Quotes about bales, page 3
Things Just Keep A Turning Round
Oll' man, little dog,
lots of books and a steel guitar,
the blues stashed in a bar,
just returned from war.
Comfort from music,
the past is today,
children out singing to play.
They went on for school,
won't be no ones fool.
Tuning for the right notes,
bringing in Obama's votes.
grey hair almost looks like a feather,
we still hope that things will be better.
While Things just keep a turning round.
The sun is whitely gleaming
on large cotton-bales like houses
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poem by Madrason writer
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Small Town U.S.A
Pizza parlors,
muffler shops
7 Elevens
and I-hops
Boarded windows,
shuttered stores
Cracked windows,
unlocked doors
Dry cleaners,
Laundromats
Empty motels
Vacant flats
One street towns
No traffic lights
No city sounds
Few family fights
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poem by David Whalen
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A Ship Sails up to Bideford
A ship sails up to Bideford;
Upon a western breeze,
Mast by mast, sail over sail,
She rises from the seas,
And sights the hills of Devon
And the misty English trees.
She comes from Eastern islands;
The sun is in her hold;
She bears the fruit of Jaffa,
Dates, oranges and gold;
She brings the silk of China,
And bales of Persian dyes,
And birds with sparkling feathers
And snakes with diamond eyes.
She’s gliding in the starlight
As white as any gull;
The east is gliding with her
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poem by Herbert Asquith
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The Child No One Knew
A beautiful baby girl
Beautiful locks of golden curls
Becomes a statistic
Of childhood sexual abuse.
Life-so confusing,
Peace, love, joy,
Hate, hurt, pain - a victim
Of childhood sexual abuse.
God, Christianity, Sunday School,
Peace, love, contentment,
Teaching, learning, playing,
Acceptance, Music, God.
The wheat fields flow,
The corn fields tassel
The hay bales to be harvested
The barn full to bursting.
The cellar holds an enemy,
Little children are hurt there,
Down those steps toward torment,
Over and over again.
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poem by Eva L. Shaw
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A City's Death By Fire
After that hot gospeller has levelled all but the churched sky,
I wrote the tale by tallow of a city's death by fire;
Under a candle's eye, that smoked in tears, I
Wanted to tell, in more than wax, of faiths that were snapped like wire.
All day I walked abroad among the rubbled tales,
Shocked at each wall that stood on the street like a liar;
Loud was the bird-rocked sky, and all the clouds were bales
Torn open by looting, and white, in spite of the fire.
By the smoking sea, where Christ walked, I asked, why
Should a man wax tears, when his wooden world fails?
In town, leaves were paper, but the hills were a flock of faiths;
To a boy who walked all day, each leaf was a green breath
Rebuilding a love I thought was dead as nails,
Blessing the death and the baptism by fire.
poem by Derek Walcott
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Manhattan
Out of the night you burn, Manhattan,
In a vesture of gold -
Span of innumerable arcs,
Flaring and multiplying -
Gold at the uttermost circles fading
Into the tenderest hint of jade,
Or fusing in tremulous twilight blues,
Robing the far-flung offices,
Scintillant-storied, forking flame,
Or soaring to luminous amethyst
Over the steeples aureoled -
Diaphanous gold,
Veiling the Woolworth, argently
Rising slender and stark
Mellifluous-shrill as a vender's cry,
And towers squatting graven and cold
On the velvet bales of the dark,
And the Singer's appraising
Indolent idol's eye,
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poem by Lola Ridge
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Pastoral Malaise
In time, though snow would fall, barn will be warm,
As chores for Summer had been done complete
The sleepy spell that soon befalls the farm
Could not, by slightest bit its mirth deplete
The cows have all the hay on which to feed
With grains that with the fodder would enmesh
If hay is brown, I guess what cows would need
For each a green eyeglass, so things look fresh
The barn sparrows found crevices for nests
Though naught are seen by cat's eyes that explore
One way to find if flock thereat still rests
Is by droppings that scatter on the floor
Insects abide, in sizes big and small
And crawl among the bales, to chirp or play
Crickets and kin, that since the end of Fall
Have lodged as ground tenants without delay
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poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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A Wool Fleet Chorus
Fare you well, you Sydney girls, time for us to go!
The Peter's at the fore truck, and five thousand bales below,
We've a dozen shellbacks forrard, and a skipper hard as nails,
And we're bound for old England and the January sales!
Soon we'll leave the Snares behind, blusterous and strong
Up'll come the Westerlies and hustle her along:
Running like a driven deer through the thundering gales,
Racing under royals for the January Sales!
Old Cape Stiff 'll drop astern, like a blinking dream,
Sleet and snow and crashing seas, fog and ice'll seem,
Snoring through the Tropics with a Trade that never fails,
Nor'ard on a bowline for the January sales!
Then the girls'll get her towrope, and she'll smell the land again,
And she'll reel the knots off steady as a blessed railway train,
Till seventy days from Sydney Heads the Lizard light she hails -
First to the Channel for the January sales!
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs)
They leave their homes
Unwillingly forced
And follow their fate
Through fields and trails
Massifs and woods
With all their goods
Love and hate
Mores and tales
All in bales
Carrying their own
Flesh and bones
Feet like stones
Their bodies and souls
Kids and crones
Torn by storms,
Rains and gales
Attacked by guns,
Helis and drones
No role to play
In games of peace
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poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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Song For The Last Act
Now that I have your face by heart, I look
Less at its features than its darkening frame
Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame,
Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd's crook.
Beyond, a garden, There, in insolent ease
The lead and marble figures watch the show
Of yet another summer loath to go
Although the scythes hang in the apple trees.
Now that I have your face by heart, I look.
Now that I have your voice by heart, I read
In the black chords upon a dulling page
Music that is not meant for music's cage,
Whose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed.
The staves are shuttled over with a stark
Unprinted silence. In a double dream
I must spell out the storm, the running stream.
The beat's too swift. The notes shift in the dark.
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poem by Louise Bogan
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