General/Off-topic |
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MY LYRICS - POEMS - PASSAGES
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160. |
06 Mar 2008 Thu 05:40 pm |
Quoting Daydreamer: Erotic poetry time? Here's Erica Jong:
The Long Tunnel of Wanting You
From How to Save Your Own Life
This is the long tunnel of wanting you.
Its walls are lined with remembered kisses
wet & red as the inside of your mouth,
full & juicy as your probing tongue,
warm as your belly against mine,
deep as your navel leading home,
soft as your sleeping cock beginning to stir,
tight as your legs wrapped around mine,
straight as your toes pointing toward the bed
as you roll over & thrust your hardness
into the long tunnel of my wanting,
seeding it with dreams & unbearable hope,
making memories of the future,
straightening out my crooked past,
teaching me to live in the present present tense
with the past perfect and the uncertain future
suddenly certain for certain
in the long tunnel of my old wanting
which before always had an ending
but now begins & begins again
with you, with you, with you. |
beautiful!!!!!
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161. |
07 Mar 2008 Fri 01:20 pm |
At Lunchtime A Story of Love -Roger Mcgough
When the bus stopped suddenly
to avoid damaging
a mother and child in the road,
the young lady in the green hat sitting opposite,
was thrown across me,
and not being one to miss an opportunity
I started to make love.
At first, she resisted,
saying that it was too early in the morning,
and too soon after breakfast,
and anyway, she found me repulsive.
But when I explained
that this being a nuclearage
the world was going to end at lunchtime,
she took off her green hat,
put her bus ticket into her pocket
and joined in the exercise.
The bus people,
and there were many of them,
were shocked and surprised,
and amused and annoyed.
But when the word got around
that the world was going to end at lunchtime,
they put their pride in their pockets
with their bus tickets
and made love one with the other.
And even the bus conductor,
feeling left out,
climbed into the cab,
and struck up some sort of relationship with the driver.
That night,
on the bus coming home,
we were all a little embarrassed.
Especially me and the young lady in the green hat.
And we all started to say
in different ways
how hasty and foolish we had been.
But then, always having been a bit of a lad,
I stood up and said it was a pity
that the world didnt nearly end every lunchtime,
and that we could always pretend.
And then it happened ...
Quick as a crash
we all changed partners,
and soon the bus was a quiver
with white, mothball bodies doing naughty things.
And the next day
and everyday
In every bus
In every street
In every town
In every country
People pretended
that the world was coming to an end at lunchtime.
It still hasnt.
Although in a way it has.
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162. |
07 Mar 2008 Fri 07:44 pm |
LIFE AND LOVE ON CANVAS
A stretched canvas...
A palette...A brush.
Colors...A portrait.
Life and love begin...
The faded background...
The whites...
The reds...
The Blues...
The shape of her face...
A stroke of his hair.
Her lips full...his eyes kind.
Her cheeks...his nose.
Is there difficulty in this?
It is pure love dear one.
Sight, fondness, touching...
Walking, gazing, holding...
The portrait proceeds...
The brush impels the artist.
Green, orange, pink...
Shades of crimson...oh so soft.
Life and love on canvas.
The walk continues...
Melodious lineaments.
Emotional longing...consoling.
Feelings aspiring...lasting...
The artist’s errant hand
prolongs the inevitable.
Cherished life and love is now
blossoming - ever so quickly...
Embracing, touching, knowing.
Bodies gently entwining.
Sweat glands meeting...gliding.
Lips kissing...moods rising.
Red, yellow and whites
announce and pronounce the passion.
Purples and blues
explode, then soften the energy .
Life and love...passion and desire.
Hold me tight, bring me closer.
Hearts are racing, more embracing.
Nothing is lost...
Suddenly...
Emotions crawl...soon after - stop.
Breathing slows…the cessation
is...welcomed...
Hush...Sleep now my love...
The artist’s brush...It rests.
The day, like the energies, are spent.
But the Portrait dear one ?
The Portrait you ask...?
