Quotes about amazon, page 9
Song: The Road to Nowhere
To travel the road to nowhere.
The soul's dark amazon.
Eternal peace is anywhere,
the mind might set upon.
To travel the road to nowhere.
To know you're really gone.
And when you finally get there,
to find your god is Ron.
There's something in the cupboard, boy.
There's something in the dark.
There's something in the cupboard, boy,
that leaves a lasting mark.
There's something in the cupboard, boy.
Old secrets gather dust.
There's something in the cupboard, boy,
that reeks decay and must.
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poem by David SmithWhite
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The Impecunious Fop
See'st thou how gaily my young master goes,
Vaunting himself upon his rising toes;
And pranks his hand upon his dagger's side;
And picks his glutted teeth since late noon-tide?
'Tis Ruffio: Trow'st thou where he dined to-day?
In sooth I saw him sit with Duke Humphrey.
Many good welcomes, and much gratis cheer,
Keeps he for every straggling cavalier;
An open house, haunted with great resort;
Long service mixt with musical disport.
Many fair younker with a feathered crest,
Chooses much rather be his shot-free guest,
To fare so freely with so little cost,
Than stake his twelvepence to a meaner host.
Hadst thou not told me, I should surely say
He touched no meat of all this livelong day;
For sure methought, yet that was but a guess,
His eyes seemed sunk for very hollowness,
But could he have--as I did it mistake--
So little in his purse, so much upon his back?
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poem by Joseph Hall
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In Response
Breakfast at the Century Club, New York, May, 1879.
SUCH kindness! the scowl of a cynic would soften,
His pulse beat its way to some eloquent words,
Alas! my poor accents have echoed too often,
Like that Pinafore music you've some of you heard.
Do you know me, dear strangers--the hundredth time comer
At banquets and feasts since the days of my Spring?
Ah! would I could borrow one rose of my Summer,
But this is a leaf of my Autumn I bring.
I look at your faces,--I'm sure there are some from
The three-breasted mother I count as my own;
You think you remember the place you have come from,
But how it has changed in the years that have flown!
Unaltered, 't is true, is the hall we call 'Funnel,'
Still fights the 'Old South' in the battle for life,
But we've opened our door to the West through the tunnel,
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Chopin
I
A dream of interlinking hands, of feet
Tireless to spin the unseen, fairy woof
Of the entangling waltz. Bright eyebeams meet,
Gay laughter echoes from the vaulted roof.
Warm perfumes rise; the soft unflickering glow
Of branching lights sets off the changeful charms
Of glancing gems, rich stuffs, the dazzling snow
Of necks unkerchieft, and bare, clinging arms.
Hark to the music! How beneath the strain
Of reckless revelry, vibrates and sobs
One fundamental chord of constant pain,
The pulse-beat of the poet's heart that throbs.
So yearns, though all the dancing waves rejoice,
The troubled sea's disconsolate, deep voice.
II
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poem by Emma Lazarus
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Ode to the Earth
poetry in progress
the way you spin a game
of success on the theory
of ying yang, ever since you
took hold of the sky in your
winning azure blue and rich
potato brown you have sprung
so many surprises on us
as you twirl, you amaze
and unwittingly win
unrestrained applause
you hold onto the day
and night so dutifully
and evenly to unveil to
us the presents and
blessings of time
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Nagasaki Days
I -- A Pleasant Afternoon
for Michael Brownstein and Dick Gallup
One day 3 poets and 60 ears sat under a green-striped Chau-
tauqua tent in Aurora
listening to Black spirituals, tapping their feet, appreciating
words singing by in mountain winds
on a pleasant sunny day of rest -- the wild wind blew thru
blue Heavens
filled with fluffy clouds stretched from Central City to Rocky
Flats, Plutonium sizzled in its secret bed,
hot dogs sizzled in the Lion's Club lunchwagon microwave
mouth, orangeade bubbled over in waxen cups
Traffic moved along Colefax, meditators silent in the Diamond
Castle shrine-room at Boulder followed the breath going
out of their nostrils,
Nobody could remember anything, spirits flew out of mouths
& noses, out of the sky, across Colorado plains & the
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poem by Allen Ginsberg
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The Konye Obaji Ori (United Africa) Manifesto
Since the dawn of neocolonialism my nights have been filled with the ballads of Nzingha- the Amazon queen of Matamba, the sonnets of Nehanda- the Mbuya of Zimbabwe and the odes of Yaa Asantewa- the queen mother of Ejisu of Ashanti. I seem to have become the spirit of their poetries and the notes of their songs, for even when I sleep, I am awake to the pulchritude of the African night that they have graced. In my dreams I hold the staff of Osei Tutu and look like Chaka the Zulu in the robes of Desmond Tutu. My mornings are brightened by the philosophies of Affonso the first, the King of ancient Kongo, King Askia Toure of ancient Songhay, and Mansa Kankan Mussa of ancient Mali. My threnodies, chants and expressive verses of compositions have been from cognitions deep as the abyss where my love for Africa is rooted.
