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Poetry
Aug 18, 2022 17:19:45 GMT
Post by althea on Aug 18, 2022 17:19:45 GMT
In blithe nonchalance
I write out my thoughts.
Always hoping that my words
Will be tenderly caught-
In someone's brain
and not written in vain.
Whether my words
liberate or exhilarate,
Whether they are exuberant and playful
or fearful and morose,
Whether I flaunt and beguile
to draw the reader close
Or if my words are fierce
and fail to engross,
If I pack some punches
or cry for shattered dreams,
Whether I am mellow
or robust to extreme,
All the words are from my heart
And my longing to redeem.
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williambrown2
New Star
Old guy sent here on a free transfer from elsewhere. "Just passing through, sheriff."
Posts: 6
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Post by williambrown2 on Oct 3, 2022 20:57:19 GMT
Time, you old gypsy man,
Will you not stay
Put up your caravan
just for one day ?
Ralph Hodgson
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williambrown2
New Star
Old guy sent here on a free transfer from elsewhere. "Just passing through, sheriff."
Posts: 6
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Post by williambrown2 on Oct 3, 2022 20:59:00 GMT
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light!
Edna St Vincent Millay.
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Poetry
Feb 23, 2023 7:20:05 GMT
Post by themanwhoknewnothing on Feb 23, 2023 7:20:05 GMT
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!
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Poetry
Feb 27, 2023 21:54:26 GMT
Post by williambrown on Feb 27, 2023 21:54:26 GMT
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow. A E Housman
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Poetry
Mar 2, 2023 10:07:35 GMT
Post by aubrey on Mar 2, 2023 10:07:35 GMT
Someone posted this yesterday, but I'mm damned if I can find it:
I come and stand at every door
But no-one hears my silent plea
I knock and yet remain unseen
For I am dead for I am dead
I need no fruit nor even rice
I need no meat nor even bread
And I need nothing for myself
When children die they do not grow
I woke one day to ash in light
My eyes grew dim my eyes grew bright
Death came and turned my bones to dust
And scattered swirling in the wind
I need no fruit nor even spice
I need no sweet or even bread
And I need nothing for myself
The Byrds set it, and the Fall did a version of their setting:
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