Garden Poems

Springtime

Oh, spring came to my garden
And caught it unaware
Wearing just a few old leaves
And a dejected air.

But when spring left my garden,
Its work so deftly done,
Many, many Daffodils
Were dancing in the sun.

- Velma D. Bates



At Dawn

I slipped into the garden
Almost before 'twas light,
As the lazy sun arose
I glimpsed a charming sight...
Red Poppy flung her cap aside,
Shook out her silken skirt;
The way she danced with a young breeze
Told me she was a flirt!

- Mary C. Shaw



Wild Orchid

"The flower that walks", the Indian; said,
And walking spreads its crown-like roots
Through forest glades and upland dales.
Moccasin flower or Lady's Slipper,
It matters not the name
Or if it be fair white or rose or tiny yellow kind
Tis ever rare and wondrous there
This woodland beauty Bequeathed us from another age.
A Heritage to guard with care
And cherish for posterity
That other eyes in future years
Mav see this Orchid walk the trails
As did our native Indian braves
And shy eyed maidens of the tribe.

- Helen M. Fleet



Memorial

I've had the garden tidied up,
As she would have me do.
This little pal who couldn't stay
To see the season through.
The flowers were her dearest friends,
The garden was her own,
I've watched her work, but never knew
The things that she had grown.
Her, catalogues keep coming, and
Her garden magazine;
I run across the queerest names,
And study what they mean,
I read them all, from end to end,
And when the spring is here,
I'll have a garden just like hers,
As though my wife were near.

- Albert H. Pedrick



Day's End

The twilight comes to cool the. air,
The shadows lengthen on the sod,
Soft breezes blow the garden through,
The leaves and blossoms sway and nod.

On garden path, in sheltering hedge,
In treetops dark and cloudless sky,
The evening birds awake to life,
To stir; to sing and upward fly.

And flowers, warm with summer heat,
Expand to greet the softened light
And shed, to show their gratitude,
A fragrance in the summer night.

Now all is peace. From meadows near
A cooling mist blows o'er the wall
And strangely lonesome in the night
There comes the thrush's silvery call.

- Edwin W. Proctor



Winged Jewel
(The Huming, Bird)

Feathered fire of emerald .
Aflashing through the air,
Its throat a glowing jewel,
A ruby solitaire.

Intrepid wings are whirring
In airy, fairy flight,
Careening through the sunshine,
A scintillating sprite.

Then pendant o'er flower
It dips its dainty hill
And gathers honeyed nectar
From flowery cup and frill.

Now darting, swiftly turning,
It seeks the trumpet vine,
A little tropic jewel
Aflame with nectared wine.

- Cora L. Cone



Canterbury Bells

Long years ago devoted folk
Sought Canterbury's well-known shrine,
That in this church they might invoke
Saint Thomas for a heavenly sign.
And as they trod each rang a bell
For symbol of their pilgrim aim,
While all along the way the spell
Of nodding blossoms caused acclaim.
Today these flowers still are true
To the old title which they bear.
Swinging their bells, pink, white or blue,
With unheard pealings through the air.

- Edith M. Larrabee



The White Trillium

Trillium graceful, Trillium white,
Star of the woodland, Lady of light
Lo, how she prou!ily
Stands in the glade,
Tri-sceptred sovereign,
Queen of the shade.
Stately she rises,
Slender-stemmed, tall,
Gracious response to Spring's early call,
Lifting three leaf-arms
High from the sod,
Gazing with pure face lip at her god.

- Milena Matcska



Winter Embroidery

The snow upon the hillsides
Makes them like great flour sacks
On which the birds and animals
Have cross-stitched with their tracks.

- Thelma Ireland



Angels in My Garden

 

Among my gift begonias
Is one called "Angel-wing",
So true to form I fancy
I hear the seraphs sing.
For surely higher beings
Inspired the, friendly hearts
Of my new next-door neighbors
To give me these "new starts".

O Angels, hover always
About this garden spot!
Help- me to share life's blossoms
With those who have them not!
And from your shining wing-tips
Shake fragrance for the hearts
Of beauty-hungry thousands
Today, who need new starts!

