Poems

I sat in Barnes and Nobel again today and read some poetry. i enjoyed it. as i read i wrote down some of them that stuck out to me or that i liked. thought id share them. let me know your thoughts. enjoy!

Soil by: Serj Tankian, cool gardens
A flowers mother
A soldiers father
The farmers wife
The start and end of life,
The Sword cant cut it,
Man cant kill it,
millions pounding on your face,
you take the pain
and present no fight,
you give them flowers,f
ruits and drugs,
they give you trash, oil, and shit
we would rather pray to something
we cant see or touch,
than you, our God.

Pen by: Serj Tankian, cool gardens
A pen is but a pen,
when the time comefor its retirement.
a career is but a job,
modern indentured servitude,
if not for the challenge and dreams.
and a day is just a
collection of hours,
if not for that one
sparkling, coaxing,
loving smile on your face

Indentured Servitude by: Serj Tankian, cool gardens
expand, increase, grow, merge,
Partner up, sell more, make more,
Spend more, have more,
Hoard more, live more?
Live less, for you can only
Eat, sleep, drink, and shit so many times a day.
And the sun will shine at your face, either way,
Unless you're locked up in an office,
Serving some client, boss, or God,
In your own willing indentured servitude.

My Words by: Serj Tankian, cool gardens
My words escape me,
As I escape them,
To define me,
As not refined, mimed release expressions,
Of continuous thoghts
Pouring out like red wine
From a dark green bottle
On a creme colored carpet,
Or white sand.

My words escape me,
As i escape them,
For love is beauty, and beauty is love,
As diabolical dreams of intestines on a platter,
As kidneys, lungs, and livers,
Rushing the blood, my blood, winded, noisey.

My words escape me,
As i escape the world.

Now by:Serj Tankian, cool gardens
Time is always now,
Here, forever,
Time is always now
Gone, never,
God is now
The ruler of the present
His son, a lesson,
Born of a peasent.
We stay here always,
As bodies go
As far as they can see
For now is again now,
Here, forever!

The Dirty Hand by: Mark Strand, selected poems
My hand is dirty.
I must cut it off.
To wash it is pointless.
The water is putrid.
The soap is bad.
It won't lather.T
he hand is dirty.
It's been dirty for years.

I used to keep it
out of sight,
in my pocket.
No one suspected a thing.
People came up to me,
wanting to shake hands.
I would refuse
and the hidden hand,
like a dark slug,
would leave its imprinton my thigh.
And then I relized
it was the same if i used it or not.
Disgust was the same.

How many nights
in the depths of the house
I washed that hand,
scrubbed it, pollished it,
dreamed it would turn
to diamond or crystal
or even, at last, into a plain white hand,
the clean hand of a man,
that you could shake,
or kiss, or hold
in one of those moments
when two people confess without saying a word...
Only to have the incurable hand,
lethargic and crablike,
open its dirty fingers.

And the dirt was vile.
It was not mud or soot
or the caked filth
of an old scab
or the sweat of a laborer's shirt.
It was a sad dirt
made of sickness
and human anguish.
It was not black;
black is pure.
it was dull,
a dull grayish dirt.

It is impossable
to live with this
gross hand that lies
on the table.
Quick! Cut it off!
Chop it to pieces
and throw it
into the ocean.
With time, with hope
and its intricate workings
another hand will come,
pure, transparent as glass,
and fasten itsself to my arm.

Tomorrow by: Mark Strand, Selected Poems
Your best friend is gone,
your other friend, too.
Now the dream that used to turn in your sleep,
sails into the year's coldest night.
What did you say?
Or was it something you did?
It makes no difference-the house of breath collapsing
around your voice, your voice burning, are nothing to worry
about
Tommorow your friends will come back;
your moist open mouth will bloom in the glass of storefronts.
Yes. Yes. Tommorow they will come back and you
will invent an ending that comes out right.