Quotes about hover, page 25
To ---- VI
The brilliant west is glowing,
With sunset's farewell ray;
The silver waves are flowing,
On to the distant sea;
The pale bright stars are keeping
Their watch through night's still hours;
The dews in joy are weeping
Above the new-born flowers;
The city's hum is dying
Upon the perfumed breeze,
That wanders, softly sighing,
Among the flower-crowned trees.
But my vagrant thoughts are roaming
To loved ones far away;
I heed not twilight's coming,
Nor flowers, nor winds at play.
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poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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When comes the morning?
When
comes the real morning?
When golden, the sun's rays hover
Over the earth's snow-cover,
And where the shadows nestle,
Wrestle,
Lifting lightward the root enringèd
Till it shall seem an angel wingèd,
Then it is morning,
Real, real morning.
But if the weather is bad
And my spirit sad,
Never morning I know.
No.
Truly, it's real morning,
When blossom the buds winter-beaten,
The birds having drunk and eaten
Are glad as they sing, divining
Shining
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poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Perverse Poem
................................................. ...........The
diversity in imagination, while fully awake, is but a fractional
inverse of the degree of freedom available to the dreamer. Sadly this
adversely impinges on aspects of creativity. Reason is our
reimbursement for the loss. An ideal state, is to hover magically
immersed in semi-dream, directing the show, yet still believing. But
transverse strictures of habit cast a net by day and bind me to
nursery rhyme simplicity in poetry. Of course, far
worse than dullness would be madness. Yet, there exists between
obverse and reverse maybe, a place where wild plots spring
unrehearsed. Dallying here, my goal would be to
traverse strange terrains with brevity, since the
converse of pedantry is pith. But I'm
submersed in wishful thinking. Time to
purse petulant lips then, and spit
subversive wit knit grit- stop!
Curse this rhyme-riddled mind.
Coerce fixed neurons
averse to change.
Disperse with
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poem by Diane Hine
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The Fifth Loner
Beginning in the eyes
dreams end up at soles of feet.
The river is yet without a bridge.
For the earth is to become a path, a route,
centuries, a journey must endure.
Racing with water and wind
time overtakes me
and I, the lone
traveler of earth,
lagging way behind you,
holding close, the
left-overs of life,
from the farthest edge
of my expanse
wait for the universe to shrink.
They clay-lamp's flame
frightens the ghost of night.
The sky-canopy is too small;
the light more abundant than my heart.
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poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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Tell Me, (who Wrote These Lines, Please, Did You?)
Because it all just breaks apart, and the pieces scatter and
rearrange without much fanfare or notice.
Because you can't and don't remember the step that kicked up
dust and left this planet—you'd give up even more now.
Because the body itself—the heart's
not dead but deeper, wrapped up in curtains, a different color,
among the railings and the pigeons, the rooftops and
walls—
for all you know it's a question of bread
or beer.
Because even love
returns. The city's all brightness
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Where Do We Go From Here?
after 70 years
of so much planning
nothing exciting
really happened in
his life,
he concludes everything
is wrong
because he is actively doing
everything
for him
he did not give fate a chance
to shape his own life
it is life that takes us
where to go
and life is a silent friend
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Fortune-Teller
Down in the valley come meet me to-night,
And I'll tell you your fortune truly
As ever 'twas told, by the new-moon's light,
To a young maiden, shining as newly.
But, for the world, let no one be nigh,
Lest haply the stars should deceive me,
Such secrets between you and me and the sky
Should never go farther, believe me.
If at that hour the heavens be not dim,
My science shall call up before you
A male apparition -- the image of him
Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.
And if to that phantom you'll be kind,
So fondly around you he'll hover,
You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find
'Twixt him and a true living lover.
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poem by Thomas Moore
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Pretensions to Solitude
A thousand and ten pages
Of Allen Ginsberg's writings
Bound in heavy solitude, squat beside the bed
The window sheets are white, Leonard Cohen's monotone
Harmonising to a Casio
Sweet Angel Words, unfinished poems and rhyme
Are sown in leaves of magazines
Strewn on pull-out, tear-off sheets
Inviting your subscription, although you have subscribed.
By snow surrounded, cornered on all sides
The taunts of immobility
Wild animals and ice, neighbours hover out of sight
Sensing blood and vulnerability
Resentment of the rentiers
Who integrate the drive.
So leave alone
Don't raise up or speed-dial with the phone
Do not disturb the sacred private life.
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poem by Frank Bana
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Gay fight is over
Freedom fight is over,
Found safe place as cover,
Dark clouds still hover,
So much bed blood spill over,
Basic rights enshrined in constitution,
Existed this before as institution,
May not find favour with society,
Love can be worshipped as deity,
Act of two willing adults,
Termed as new thing and cults,
Existed centuries before,
Recently in discussion and in fore,
It is bad act when exhibited in public,
Rights protected by nation or republic,
It has to be consensual and accommodating,
Now free at will for dating,
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Song: Tis Not the Beam
'Tis not the beam of her bright blue eye,
Nor the smile of her lip of rosy dye,
Nor the dark brown wreaths of her glossy hair,
Nor her changing cheek, so rich and rare.
Oh! these are the sweets of a fairy dream,
The changing hues of an April sky.
They fade like dew in the morning beam,
Or the passing zephyr's odour'd sigh.
'Tis a dearer spell that bids me kneel,
'Tis the heart to love, and the soul to feel:
'Tis the mind of light, and the spirit free,
And the bosom that heaves alone for me.
Oh! these are the sweets that kindly stay
From youth's gay morning to age's night;
When beauty's rainbow tints decay,
Love's torch still burns with a holy light.
Soon will the bloom of the fairest fade,
And love will droop in the cheerless shade,
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poem by Joseph Rodman Drake
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