 

- Irene Stanley

 

 

 

Website Tribute - http://www.backyardgardener.com/poem/index.html

 

 

 

 

 

 

Introducing Cowboy Poets - Les Buffham & Earl Wayne (Duke) Davis

Ropin' and Rhymin':

Literature: Good cowboy poetry is like a good chew of tobacco--you can sink your teeth into it. Two Southland poets capture the bittersweet essence of a dying trade.

http://articles.latimes.com/1993-09-15/local/me-35321_1_most-cowboy-poetry

by Johnathan Gaw

Times Staff Writer

September 15, 1993

Cowboy Poet Les Buffham

In his cramped and cluttered Castaic trailer, Les Buffham employs an old Hills Brothers can to make a mild "buckaroo brew"--coffee, that is--and takes sugar in it, something he concedes is for sheepherders, not real cowboys.

But his coffee pretty much describes the 50-year-old trucker: sweet and mild.

Cowboy Poet Duke Davis

On the other side of the Santa Clarita Valley, the spurs worn by Earl Wayne (Duke) Davis ring out as he gives a tour of his Canyon Country townhome with its cow skull and paintings of American Indian life.

With saliva gathering in his mouth from the clump of tobacco chew in his cheek, Davis spits into a yellow plastic container as he pets his dog, Blue, and talks about a favorite pastime, one that he and Buffham share.

They write poetry. Cowboy poetry, of course.

The two are the best-known practitioners of the prose in Los Angeles County, and Buffham, some say, is among the best in the nation. The city of Santa Clarita recently announced plans to host a three-day festival in March dedicated to the poetry and music of the vaqueros , as a way to explore the area's Western roots. Buffham and Davis intend to be there.

"I never thought of myself as being a cowboy; I was just a kid who grew up on a ranch," said Buffham, a native of Craig, Colo., whose family still runs cattle there. "Now, being a cowboy is sort of a prestigious thing."

Prestigious, maybe, but certainly nothing from which one could make a good living. Buffham worked the ranches in Colorado until he needed money, at which point he took up trucking. For a while last year, he lived in Santa Clarita proper, but he couldn't take the noise.

"It was pure hell," Buffham said, "what with the dogs yappin' and the cars going by--I couldn't do anything."

Now, he drives a truck for local oil companies digging in the area's hills and canyons.

Is a cowboy no longer a cowboy
When he's forced to buck hay or drive truck?
Or when he's laid up wrapped in plaster
From a run of real bad luck?
Is it when he's had to sell his old home place
Cause his joints are stiff and snow rests on his head.
Well I'm thinkin' he's no longer a cowboy
Only when he's dead.

Buffham hopes someday to travel around the country and interview the remaining cowpunchers to immortalize their stories.

"The old cowboy way of life is passing," he noted. "There ain't many people left doing it, and the ones who are doing it ain't doing it the way they used to."

Buffham himself has done some cowboying in his time, as evidenced by his misshapen nose, the legacy of a horse ride gone awry.

"I was just trying her out for a friend of mine and I got a little too cocky," he said, swaying in a metal rocking chair. "She threw me and I landed on my face, cricked my head and broke my nose."

Davis, too, has won his stripes as a cowboy.

The 45-year-old native of Schertz, Texas, spends two-thirds of his year with his country-Western music band Duke Davis and Buckshot, and the rest working ranches around Santa Ynez, doing roundups and brandings during the calving season.

"Poetry is just something that goes hand in hand with the cowboy world," said Davis, petting his prized horse Choppo, named for a song about the ideal steed.

He has written of growing up dreaming of riding "every snuffy old pony" and his poetry sticks close to well-worn features of life on the trail. Titles of his pieces include "Time to Ride," "It's Good to Be Alive," "My Team Ropin' Pardner" and "The Last Coyote."

Buffham, in contrast, muses as well about the melancholy that comes as the cowboy's domain is overrun by modernization. And, since the best of cowboy poetry is based on true-life experiences, not all carries storybook themes--or endings.

In one of Buffham's poems, "Lonnie's Blue Heeler," the cowboy of the title accidentally shoots his dog while aiming a warning shot between the dog and a heifer:

Lonnie turned around with a plumb-dumbfounded look

Jake, he's just looking down, kicking at the sand.

Lonnie's standing there with his mouth dropped open,

That smoking rifle in his hand.

Jake cleared his throat and said:

"I guess I'd oughtta told you since I dropped it on the sight?

That old gun has been a shootin' just a little to the right."

Such verse is a major part of Western folklore, said David Stanley, an English professor at Westminster College in Salt Lake City.

"Cowboy poetry, instead of emphasizing individual forms of expression and feeling, expresses the norms of a group, and yet at the same time expresses the artistic talent of the individual," Stanley said. "This is partly because cowboy life is out of necessity, and also out of preference, a very group-focused occupation."

