Quotes about alleys, page 13
The Wreck of She
The Wreck of She, could be a ship,
that has been cast upon the shore,
but alas she is not, she's part of the street
a fancy English whore
The Wreck of She, has moved around
from war time trenches.
to Hyde Park benches,
down quite back alleys,
and seaside chalets.
Yet she was always there
when Tom came to call
then off they would go,
and have a ball.
The Wreck of She, was just like a night owl.
Out at dusk, and home at dawn,
with grass on her back,
from the golf course lawn.
The Wreck of She, was past her sell by date,
when she was found
crawling in the gate,
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poem by Sylvia Spencer
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To Quench Your Lust
The lust for life
hasn't brought them
all to the life of
muddy, hellish dark
lanes, murky alleys,
They also dream of home
and hearth, of happiness,
of a blissful yard.
The greedy eyes of
flesh-lovers bring for
them only buck, disease
and shattered pieces
of dream...
The music of their lives
stopped long ago,
when they first
compelled to sell
their virginity,
to quench your lust!
They are marked
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poem by Nilakshi Das
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Wild horses
It’s simple
Life is reborn every day
Don’t bother with vain reasoning
Don’t stumble into blind alleys of thought
Life revives every day
You must know that
It clatters in front of you
Like a herd of wild horses
Pick a horse
Grab his mane and hop on his back
All of them are headed the same way
The important thing is the road taking you there
Show the horse who’s the boss
Dig your heels into his ribs
You’re riding through sunny thickets
Over fields where the grass grows sweetly
And the shadows are softer than women’s flanks
Learn your horse’s vices
Teach him your own
If he happens to be vicious and throws you off
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poem by Betim Muco
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The Emperor's Glove. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fifth)
On St. Bavon's tower, commanding
Half of Flanders, his domain,
Charles the Emperor once was standing,
While beneath him on the landing
Stood Duke Alva and his train.
Like a print in books of fables,
Or a model made for show,
With its pointed roofs and gables,
Dormer windows, scrolls and labels,
Lay the city far below.
Through its squares and streets and alleys
Poured the populace of Ghent;
As a routed army rallies,
Or as rivers run through valleys,
Hurrying to their homes they went
'Nest of Lutheran misbelievers!'
Cried Duke Alva as he gazed;
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Walking Home Through the Rain
Walking home through the rain reminds me
Of those long past school days
The wet tie flying in the wind
The mud in those stiff academic shoes
Reflections and dreams of insurrection
Walking through the rain reminds me
Of trying to keep my wet shoes clean
First day at work rain drumming down
On my laborious earnest dampened head.
Walking through the rain in a foreign land reminds me
How often I longed for home: the slashing familiar rain
In alleys lined with laburnum: how even the cold betrayed me
The drops fell into eyes and then in rivulets
Leaked out treacherously again
Walking through the wet wet rain
Walking working wishing wondering
Waiting for a kind of fate
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poem by Rani Turton
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Bulletproof
Hey, it's me. Got a kevlar vest ornating my chest,
Walking a battlefield, with scars only partly healed.
Bullets and rockets explode, as the dead's bones corrode.
But I got a kevlar vest ornating my chest.
Hey! Got nothing to fear right? I walk the alleys at night.
I'm a gun-toting machine, stop me if you can!
Bulletproof, gun in hand, tis this an invincible man?
But did I tell you where I've got most my scars?
They're under my kevlar vest ornating my chest.
Deep and hard, some still bleeding, jagged scars.
Many bullets have hit, but few through could they get.
So now you ask, from where are those scars you mask?
Most of my scars are on my back, the sad fact:
I'm bulletproof, but the knives still go through.
Got a kevlar vest ornating my chest, might be bulletproof, but the knives still go through.
Bulletproof...
poem by Joses Tirtabudi
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At The Lattice
Behind the curtain,
With glance uncertain,
Peeps pet Florence as I gaily ride;
Half demurely,
But, though purely,
Most, most surely
Wishing she were riding, riding by my side.
In leafy alleys,
Where sunlight dallies,
Pleasant were it, bonnie, to be riding rein by rein;
And where summer tosses,
All about in bosses,
Velvet verdant mosses,
Still more pleasant, surely, to dismount us and remain.
O thou Beauty!
Hanging ripe and fruity
At the muslined lattice in the drooping eve,
Whisper from the casement
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poem by Alfred Austin
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The Death Papers... (Part Four)
i name the bullet, the noose,
the needle, and the disease.
the failing heart,
the body bent and broken,
the moment that breath is taken...
for you have not killed me!
i name the war, the planes,
the bombs, and the guns.
the lying flags,
and oil tainted chants.
the strike, the stab,
the tearing of flesh...
for you have not killed me!
i name the empty plate,
the orphaned bed
by the endless road.
the goon squads of indifference.
the prison cell, the alleys burning...
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Notes From the Village
Bleecker Street
just before
October dawn,
Winking
corner stoplight
flashing only red
to vacant Sunday
streets,
Old newspaper
Blowing,
unread,
down empty sidewalk
of hangover morning,
Gusts of New York
Puffing down sad alleys
Of broken amber glass,
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poem by Terry L. Young
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Soul's Rebellion
tired, so tired...
i throw myself into sleep,
falling from the edge of the building,
i cannot see the street below.
a suicide against the hollow body
of everyday repetition,
and the cold stink,
of hands unwashed!
falling, cursing death,
and all it's religious demands.
i ooze from the skin of 'myself',
the dog breaks from its pen.
desire, beating and real,
i drink the juices of lovers...
forbidden to show their faces.
i am penis and rhythm,
the taste of the oak split
by lightning or axe,
who knows? i dont care!
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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