demands a smoke off! "Well, bring him on!" says Pearl, "I'll grind his fingers off his hands, he'll roll until he drops!" Says Calistog, "I'll smoke that twist till she blows up and pops! So they rent out Yankee Stadium and the word is quickly spread "Come one, come all, who walk or crawl, price just two lids a head And from every town and hamlet, over land and sea they speed The world's greatest dopers, with the Worlds greatest weed Hashishers from Morocco, hemp smokers from Peru And the Shamnicks from Bagun who puff the deadly Pugaroo And those who call it Light of Life and those that call it boo. See the dealers and their ladies wearing turquoise, lace, and leather See the narcos and the closet smokers puffin' all together From the teenies who smoke legal to the ones who've done some time To the old man who smoked reefer back before it was a crime And the grand old house that Ruth built is filled with the smoke and cries Of fifty thousand screaming heads all stoned out of their minds. And they play the national anthem and the crowd lets out a roar As the spotlight hits The Kid and Pearl, ready for their smokin' war At a table piled up high with grass, as high as a mountain peak Just tops and buds of the rarest flowers, not one stem, branch or seed. Maui Wowie, Panama Red and Acapulco Gold. Kif from East Afghanistan and rare Alaskan Cold. Sticks from Thailand, Ganja from the Islands, and Bangkok's Bloomin' Best. And some of that wet imported shit that capsized off Key West. Oaxacan tops and Kenya Bhang and Riviera Fleurs. And that rare Manhatten Silver that grows down in the New York sewers. And there's bubblin' ice cold lemonade and sweet grapes by the bunches. And there's Hershey's bars, and Oreos, case anybody gets the munchies. And the Calistoga Kid, he sneers, and Pearly, she just grins. And the drums roll low and the crowd yells GO! and the world's first Smoke Off begins. Kid flicks his magic fingers once and ZAP! that first joint's rolled. Pearl takes one drag with her mighty lungs and WOOSH! that roach is cold. Then The Kid he rolls his Super Bomb that'd paralyze a moose. And Pearley takes one super hit and SLURP! that bomb' defused. Then he rolls three in just ten seconds and she smokes 'em up in nine, And everybody sits back and says, "This just might take some time." See the blur of flyin' fingers, see the red coal burnin' bright As the night turns into mornin' and the mornin' fades to night And the autumn turns to summer and a whole damn year is gone But the two still sit on that roach-filled stage, smokin' and rollin' on With tremblin' hands he rolls his jays with fingers blue and stiff She coughs and stares with bloodshot gaze, and puffs through blistered lips. And as she reaches out her hand for another stick of gold The Kid he gasps, "Goddamn it, bitch, there's nothin' left to roll!" "Nothin' left to roll?", screams Pearl, "Is this some twisted joke? I didn't come here to fuck around, man, I come here to SMOKE!" And she reaches 'cross the table And grabs his bony sleeves And she crumbles his body between her hands like dried and brittle leaves Flickin' out his teeth and bones like useless stems and seeds And then she rolls him in a Zig Zag and lights him like a roach. And the fastest man with the fastest hands goes up in a puff of smoke. In the laid-back California town of sunny San Rafael Lives a girl named Pearly Sweetcake, you prob'ly know her well. She's been stoned twenty-one of her twenty-four years, and the story's widely told. How she still can smoke them faster than anyone can roll While off in New York City on a street that has no name. There's the hands of the Calistoga Kid in the Viper Hall of Fame And underneath his fingers there's a little golden scroll That says, Beware of Bein' the Roller When There's Nothin' Left to Roll. by Shel Silverstein Sheldon Allan "Shel" Silverstein - gone for 20 years now - one of the great American Poets of the Twentieth Century.
Brenda Beneath the weeping willow tree Runs a river, deep and wide Ever flowing to the sea Never stopping, till its tide Dances on some distant shore And the sun sets by its side Those with a keen eye will note the first letter each line spells Brenda She was a friend of a girlfriend I did others but lost from memory Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image! Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!
"Roses are brown, violets are green. I'm a terrible poet... and I'm colorblind" - Some radio disc jockey. Still my favorite poem. also "Haikus are easy but sometimes they don't make sense. Refrigerator".
Sometimes it's nice to hear a poem recited out loud. Especially if it's by the author, and they have a nice voice Do not go gentle into that good night Dylan Thomas Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
As I was going through a stair, I met a me who wasn't there. I wasn't there again today! But did I ever pass this way? (With apologies to Ogden Nash.)
I wrote a poem once. It was for my Betta fish, Spike. It was called Ode to Spike, and it went like this: . I like Spike. . . wtf do you want? Homer's Iliad? Jesus, it was just a fish. .
I did not know poems could be a single line of text I wonder what I will learn next Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!