Most cowboy poetry, Stanley said, is very traditional in form, even old-fashioned, tending to rhyme and have a regular rhythm, most written in ballad form. But that is changing, just as cowboy life is changing, Stanley said.

"We are seeing more and more free verse and other modern forms in cowboy poetry, and we're also seeing a lot of attention to contemporary issues, such as the plight of Vietnam vets," he said.

The first published cowboy poetry, Stanley said, dates to the 1890s, but the craft probably goes back several more decades, with much of the early poetry borrowing heavily from sailor poetry.

"Cowboy poetry is not now, and has never been, a simple form that praises good horses and laments fallen comrades," said Stanley, who is editing a book of essays on cowboy prose. "There has always been much more variety, and the play of language within the poetry is incredibly complex and very often tremendously witty."

Among today's cowboy lyricists, said Rudy Gonzales, publisher of American Cowboy Poet magazine, Buffham is one of the best.

"He's won the respect and admiration of cowboy poets wherever he has gone," said Gonzales, who started the 20,000 circulation magazine in 1988. "Cowboy poetry, when it is done properly, portrays the cowboy heart and experience, and Les Buffham does it right."

But in a poem called "The Hat," about his start as a cowboy, Buffham wonders why anyone pursues the hard toil of the ranch.

There were lots of long hard winters

Sorting cows and pitching hay.

Wondering why I picked this life

Crossed my mind most every day.

There were salt to pack and springs to clean

Setting posts and stretching wire,

And it seemed it took a cord of wood

For fifteen minutes of fire.

Kathleen L. Housley - The Painting of Water

The Painting of Water

by Kathleen L. Housley



“I can give perfect satisfaction...

in guiding water from one place to another.”

-Leonardo da Vinci*

*While Leonardo da Vinci was painting the Mona Lisa, he was working with Niccolò Machiavelli as a hydraulic engineer (in Italian, maestro di acque) on plans to divert the Arno River with the goal of making Florence into a seaport. The recent discovery of the New World by Columbus and the subsequent voyages by the Florentine Amerigo Vespucci heightened the project’s importance. Leonardo completed extensive aerial drawings and designed an earth-moving machine. However, the engineer hired to do the job radically changed the design, decreasing the depth of the canal from 30 to 14 feet. In 1504, the project was abandoned when a flood collapsed the walls and 80 soldiers drowned.



The Painting of Water

I.

Even in his dreams there are rivers,
murmuring to the Maestro of Water
to study the vortices of rapids,
the swirling formation of eddies,
to sketch the velocity of floods
roaring down the Tuscan hills,
comparing their hydraulic power
to the dark force of blood coursing
through narrow arterial tunnels,
to draw as well the slow process
of streambed sedimentation similar
to the silting up of veins in old age,
revealed to him by covert dissection
and rigorous analyses as clandestine
as his ideas of evolutionary change.

He wakes with a start, inundated
by the torrent of too many ideas
gushing from the headwaters
of his brain, and before sunlight
glints on the Adriatic and suffuses
pink the Apennines’ eastern slopes,
he jumps from his bed and lets loose
a little rivulet of sepia ink across
the flood plain of an empty page:
here winding into a design for wings,
there looping into a rotating bridge,
before diverting to vacant space
near the paper’s edge where it turns
into a cataract of mirror-imaged words
about shell fossils embedded in cliffs
and geological time far more vast
than Biblical reckoning—Noah’s flood
and crowded ark being replaced
by repeated submergences separated
by the slow uplift of stratified rock.

II.

Given the super-saturation of his mind,
how can he paint her young anatomy
other than as liquid panorama?
Posing for him now, La Gioconda flows,
the ripples in her sleeves like standing waves
reflecting gold, the curlicues of her hair
under a diaphanous veil identical
to swirls of spray at a waterfall’s base.
Had there been no expectation by patrons
that a portrait be painted skin-side-out,
he would be delighted to draw her ribs
arching beneath the pleats of her dress,
the spreading delta of arteries and veins
within her hands, the pulse in her wrist
palpable beneath the hairs of his brush,
whispering of a hidden riparian system
more complex than that of the Arno
which he has recently surveyed,
drawing a detailed bird’s-eye view
as part of a scheme to divert the river,
making his beloved city of Florence,
fifty miles inland, into a prosperous port,
all of which he intends to include
in the background, underpainted blue,
along with jagged peaks, green valleys,
a stone viaduct crossing a stream,
a sinuous road and a bay leading
in the distance to a New World
beckoning in a warm golden haze,
light and shade blending like sea foam,
so that while he seems to portray
a beautiful woman, as he touches
her outlined lips with the brush’s tip,
he siphons into her ineffable smile
the confluence of her bloodstream
and the Earth’s primordial waters,
upwelling with his own heart’s awe
into a landscape beyond the curve of time.

