Quotes about alleys, page 10
The world is one typographical error
It's like a puzzle,
poet and time.
Where one used to balance the square,
another now circles.
Like a carrion bird,
he survives, in the bomb craters,
and sideways alleys.
A new age brings a new type,
profundity and perfuctory,
or a paroxism and paradigm.
hand in the others coat,
to keep fresh, to keep warm
What one has built and abandoned,
the new poet destroys to feeds on.
Nothing is eternal
Its allways being proof read.
The world is one typographical error,
In time, his fingers, crane-like and hungry,
inconsistently try to correct.
But every language has its soul,
[...] Read more
poem by Jerome Moore
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Sonnet: God's Words
Believe in Jesus Christ, receiving joys;
The Almighty bestows grace in excess!
No more devils can use us as their toys.
The Word of God bestows true happiness.
Dispelling darkness, lighting life’s alleys,
The Word of God miraculously guides;
Have faith in Jesus Christ and He gives peace;
The righteous soul in Maker’s codes abides.
You cannot serve two masters- satan, God;
The Word of God will protect us from harm;
Devils rejoice when we receive God’s rod;
Scriptures provide souls God’s forgiveness-Balm!
Follow the Word of God in life on earth,
And realize the advantages / worth!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 3-11-2006
poem by John Celes
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London
Athwart the sky a lowly sigh
From west to east the sweet wind carried;
The sun stood still on Primrose Hill;
His light in all the city tarried:
The clouds on viewless columns bloomed
Like smouldering lilies unconsumed.
'Oh sweetheart, see! how shadowy,
Of some occult magician's rearing,
Or swung in space of heaven's grace
Dissolving, dimly reappearing,
Afloat upon ethereal tides
St. Paul's above the city rides!'
A rumour broke through the thin smoke
Enwreathing abbey, tower, and palace,
The parks, the squares, the thoroughfares,
The million-peopled lanes and alleys,
An ever-muttering prisoned storm,
The heart of London beating warm.
poem by John Davidson
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Sonnet IX: Ye, Who in Alleys Green
Ye, who in alleys green and leafy bow'rs,
Sport, the rude children of fantastic birth;
Where frolic nymphs, and shaggy tribes of mirth,
In clam'rous revels waste the midnight hours;
Who, link'd in flaunting bands of mountain flow'rs,
Weave your wild mazes o'er the dewy earth,
Ere the fierce Lord of Lustre rushes forth,
And o'er the world his beamy radiance pours!
Oft has your clanking cymbal's madd'ning strain,
Loud ringing through the torch-illumin'd grove,
Lur'd my lov'd Phaon from the youthful train,
Through rugged dells, o'er craggy rocks to rove;
Then how can she his vagrant heart detain,
Whose Lyre throbs only to the touch of Love!
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Outward Bound
I leave behind me the elm-shadowed square
And carven portals of the silent street,
And wander on with listless, vagrant feet
Through seaward-leading alleys, till the air
Smells of the sea, and straightway then the care
Slips from my heart, and life once more is sweet.
At the lane's ending lie the white-winged fleet.
O restless Fancy, whither wouldst thou fare?
Here are brave pinions that shall take thee far --
Gaunt hulks of Norway; ships of red Ceylon;
Slim-masted lovers of the blue Azores!
'Tis but an instant hence to Zanzibar,
Or to the regions of the Midnight Sun;
Ionian isles are thine, and all the fairy shores!
poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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I See You But You Don't See Me
i am invisbile
i have the powers handed to me by the gods
to be invisible
on this site to have many faces to have many
forms and colors and
dispositions
beyond gender
beyong boundaries
religion, beliefs, beyond what you ordinarily call
poetry
i am invisible to anybody's closed eyes
narrow alleys
i have wings i can always fly
i have horns i can always bully each
one of you here
you do not see me
but i always see you
[...] Read more
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Air Was Naked
After the putsch, through night he set himself alight
ensnared in flames of societal conflicts, for a
vision of tomorrow, in the birth of a bloody dawn.
The drone of history had failed on a loaded salt.
A solitary murder of truth was sufficient to unsettle
me for a downturn of unborn wounds of drowned
voice, of a requiem. The dead were coming back to life
in dark alleys of black skulls. The pink scarves
were still holding the snow flakes of standing
wheat for the thirsty children, of grieving mothers
who lost the homes to red hands, the white paper,
the hungry guns. The thieves were coming again.
I was never naked in my blood, my howling bones.
poem by Satish Verma
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Epileptic Truth
When I touched your pshyche,
my completeness wavered.
In the empty words
and hollow thoughts.
The road to my dream house burned.
I longed to meet my flame.
You were listening to declaration of truth.
It was a refuge,
there was no evidence
of any movement of humanity.
My soft mind took the imprint
of golden spaces between
the dark alleys of earth.
The skeletons of history remained unclaimed.
Remembering your trust
My attachment floats. Anxiety
of seeking. The dust smears
the face of epileptic truth.
[...] Read more
poem by Satish Verma
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Writing by Lightning
As a child
Certain skies would brighten me
Ransacking the most remote back-alleys
Of my imagination.
Some nights when the sky would explode
Into a dainty parade of bolts
And knock down silently captivating saplings
I would let the celestial blitzkrieg
Provide final form for my vitally molding mind
Making me thunderously bright.
I have since grown up in annual fragments
Occasionally I feel the revivifying enlightenment
Of a brainstorm
That's only the allowance of my creative firepower.
For the most part I can no longer withstand the shock
Of reverie that a wick of electricity generates
And every impulse to look up at heaven's lid
[...] Read more
poem by Joe Cabrera
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A Pastoral.
Sweet birds! that sit and sing among the shady valleys,
And see how sweetly Phyllis walks amid her garden alleys,
Go round about her bower, and sing as ye are bidden:
To her is only known his faith that from the world is hidden,
And she among you all that hath the sweetest voice,
Go chirp of him that never told, yet never changed, his voice.
And not forget his faith that lived forever loved
Yet never made his fancy known, nor ever favor moved;
And ever let your ground of all your grace be this-
'To you, to you, to you the due of love and honor is,
On you, on you, on you our music all attendeth,
For as on you our Muse begun, in you all music endeth.'
poem by Nicholas Breton
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