It lives...
eddie
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163. |
07 Mar 2008 Fri 10:48 pm |
Quoting catwoman: Quoting Daydreamer: Erotic poetry time? Here's Erica Jong:
The Long Tunnel of Wanting You
From How to Save Your Own Life
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beautiful!!!!!  |
So, Catwoman, what do you think about Jong's views on 9/11?
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164. |
07 Mar 2008 Fri 11:02 pm |
Quoting thehandsom: At Lunchtime A Story of Love -Roger Mcgough
When the bus stopped suddenly
to avoid damaging
a mother and child in the road,
the young lady in the green hat sitting opposite,
was thrown across me,
and not being one to miss an opportunity
I started to make love.
At first, she resisted,
saying that it was too early in the morning,
and too soon after breakfast,
and anyway, she found me repulsive.
But when I explained
that this being a nuclearage
the world was going to end at lunchtime,
she took off her green hat,
put her bus ticket into her pocket
and joined in the exercise.
The bus people,
and there were many of them,
were shocked and surprised,
and amused and annoyed.
But when the word got around
that the world was going to end at lunchtime,
they put their pride in their pockets
with their bus tickets
and made love one with the other.
And even the bus conductor,
feeling left out,
climbed into the cab,
and struck up some sort of relationship with the driver.
That night,
on the bus coming home,
we were all a little embarrassed.
Especially me and the young lady in the green hat.
And we all started to say
in different ways
how hasty and foolish we had been.
But then, always having been a bit of a lad,
I stood up and said it was a pity
that the world didnt nearly end every lunchtime,
and that we could always pretend.
And then it happened ...
Quick as a crash
we all changed partners,
and soon the bus was a quiver
with white, mothball bodies doing naughty things.
And the next day
and everyday
In every bus
In every street
In every town
In every country
People pretended
that the world was coming to an end at lunchtime.
It still hasnt.
Although in a way it has. |
Roger Mcgough is one of my favourite poets for children. He loves to experiment with play on words and form. One of my favourites is:
'To amuse emus on warm summer nights
Kiwis do weewees from spectacular heights'
He was a member of a band called 'The Scaffold' in the 60s. I can remember one of their songs in particular was sung everywhere by everyone at the time.
Roger is the one with the glasses and Paul Macartney's (the Beatles) brother is the one on the right. (The one in the middle may be Handsom . . . the truth will out !!! ):
http://youtube.com/watch?v=hSMo1UQdxfY
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165. |
11 Mar 2008 Tue 12:20 pm |
Quoting peace train: Quoting catwoman: Quoting Daydreamer: Erotic poetry time? Here's Erica Jong:
The Long Tunnel of Wanting You
From How to Save Your Own Life
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beautiful!!!!!  |
So, Catwoman, what do you think about Jong's views on 9/11? |
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mjAHv3mxvJY
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166. |
11 Mar 2008 Tue 12:56 pm |
Uncertainty
by Adam Mickiewicz
While I don't see you, I don't shed a tear
I never lose my senses when you're near,
But, with our meetings few and far between
There's something missing, waiting to be seen.
Is there a name for what I'm thinking of?
Are we just friends? Or should I call this love?
As soon as we have said our last good-byes,
Your image never floats before my eyes;
But more than once, when you have been long gone,
I seemed to feel your presence linger on.
I wonder then what I've been thinking of.
Are we just friends? Or should I call this love?
When I'm downcast, I never seek relief
By pouring out my heart in tales of grief;
Yet, as I wander aimlessly, once more
I somehow end up knocking at your door;
What brought me here? What am I thinking of?
Are we just friends? Or should I call this love?
I'd give my life to keep you sound and well,
To make you smile, I would descend to hell;
But though I'd climb the mountains, swim the seas
I do not look to be your health and peace:
Again I ask, what am I thinking of?
Are we just friends? or should I call this love?
And when you place your hand upon my palm,
I am enveloped in a blissful calm,
Prefiguring some final, gentle rest;
But still my heart beats loudly in my breast
As if to ask: what are you thinking of?
