Great Poetry

[Zazzy]

[freedomfromforum]

A PLEDGE

Far too, not right was I to you
Nor barely did I try
Once more I ask myself - be true
No wish to see you cry

As time has come
not gone have you - from me
Nor from my care
'Tis light, not dark my side you cast
Not shadowed to compare

With light of this
And praise long due
My heart again I'll try
To giveth fully unto you
from hence, long 'til we die

anonymous

[Zazzy]

Ah-ha! FFF is a sucker for a good love poem.

Here's one to melt your heart:

it may not always be so; and i say
that if your lips,which i have loved,should touch
another’s,and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart,as mine in time not far away;
if on another’s face your sweet hair lay
in such silence as i know,or such
great writhing words as,uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

if this should be,i say if this should be—
you of my heart,send me a little word;
that i may go unto him,and take his hands,
saying,Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands

-ee cummings

[freedomfromforum]

Very nice Zazzy...

SOARING SONG

Yes-even after my death
you shall not escape me.
Reincarnate, I'll follow you
in the eyes of every hawk,
every falcon, vulture, eagle
that soars in whatever sky
you walk beneath,
all the earth over,
everywhere.

Yes-and when you die too,
and follow me into the deep
dark burning delirious blue
and become like me-
a kind of bird, a feathered thing-
why, then I'll seek you out
ten thousand feet above the sea;
and far beyond the world's rim
we'll meet and clasp and couple
close to the flaming sun
and scream the joy of our love
into the blaze of death
and burn like angels
past all suns
to the world's beginning again.

-Edward Abbey-
(1967 San Francisco)

[Jackie]

[Zazzy]

Now you've gone all passionate. Ah, to get hot and bothered by beautiful words.


Love and Sleep
Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

Lying asleep between the strokes of night
I saw my love lean over my sad bed,
Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head,
Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,
Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,
But perfect-coloured without white or red.
And her lips opened amorously, and said--
I wist not what, saving one word--Delight.
And all her face was honey to my mouth,
And all her body pasture to mine eyes;
The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,
The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,
The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs
And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.

[freedomfromforum]

I'm officially salivating. I could tear into that right now!

[Jackie]

Ego Divinely Inspired, By Brian37 (OF RATIONAL RESPONDERS, all rights reserved)



The Twin accordions,

Burned and crumbled like match sticks,

No longer playing the music,

Of the briefcase.



3,000 ways,

To say, "I hate you"

But on that day,

None of the quad-Kamikazes

Shouted "Bonsai"

But Allah had his say.



Yet the burning Bush,

In the Marlboro Mansion,

Prays 1600 times,

To guide the bombs,

That maim and kill,

Creating massive tombs.



Do they think,

They are back in school,

Swinging on monkey bars,

Bragging about the biceps

Of their origins?



Is this what humanity has been reduced to?



I don't remember,

Those accordions,

Ever playing monochromatic music,

Jesus, yet be,

The only Icon,

Displayed in their absence.



That day,

Is not the ulcer of Genesis,

Or the embarrassment of Mohammed,

It is the manifestation of shame,

That humanity doesn't listen,

To the music of the accordions.



One side attacks,

The other points the finger,

But no one listens to the screams,

The screams of history.



Stop!

It is not your day, Christians,

It is not your Jihad, Muslims.

It is your stupidity,

In claiming the monopoly,

Of self-righteousness.



Those accordions,

Played the music of desire,

Of those of the Mosque,

Those in the pew,

The music of the Yammica,

And long earlobes too.



The forecast that day,

Called for morning snow,

Each flake a fragment,

Of invoices, and resumes,

Of proposals, and payrolls.



This was a ticker tape parade,

Where loathing sat in the convertable,

Waving his fist maniacally at the by-standers,

Daring history to repeat itself.

Screaming of divine intervention.



And the burning Bush,

Responded in kind,

And prayed to his absolute,

Screaming for divine inspiration.



The memory of the music,

The accordions used to play,

Should not be lost in selfish idealism.

Demanding only one way.



Jesus was not the only victim,

Nor Bush, nor me,

The attack on the towers,

Was an attack on humanity.



The cross is the only,

Outlined in chalk,

Crime scene investigators,

Step over the corpses,

Of Yahweh and Allah,

Visnu and Buddha too.

The white cards,

Never marked their graves,

Ever to be photographed.



Still today,

We want Moore Religion,

Massive stones marking our territory,

Like a lion pissing on a bush,

And wonder why we are attacked.



You fools,

It's not the book you read,

It is your arrogance,

In loading the 3:57

And praying for divine guidance,

For the bullets to hit their mark,

So you can maintain your selfish status qoe.



I can give you nine hundred and eleven,

Reasons in human history,

Ego divinely inspired,

Will lead to the human pyre.



Or kin of past,

Or so we claim,

Have past discretions,

We're not to blame.



My index,

Is not aimed at you,

It is of lessons not learned,

Wisdom not earned.



Socrates was in those towers,

He too was a victim,

Made to drink the hemlock,

And jump from the accordion,

Grasping at the last notes of life.

Vainly clawing at the sky,

A victim of pantheistic zealots,

Ending in a gruesome thump.



Galileo too,

Crashed into the marble walls,

Numbering in five.

Because of the ego,

Of the cross,

The world is flat,

And I'm the boss.



Yet in modern day,

The accordions play,

Morbid notes of ego's say,

It will continue to our dismay.



Yes, it will continue,

Least religious ego,

Give up it's venue.

[Jackie]

[Rev. Rye]