Out of the root cap of this adulation I have found a political voice and a passion to lead my generation- a passion born from the ill-fated chronicles of the African people. My shoulders have been strengthened and my mind broadened by the mentors, families and friends that I have been blessed with on my quest for a better Africa. With them I have been able to breathe in the lamasery of the ancestors of ancient Kement, Abyssinia, Kush, Bechuana, Basuto and Ashanti. With them, I breathe Africa.
I am driven on by the aphorisms of Mosheshoe, Mutato and Kwame Nkrumah: to unite Africa, to seek after a better life for her people and set her on the path to retain her lost glory. And yes they are many like me who have tried and failed, they are many like me who have yelled in the morning and have been silenced by nightfall. They are many like me who have been changed by the system as it is silhouetted, and they are many like me who have given up and decided to let things be the way they are. Yes they are many like me who have decided to let lions be lions and zebras be zebras. But the wounds, the scars and the pain of Africa, her tears, her blood and her songs fuel my voyage. I cannot find a reason to give up on my quest. They say I seek after an Africa that may never be found, but I seek it nonetheless. And though the finish line may seem beyond sight, I will run the run towards a better Africa. With the spirit of a Zulu, the grit of an Olulumo and the resolve of a Maasai, I run the race towards the unity faith, peace and progress that has eluded the land and the people of Africa since the birth of slavery, colonialism and imperialism.
I am not just an African with a voice for socio-economic and political freedom but an African with a humanitarian credo to uphold; I am a good-will ambassador for a one world community where a sense of oneness, credence, peace and collective advancement is inherent. I am Konye Obaji Ori and I seek a better world.
poem by Konye Ori
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A Brave and Startling Truth
We, this people, on a small and lonely planet
Traveling through casual space
Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns
To a destination where all signs tell us
It is possible and imperative that we learn
A brave and startling truth
And when we come to it
To the day of peacemaking
When we release our fingers
From fists of hostility
And allow the pure air to cool our palms
When we come to it
When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate
And faces sooted with scorn are scrubbed clean
When battlefields and coliseum
No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters
Up with the bruised and bloody grass
To lie in identical plots in foreign soil
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poem by Maya Angelou
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I’m So Good That I Don’t Have To Brag
Now I'm warnin' all you women don't stand too close to me cause you might catch fire
Now you're talkin' to a man in a whole other kind of bag
Well I'm three parts tiger and one part snake
I'll ball you to sleep and I'll bite you awake
And I'm so good that I don't have to brag
I need an adding machine to count up all the women I've ruined for other men
Now compared to me Paul Bunyan is a screamin' fag
I can shift more gears and pump more juice I'll turn you every which way but loose
And I'm so damn good that I don't have to brag
Now there's twenty thirty beautiful women a sleepin' at the foot of my bed
And every night every night I hear 'em sighin'
They say that I don't miss a thing they say that I'm the lovin' king
And I'm too nice a guy to say they're lyin'
Now I've been makin' love professionally since I was only six years old
And I really learned the way to wiggly wag
And still I'm such a modest man you know I'm twice as great as I think I am
I'm so good that I don't have to brag
There's a line of chicks startin' at my window and reachin' across the street
And it stretches 'way to the other side of town
They come to me from across the seas on their knees just sayin' Please
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poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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This, My Song, Is Made For Kerensky
(Being a Chant of the American Soap-Box and the Russian Revolution.)
O market square, O slattern place,
Is glory in your slack disgrace?
Plump quack doctors sell their pills,
Gentle grafters sell brass watches,
Silly anarchists yell their ills.
Shall we be as weird as these?
In the breezes nod and wheeze?
Heaven's mass is sung,
Tomorrow's mass is sung
In a spirit tongue
By wind and dust and birds,
The high mass of liberty,
While wave the banners red:
Sung round the soap-box,
A mass for soldiers dead.
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poem by Vachel Lindsay
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