Quotes about acres., page 11
The Trains
Tunnelling through the night, the trains pass
in a splendour of power, with a sound like thunder
shaking the orchards, waking
the young from a dream, scattering like glass
the old mens' sleep, laying
a black trail over the still bloom of the orchards;
the trains go north with guns.
Strange primitive piece of flesh, the heart laid quiet
hearing their cry pierce through its thin-walled cave
recalls the forgotten tiger,
and leaps awake in its old panic riot;
and how shall mind be sober,
since blood's red thread still binds us fast in history?
Tiger, you walk through all our past and future,
troubling the children's sleep'; laying
a reeking trail across our dreams of orchards.
Racing on iron errands, the trains go by,
and over the white acres of our orchards
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poem by Judith Wright
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Stems
Empty hours accumalate -
And take over;
Nothing ventured and definately-
Nothing gained...
Critical minute blown away in --
Idle contemplation...
While 'Rules Of Thumb' are busy twiddling;
While the clocks tic has now regained its tock...
And happier days are -
Even further away;
At one time-our life-
Was like a Merry-Go-Round...
Circlling-the proverbial 'Brass Ring';
Brazen to haughty...
Where nothing -
Or no one could-
Disturb our daily lives-
Which were-
Lived just under the-
Guise of permissable;
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poem by Theodora Onken
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Battle Lines
We got more poetry than we bargained for:
Poetry as per the programme;
Poetry under the Plane trees;
Poetry conjuring other places,
Other times,
Other insights
Through other eyes.
Yes, all that and more
As the soft, stone façade
Glowed the warm jaune-crème
Of a quiet understanding
Borne of generations of learning,
And, en face,
Upstart acres of glass
Glowered back their pretensions
With an assurance
Only the arrogance of youth may afford.
Between these battle lines,
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poem by Tony Jolley
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Prolonging
We live life to become prolonging
To live life in order to gather belongings
Nourishments and values for the living
No flowers for the decease, lack of giving
me, mine, I, i'm
So selfish to see what's behind the taste of wine
Can you slow down and give a helping hand?
Take this moment to be the better man
America spends billions of dollars on our wars
And left over change to clean up america's floors
So our streets stay polluted with the homeless
Have you ever thought about this?
There are over 17, OOO golf courses in america
What's the average acres of a golf course?
Exactly! ! !
Instead we use these spaces to play a sport
Leaving some of our americans to live in forts
Millions of dollars used for elections
Just to brain wash us and pull us in directions
It's about time we make our own corrections!
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poem by Pure Remedy
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Mist In The Valley
These hills, to hurt me more,
That am hurt already enough,—
Having left the sea behind,
Having turned suddenly and left the shore
That I had loved beyond all words, even a song's words, to
convey,
And built me a house on upland acres,
Sweet with the pinxter, bright and rough
With the rusty blackbird long before the winter's done,
But smelling never of bayberry hot in the sun,
Nor ever loud with the pounding of the long white breakers,—
These hills, beneath the October moon,
Sit in the valley white with mist
Like islands in a quiet bay,
Jut out from shore into the mist,
Wooded with poplar dark as pine,
Like points of land into a quiet bay.
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poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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The Farmer's Wife
From the hodge porridge
of their country lust,
their local life in Illinois,
where all their acres look
like a sprouting broom factory,
they name just en years now
that she has been his habit;
as again tonight he'll say
honey bunch let's go
and she will not say how there
must be more to living
than this brief bright bridge
of the raucous bed or even
the slow braille touch of him
like a heavy god grown light,
that old pantomime of love
that she wants although
it leaves her still alone,
built back again at last,
mind's apart from him, living
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poem by Anne Sexton
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My Dog
'Twas in a pub just off the Strand
When I was in my cups,
There passed a bloke with in his hand
Two tiny puling pups;
And one was on me with a bound,
Seeking to lick my face,
And so I bought him for a pound
And took him to my place.
Three acres by the shore I own,
A hut, a pint wood;
And there for fifteen years alone
He shared my solitude.
It was his own, his only world,
And when with hunting spent,
Each night beside my bed he curled,
And slept in sheer content.
My dog is dead. Though lone I be
I'll never have another;
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poem by Robert William Service
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A Short Song of Congratulation
LONG-EXPECTED one and twenty
Ling'ring year at last has flown,
Pomp and pleasure, pride and plenty
Great Sir John, are all your own.
Loosen'd from the minor's tether,
Free to mortgage or to sell,
Wild as wind, and light as feather
Bid the slaves of thrift farewell.
Call the Bettys, Kates, and Jenneys
Ev'ry name that laughs at care,
Lavish of your Grandsire's guineas,
Show the spirit of an heir.
All that prey on vice and folly
Joy to see their quarry fly,
Here the gamester light and jolly
There the lender grave and sly.
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poem by Samuel Johnson
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One And Twenty
LONG-EXPECTED one and twenty
Ling'ring year at last has flown,
Pomp and pleasure, pride and plenty
Great Sir John, are all your own.
Loosen'd from the minor's tether,
Free to mortgage or to sell,
Wild as wind, and light as feather
Bid the slaves of thrift farewell.
Call the Bettys, Kates, and Jenneys
Ev'ry name that laughs at care,
Lavish of your Grandsire's guineas,
Show the spirit of an heir.
All that prey on vice and folly
Joy to see their quarry fly,
Here the gamester light and jolly
There the lender grave and sly.
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poem by Samuel Johnson
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Secrets In My Shoes
I met my lover in London
Thigh deep in sage and scarlet roses
Shaken by the river’s thrush tavern
Twilight in the brushes that combed her hair
The drifting thorns in the blackness, vouching
Adrift in the sake that shifts into the far horizon
The whirlpool of the streams amongst the shadows
Cradled in pleasures beneath the falling stars
Thus London, I figured, was my haven:
Vanishing music, twilight liquor
A stealthy recitation of the present
Poured into the goblets by vestal laughter
The precious songs that our tongues spoke in rivers
To licking the chords that is native to our deep desires
Overflowing in volumes of ecstasy that are borrowed
Throughout flourishing dismissal, spelled out in vowels
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poem by Jason PraTT
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