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Quite A Habit....
Here comes the morning;
Blue sky, lush grass, dew drops
Yet thee not beholding my eyes;
Here comes the noon;
A red-roofed house is shining to the skies;
A house red-roofed and brilliant in the wind:
A house of colour filled with wandering eyes;
And all the eyes are blind.
A Red, Red Rose
O my Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.
Red is the color of love
But; 4 me red
Is a color of stop
My red signal;my periods
A Smuggler's Song
If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet,
Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street.
Them that ask no questions isn't told a lie.
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!
We stood among the boats and nets . . .
We marked the risen moon
Walk swaying o'er the trembling seas
As one sways in a swoon;
I Am So Sure...
What is it? I want to whisper here, I am not so sure.
What words, I am to endorse here, I am not so sure.
What my fingers are up to, I am not so sure.
This mind! So playful! Playing what? I am not so sure.
Down The Lanes Of August
DOWN the lanes of Augustâ??and the bees upon the wing,
All the world's in color now, and all the song birds sing;
Never reds will redder be, more golden be the gold,
Down the lanes of August, and the summer getting old.
Edgar Albert Guest
In The Bayou
Lazy and slow, through the snags and trees
Move the sluggish currents, half asleep;
Around and between the cypress knees,
Like black, slow snakes the dark tides creep-
The other day as I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room
bouncing from typewriter to piano
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
Love Lies Bleeding
You call it, "Love lies bleeding," so you may,
Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops,
As we have seen it here from day to day,
From month to month, life passing not away:
Wild And Gentle
So I am learning to smile,
To greet every other creature.
Red or green inside in nature,
A power within, the joy in laughter.
Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
And lilies face the March-winds in full blow,
And humbler growths as moved with one desire
Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire,
Twenty men stand watching the muckers.
Stabbing the sides of the ditch
Where clay gleams yellow,
Driving the blades of their shovels
"Blessed be the English and all their ways and works.
Cursed be the Infidels, Hereticks, and Turks!"
"Amen," quo' Jobson, "but where I used to lie
Was neither Candle, Bell nor Book to curse my brethren by,
Late October Woods
Clumped in the shadow of the beech,
In whose brown top the crows are loud,
Where, every side, great briers reach
And cling like hands, the beechdrops crowd
Madison Julius Cawein
Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah, heave her short again!
Over, snatch her over, there, and hold her on the pawl.
Loose all sail, and brace your yards aback and full-
Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all!
We Are But Different
As the time ticks,
A tale, fantasy or real unfolds.
As we share these sips,
Like our cups, these words pour.
Beautiful Black Men
(With compliments and apologies to all not mentioned by name)
i wanta say just gotta say something
bout those beautiful beautiful beautiful outasight
The Sack Of The Gods
Strangers drawn from the ends of the earth, jewelled and plumed were we;
I was Lord of the Inca race, and she was Queen of the Sea.
Under the stars beyond our stars where the new-forged meteors glow,
Hotly we stormed Valhalla, a million years ago!
Red means love
Red means destruction
Red is the rose
Red is the blood
My death is an excuse,
Some sleepy sleeping people have to wake up.
Mother, do not think that the red will hang on you hanging on the hanging, you just see how many young people will bleed the cold by watching them hang on a hanging trap.
Even after my death, Iqbalab will speak every stroke of my blood's blood.
He wears a long and solemn face
And drives the children from his place;
He doesn't like to hear them shout
Or race and run and romp about,
Edgar Albert Guest
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were-I have not seen
As others saw-I could not bring
My passions from a common spring-
Edgar Allan Poe
" Men "
The heart of men thirst for blood as it was in the beginning, fulfillment is the end.
I heard the cry of a lamb far beyond as it's life was taken away remorselessly.
Although you sit in a room that is gray,
Except for the silver
Of the straw-paper,
The heart listen to noises,
Desires that blossom like a flower.
Painting red my garden of roses,
Shades with green, the perfect cover.
All For Me
All for me the bumble-bee
Drones his song in the perfect weather;
And, just on purpose to sing to me,
Thrush and blue-bird came North together.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
The Old Huntsman
I've never ceased to curse the day I signed
A seven years' bargain for the Golden Fleece.
'Twas a bad deal all round; and dear enough
It cost me, what with my daft management,
I don't see why Pa likes him so,
And seems so glad to have him come;
He jabs my ribs and wants to know
If here and there it's hurting some.
Edgar Albert Guest
Small, shapeless drifts of cloud
Sail slowly northward in the soft-hued sky,
With blur half-tints and rolling summits bright,
By the late sun caressed; slight hazes shroud
The Desire To Paint
Unhappy perhaps is the man, but happy the artist, who is torn with this desire.
I burn to paint a certain woman who has appeared to me so rarely, and so swiftly fled away, like some beautiful, regrettable thing the traveller must leave behind him in the night. It is already long since I saw her.
She is beautiful, and more than beautiful: she is overpowering. The colour black preponderates in her; all that she inspires is nocturnal and profound.
Her eyes are two caverns where mystery vaguely stirs and gleams; her glance illuminates like a ray of light; it is an explosion in the darkness.
She is hot to the sea that crouches beside,
Human and hot to the cool stars peering down,
My passionate city, my quivering town,
And her dark blood, tide upon purple tide,
A Boy Named Sue
Well, my daddy left home when I was three,
and he didn't leave much to Ma and me,
just this old guitar and a bottle of booze.
Now I don't blame him because he run and hid,
Is it not strange? A year ago to-day,
With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round,
I did my decent job and earned my pay;
Was averagely happy, I'll be bound.