Poems that mean something to you
The Invitation
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, ‘Yes.’
It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
by Oriah Mountain Dreamer
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, ‘Yes.’
It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
by Oriah Mountain Dreamer
When Daniel Harris stepped out of his car
the policeman was waiting. Gun raised.
I use the past tense though this is irrelevant
in Daniel's language, which is sign.
Sign has no future or past; it is a present language.
You are never more present than when a gun
is pointed at you. What language says this
if not sign? But the police officer saw hands
waving in the air, fired and Daniel dropped
his hands, his chest bleeding out onto concrete
metres from his home. I am in Breukelen Coffee House
in New York, reading this news on my phone,
when a black policewoman walks in, two guns
on her hips, my friend next to me reading
the comments section: Black Lives Matter.
Now what could we sign or say out loud
when the last word I learned in ASL was alive?
Alive — both thumbs pointing at your lower abdominal,
index fingers pointing up like two guns in the sky.
Two Guns in the Sky for Daniel Harris by Raymond Antrobus
the policeman was waiting. Gun raised.
I use the past tense though this is irrelevant
in Daniel's language, which is sign.
Sign has no future or past; it is a present language.
You are never more present than when a gun
is pointed at you. What language says this
if not sign? But the police officer saw hands
waving in the air, fired and Daniel dropped
his hands, his chest bleeding out onto concrete
metres from his home. I am in Breukelen Coffee House
in New York, reading this news on my phone,
when a black policewoman walks in, two guns
on her hips, my friend next to me reading
the comments section: Black Lives Matter.
Now what could we sign or say out loud
when the last word I learned in ASL was alive?
Alive — both thumbs pointing at your lower abdominal,
index fingers pointing up like two guns in the sky.
Two Guns in the Sky for Daniel Harris by Raymond Antrobus
Anonymous
Definitely this one.
Tides of Love
I am the raging river’s flow,
You are the tranquil ocean’s glow.
No matter where I twist and turn,
Your waters with mine forever churn.
Together, we sculpt the earth’s embrace,
Through valleys deep and peaks of grace.
Our dance forms landscapes, life’s grand stage,
A testament to our eternal bond, age-by-age.
My love, it’s true,
One day, under the relentless sun’s hue,
I’ll dry, barren, our legacy etched in sand,
Reminding us of our journey,
Hand-in-hand.
- Cruz
I am the raging river’s flow,
You are the tranquil ocean’s glow.
No matter where I twist and turn,
Your waters with mine forever churn.
Together, we sculpt the earth’s embrace,
Through valleys deep and peaks of grace.
Our dance forms landscapes, life’s grand stage,
A testament to our eternal bond, age-by-age.
My love, it’s true,
One day, under the relentless sun’s hue,
I’ll dry, barren, our legacy etched in sand,
Reminding us of our journey,
Hand-in-hand.
- Cruz
Leisure by W.H.Davies
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
Welsh born Davies (1871-1940) was the original supertramp who lost a leg jumping box cars in the States, eventually returning to England where he became the toast of high society. His autobiography "Diary of a Supertramp" is a tale well told.
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
Welsh born Davies (1871-1940) was the original supertramp who lost a leg jumping box cars in the States, eventually returning to England where he became the toast of high society. His autobiography "Diary of a Supertramp" is a tale well told.
(Untitled)
Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.
(A. E. Housman)
Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.
(A. E. Housman)
Black Orchid
In the darkest forest
the black orchid blooms.
With petals of never ending
sorrow, for no light it consumes.
It’s sepals are wilting,
by no hands it’s been touched ,
choked by the shadows,
longing to be clutched.
It muses in silence,
that it could be a rose,
but alone in this darkness
the black orchid grows.
Oh, to have lips that could
speak, or eyes that could cry.
For then it would weep,
and let out a sigh,
but in this dark forest
the black orchid blooms,
amongst these dead trees,
It’s death so soon looms.
the black orchid blooms.
With petals of never ending
sorrow, for no light it consumes.
It’s sepals are wilting,
by no hands it’s been touched ,
choked by the shadows,
longing to be clutched.
It muses in silence,
that it could be a rose,
but alone in this darkness
the black orchid grows.
Oh, to have lips that could
speak, or eyes that could cry.
For then it would weep,
and let out a sigh,
but in this dark forest
the black orchid blooms,
amongst these dead trees,
It’s death so soon looms.
Written by Haunted_Lunacy
(Haunted Lunacy)
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(Untitled)
Yon flakes that fret the eastern sky
Lead back my day of birth;
The far, wide-wandered hour when I
Came crying upon earth.
Then came I crying, and to-day,
With heavier cause to plain,
Depart I into death away,
Not to be born again.
(A. E. Housman.)
Yon flakes that fret the eastern sky
Lead back my day of birth;
The far, wide-wandered hour when I
Came crying upon earth.
Then came I crying, and to-day,
With heavier cause to plain,
Depart I into death away,
Not to be born again.
(A. E. Housman.)
