Quotes about unused, page 9
These
are the desolate, dark weeks
when nature in its barrenness
equals the stupidity of man.
The year plunges into night
and the heart plunges
lower than night
to an empty, windswept place
without sun, stars or moon
but a peculiar light as of thought
that spins a dark fire -
whirling upon itself until,
in the cold, it kindles
to make a man aware of nothing
that he knows, not loneliness
itself - Not a ghost but
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poem by William Carlos Williams
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Instead of Cursing You As Some Do
Let us bow now our heads and pray!
'Dear Father...
We know You did not choose for us,
To be the idiots we wish for You 'not' to see.
We know some of us have been imbeciles.
With an assortment of college degrees.
Qualifying an absence of a diminished sanity.
Dear Father...
Would You please,
Chase this ignorance from us.
And instead of cursing You as some do...
Let us help them help us,
Open our eyes!
To see the truth in view.
And Father...
While we have our heads bowed in prayer,
Is it too much for us to ask of You...
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Adulations Artful Aid
Some of us may be tall, ma'am;
Some of us may be dark;
Some handsome; tho' not all, ma'am,
Are touched by Beatury's spark.
But tall, and dark AND handsome, too?
Oh, lady! If you please! .. .. .. ..
It's really very nice of you;
But do you think they're really due
Superlatives like these?
We'd hate to doubt your word, ma'am,
Since you're informed in art,
Tho' much we'd have preferred, ma'am,
To play a humbler part.
But in meek deference to you,
Well, lady, we'll admit
We're tall and dark, and handsome, too,
It seems a rather boastful view,
But one gets used to it.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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To the Ladies' Free Produce Society
Your gathering day! and I am not,
As erst, amid you set;
But even from this distant spot,
My thoughts are with you yet,
As freshly as in hours forgot,
When I was with you met.
His blessing on your high career!
Go, press unwearied on,
From month to month, from year to year,
Till when your task is done,
The franchised negro's grateful tear
Oh faint you not, ye gathered band!
Although your way be long,
And they who ranged against you stand,
Are numberless and strong;
While you but bear a feeble hand,
Unused to cope with wrong.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Ballad of Crazy Joe
He’s stitching the truth within his tome
Pulling the needle with woe
His fertile mind shall serve as his home
Tethers too rigid to sew
All precious detail is rendered there
Memory puts on a show
Clarity finds him out of thin air
He nearly dons a halo
Don’t ever mock Crazy Joe
Maestros get lost during anxious times
Magic strands logic below
He tickles those keys caustic like limes
Never once asking for dough
Within his head he’s never alone
Concertos twisting his flow
Don’t interrupt when he’s in that zone
He lacks roots yet he will grow
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poem by John Weber
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The jaffa and jerusalem railway
A tortuous double iron track; a station here, a station there;
A locomotive, tender, tanks; a coach with stiff reclining chair;
Some postal cars, and baggage, too; a vestibule of patent make;
With buffers, duffers, switches, and the soughing automatic brake--
This is the Orient's novel pride, and Syria's gaudiest modern gem:
The railway scheme that is to ply 'twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem.
Beware, O sacred Mooley cow, the engine when you hear its bell;
Beware, O camel, when resounds the whistle's shrill, unholy swell;
And, native of that guileless land, unused to modern travel's snare,
Beware the fiend that peddles books--the awful peanut-boy beware.
Else, trusting in their specious arts, you may have reason to condemn
The traffic which the knavish ply 'twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem.
And when, ah, when the bonds fall due, how passing wroth will wax the
state
From Nebo's mount to Nazareth will spread the cry "Repudiate"!
From Hebron to Tiberius, from Jordan's banks unto the sea,
Will rise profuse anathemas against "that ---- monopoly!"
And F.M.B.A. shepherd-folk, with Sockless Jerry leading them,
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poem by Eugene Field
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Of Unused Space
I love your place.
You seem to have a lot,
Of unused space!
I wonder if...
'No!
Avoid any wondering.
Especially if you do it here.
You have your eyes on 'space'.
I have my mind on peace.
A peace I'm going to keep!
Just as it is felt.
Feel it?
Remember it.
And eliminate any wondering.'
I was just going to suggest...
Your renting out some of it.
And the expenses we could split!
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Boiling Point
BOILING POINT
My beloved husband comes late in night
Knocks the door with a fouling scent
If delayed by a few more seconds
Would slap me on my face at once
He sits till nine in his office seat
In a jungle of papers all around
Not of devotion nor of fun
For men of action - bribe satisfaction
Lot of money he showers on us
A posh house, BMW, a host of vague comforts
With all the gates and windows always closed
We remain as puppets, because he suspects
Just at twenty, my father had a faulty dream
That men of high post were of worthy deals
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poem by Santhana Louis
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Birdbrain
Streaking, braking, twisting snatching,
Willie Wagtail's insect catching,
acrobatic chatterbox is garbed in black and white.
Overhead a falcon gliding
wheels and dives, hones in, colliding,
nail-gun force in outstretched claws which strike and lock in tight.
Falcon's talons raking feathers,
small-boned bird eludes caged tethers,
spirals down to dropp within a crown of needled pine.
Cradled safe in twiglet fences,
Wagtail blinks, regaining senses,
splintered wing hangs limply from a slashed and bloodied spine.
Wagtails are unused to resting,
soon, the broken bird is testing,
asymmetric fluttering as painful minutes slip.
Drifting, slowly dehydrating,
ants begin investigating;
as they nip, it hops, retreating, reaching pine limb's tip.
Still it watches insects flicking,
body clock's insistent ticking,
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poem by Diane Hine
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Le Testament: Ballade: Pour Robert d'Estouteville
A t dawn of day, when falcon shakes his wing,
M ainly from pleasure, and from noble usage,
B lackbirds too shake theirs then as they sing,
R eceiving their mates, mingling their plumage,
O, as the desires it lights in me now rage,
I 'd offer you, joyously, what befits the lover.
S ee how Love has written this very page:
E ven for this end are we come together.
D oubtless, as my heart's lady you'll have being,
E ntirely now, till death consumes my age.
L aurel, so sweet, for my cause now fighting,
O live, so noble, removing all bitter foliage,
R eason does not wish me unused to owing,
E ven as I'm to agree with this wish, forever,
Duty to you, but rather grow used to serving:
Even for this end are we come together.
And, what's more, when sorrow's beating
Down on me, through Fate's incessant rage,
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poem by François Villon
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