|
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night |
 |
 |
 |
|
Written by Administrator
|
|
Thursday, 20 May 2010 12:09 |
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. |
|
Read more...
|
|
|
Written by Administrator
|
|
Saturday, 01 May 2010 16:54 |
- My Lisalore -
O, has anyone out there, seen my Lisalore, who went sailing away past my
window, and drifting out that door? And what was it that she said? Was
she merely a dream in my own head, or a vision of light, donned with her
Cleopatra hair as she spoke to me there in that night? I question this
moment, since, never before has there been a moment quite like this one,
to be locked away with-in the deepest dungeons of Hell, while falling
headlong into that deeper dungeon, into...
|
|
Read more...
|
|
Written by Administrator
|
|
Saturday, 20 March 2010 01:24 |
|
To all those who listen, to all those who hear, a voice is crying out, yet you turn in fear? when blood is shed, the ground red,
no more lies should be fed, no more fluoride should be drank, where did the amendments go? or did they just sink? Like in the gulf of tonkin, lies= 58,000 lives? Now iraq one million die, no wmd found?
is iran next? Is oil controling politics? does the rabbit hole go deeper? "The Truth is heavy, therefore few choose to carry it" |
|
Written by Administrator
|
|
Saturday, 23 January 2010 02:17 |
On the Sublime
by Friedrich Schiller
It is not precisely known when Schiller began work on this essay, but it was first made public by him in 1801, appearing in the third part of Smaller Prose Writings. Schiller's two other major pieces on the subject of the sublime, Of the Sublime and On the Pathetic, the second of which appears in this volume, were written almost a decade before this piece, as early commentary on the philosophy of Immanuel Kant. This essay...
|
|
Read more...
|
|
Written by Administrator
|
|
Friday, 22 January 2010 00:27 |
Title: Unexpressed
Author: Paul Laurence Dunbar [More Titles by Dunbar]
Deep in my heart that aches with the repression,
And strives with plenitude of bitter pain,
There lives a thought that clamors for expression,
And spends its undelivered force in vain.
What boots it that some other may have thought it?
The right of thoughts' expression is divine;
The price of pain I pay for it has bought it,
I care not who lays claim to...
|
|
Read more...
|
|
Written by C. Leighton
|
|
Tuesday, 12 January 2010 21:16 |
The tide was at peace that night.
We grazed where the waves
lapped the moon-blanched land
listening to the scrap of pebbles
against a stone-studded shore
and watched them be flung
from the ocean’s grasp
only to crawl back on their bellies
into the hushed bay
You were barefoot that night
drawing me along
as we danced amongst the stones
smiling in gloved hands & woolen coats
against a cold December sky
You had rescued a rolling...
|
|
Read more...
|
|
Written by C. Leighton
|
|
Tuesday, 12 January 2010 21:13 |
--We sit across
in our naked kitchen
Billy’s sweating
over a crossword puzzle
scratching at he newspaper
With a drying pen
He’s wearing Jesus around his neck
a trophy won
at the church bingo tournament
A crucified Christ
grimaces at me
from his suspended cross
twisted into place
by the heat
of someone else’s open flame
Billy’s fumbling over
1 Down:
what’s the word
for liable to pay duty?
Bonded, I think and...
|
|
Read more...
|
|
Written by C. Leighton
|
|
Tuesday, 12 January 2010 21:11 |
Your loving folds are inviting
awaiting my cheque
You separate under my hands
opening easily, dutiful
ready to entrap
my deposit
i stuff you full
you can barely contain my stake
straining under its dimensions
distending your hollow cavern
your tight fit makes quick work of me
i retreat and wet my lips
only to dive back in tongue first
lashing your sticky surface exhaustively
you taste tart, acidic
i press your fold...
|
|
Read more...
|
|
Written by C. Leighton
|
|
Tuesday, 12 January 2010 21:10 |
|
the papers tell me she toppled headlong into the Potomac during the storm of '04 the locals admit she perched daily on the riverside admiring endlessly how rippling tides distorted her appearance and made her seem new her head her dress her torso and toes swam down to D.C. but her left hand was found curled up on the North shore gripping the blustering dust of geography in transit |
|
|
|
|
|
