Poem Hunter: Poems - Poets - Poetry

At the twilight, a moon appeared in the sky;
Then it landed on earth to look at me.

Like a hawk stealing a bird at the time of prey;
That moon stole me and rushed back into the sky.

I looked at myself, I did not see me anymore;
For in that moon, my body turned as fine as soul.

The nine spheres disappeared in that moon;
The ship of my existence drowned in that sea.
...

I need to find time-
a scrap of time
unnoticed
by the demands of everyday life
that chews up every morsel of time it can find.

I want to meditate on these stray birds of thought-
I want to know that my life
was more than washing dishes
and waiting for the phone to ring

...

Apricots on the bough,
hang like they've got joys joyous.
Bees on a rose are dancing deliriously
like they've heard a songstress's voice
an angel on the vine
singing divine!
Serpents in the grass are hissing,
they've heard the winds got power
it's a sacred prayer on a sacramental venture
fish in the ocean are leaping to the sun

...

The church bells were ringing, the devil sat singing
On the stump of a rotting old tree;
'Oh faith it grows cold, and the creeds they grow old,
And the world is nigh ready for me.'

The bells went on ringing, a spirit came singing,
And smiled as he crumbled the tree;
'Yon wood does but perish new seedlings to cherish,
And the world is too live yet for thee.'


Eversley, 1848.
...

My Feet they haul me Round the House,
They Hoist me up the Stairs;
I only have to Steer them, and
They Ride me Everywheres!
...

Sing to me a new song
that inspires my heart to beat
the tribal drums flare out loud
dancers swaying their hips
blending the rhythmic in its flow
one's tribute to the great Supreme

Ah! What a splendid sight
of people's bodies in a trance
gives all its best up high

...

THE CHIME of a bell of gold
That flutters across the air,
The sound of a singing of old,
The end of a tale that is told,
Of a melody strange and fair,
of a joy that has grown despair:

For the things that have been for me
I shall never have them again;
The skies and the purple sea,
And day like a melody,
And night like a silver rain
Of stars on forest and plain.

They are shut, the gates of the day;
The night has fallen on me:
My life is a lightless way;
I sing yet, while as I may!
Some day I shall cease, maybe:
I shall live on yet, you will see.
...

Men went happily to death
But they were not the men
Who marched
For years
Up to the line.
These rode a few times
And were gone
Leaving a heritage of obscene song.
...

At the end of your life you would discover
how much you had owned yourself
and the extent to which you had given away to others
...