Are you two friends? or will you call this love?
Not bardic spirit seized my mortal tongue
When I thought of you and composed this song;
But still, I can't help wondering sometimes:
Where did these notions come from, and these rhymes?
In heaven's name, what I was dreaming of?
And what had inspired me? Friendship or love?
translator not known
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8lL7aBs6ucA
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167. |
14 Mar 2008 Fri 08:17 pm |
Grandmother, Mother, Daughter
'In this Time...and In this Place...'
I wake in the midst of humor.
What is funny? Where are the charms?
Life is grand...the day begins, the sun is up.
The moon is sleeping...the light – it warms.
The radio plays ‘Pretty Blue Eyes’.
My ears hear blissful crying.
‘I see birds outside my window,’
My daughter says subtly sighing...
Awake I say...'Is this truly me?…
In this time...and in this place?
Where am I in my life'?
Suspicion...Reality...Both so rife.
Everyday vigor...Everyday living.
Constant strife...Constant giving.
A speck of sand in a gust of wind.
What say then?...Give up?...Rescind?
Wait dear one...perception is reality!
'Hear this my child...
In this time..and in this place?
Where am I in my life?
Shall I prevail? Should I be pleased'?
‘Define me’, Mother utters.
‘My dear child...You are my mother’s
grandaugther...Such a pearl.
'Look now luv', she cries...your little girl.’
'Capture her with charm.
Subdue her with subtleness.
Overwhelm her with encouragement.
Ahhh - but love her with tenderness'.
'Hear this well Grandmother...
In this time...and in this place…
Where I am in my life...
I shall seek growth! I shall find mirth!
While I hunt clarity and until I see clearly.
Push me...Digress not will I this day!
You are an angel to me Grandmother.
You are my Lifeguide...Stay...Please stay'.
‘Imogen...come out to play,’ they ask.
‘Can she please... Please with Pretty on it’?
She dresses herself. I wink. She blinks.
My first star...She twinkles...She shines.
‘Come dear child...Hear this before you go.
In this time…and in this place
Where you are in your life.
Play...run and swing...grow...love and sing.
But not yet my charismatic kitten.
Leave we must...Your brother waits'
'Who?.... Grandmother...Who'?
'Your brother Joseph comes...Dear child he’s late'.
Grand as grand can give...
Living life...as life should live.
Choosing to dance in the aisles...
Wishing to sing to see her smiles.
Look past the emotions Grandmother.
‘This is where I choose to be.
In this time…and in this place
For you...for her...and for me.’
eddie
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168. |
14 Mar 2008 Fri 09:22 pm |
LOVE (III)
by George Herbert
Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd anything.
"A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here";
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"
"Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat.
It might be an old poem, but discovered it recently
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169. |
14 Mar 2008 Fri 10:33 pm |
Quoting thehandsom: LOVE (III)
by George Herbert
Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd anything.
"A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here";
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"
"Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat.
It might be an old poem, but discovered it recently  |
beautiful poem.
thank you for sharing
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170. |
16 Mar 2008 Sun 04:45 am |
by Irving Layton (3 poems)
MISUNDERSTANDING
I placed
my hand
upon
her thigh.
By the way
she moved
away
I could see
her devotion
to literature
was not
perfect.
==========================
Nausicaa
"I'm the sort of girl
you must first tell you love."
"I love you," I said.
She gave herself to me then
and I enjoyed her on her perfumed bed.
By the gods, the pleasure in her small
wriggling body was so great,
I had spoken no lecherous falsehood.
Now not I nor my beloved,
such is our heat,
can wait for either words or scented sheet
but on her or my raincoat go roughly to it.
========================================
There Were No Signs
By walking I found out
Where I was going.
By intensely hating, how to love.
By loving, whom and what to love.
By grieving, how to laugh from the belly.
Out of infirmity, I have built strength.
Out of untruth, truth.
From hypocrisy, I wove directness.
Almost now I know who I am.
Almost I have the boldness to be that man.
Another step
And I shall be where I started from.
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