III.

Nearly finished,
he leaves a digit
in her left hand
incomplete,
as if he fears
a final stroke
will stop up
all of nature,
defying
the laws of motion
and stilling
the Prime Mover
who of necessity
must move
or all the world
be dead.
Dynamics
demands that
he unsettle
equilibrium;
one undone
finger,
and her heart
pumps.


Kathleen L. Housley, 2011



About the Author

Making her home in Connecticut, Kathleen L. Housley graduated from Upsala College and holds a Masters from Wesleyan University. Her research and writing interests display a faithful humanism that is both deep and wide, integrating such diverse fields of inquiry as 19th-century suffragism, abolitionism, and Bible translation, the history of art and art collecting in the Modern period, cosmology, anthropology, and the material sciences—all in addition to theology and poetry. Her latest three books are Black Sand: The History of Titanium (2007); a book of poetry, Firmament (2008); and Keys to the Kingdom: Reflections on Music and the Mind (2010), a collection of meditations on the transformative power of music and friendship. Her work has appeared in the journals Image, Isotope, The Christian Century, and Ars Medica, and her poem “A Psalm for a New Human Species” previously appeared on the BioLogos website, in addition to the first of her Leonardo poems, “The Painting of Wings.”

Kathleen L. Housley - The Painting of Wings

The Painting of Wings

by Kathleen L. Housley

“The bird is an instrument functioning
according to mathematical laws,
and man has the power to reproduce
an instrument like this with all its movements.”

- Leonardo da Vinci*

*The opening quote is from the Codex Atlanticus. The quote “tomorrow morning I shall make the strap and the attempt,” is dated January 2, 1496. In his notebooks, Leonardo wrote that the attempt should be made over a lake with a wineskin for a life preserver. He also wrote that destruction could occur if “the machine breaks” or “turns edgewise.” There is no record of whether the attempt actually took place. The Annunciation was probably painted around 1472 when Leonardo was still in Verrocchio’s workshop. There is disagreement as to whether he painted it entirely, but there is agreement that he painted the angel.

The Painting of Wings

I.

More like copious field notes than paintings,
Leonardo finishes few, and even those he considers
works in progress that stopped progressing,
like lava that spewed from a fiery vent
then congealed into a cold parody of motion.
Regretfully, he recalls his half-fledged angel,
painted years before careful observation
and anatomical sketches of hawks and swifts
riding effortlessly on rivers of wind
revealed to him that flight is achieved
by force of air, not physical strength.
Weighed down by short muscular wings
that jut from his scapula, the angel
would have been forced to deliver
the annunciation message on foot,
trudging across a landscape, lovely yet awry,
to kneel at last before the Virgin who reads
from an out-of-perspective Bible. All wrong.

II.

Now he prepares to make amends,
not with paint but with real wings
made with reed bones and linen skin,
designed to finesse the air instead of
pommeling it into submission,
more like those of a bat than a bird.
He jots in his notebook “tomorrow morning
I shall make the strap and the attempt.”
Yet he hesitates, sharing with Daedalus
a concern for catastrophic system failure,
which leads him to decide against jumping
off the roof of the Corte Vecchia,
choosing instead to launch from a cliff
beside a lake, wrapped in soft chamois
to protect his bones, with an empty wineskin
tied securely around his waist
in case the whole thing come unglued
and he plummet, like Icarus, from the sky.

III.

Leonardo deems it the boy’s own fault
for not paying attention to his father’s warnings
about the narrow operating parameters
and material limitations of wings,
specifically the low melting point of beeswax
if he should fly too near the sun,
and the weight of water on the feathers
if he should fly too near the waves.
But Daedalus had to share some of the blame
for perceiving of wings as nothing more
than a practical means of escape,
impervious to the joyous uprush of blue.

IV.

Darkness descends, and Leonardo recalls
his childhood dream of a hawk hovering
over his cradle, while in the refectory,
the dim glow from a lamp illumines
the scaffolding before The Last Supper,
and in his workshop candlelight flickers
on the clay model of a great horse,
both awaiting his hands and mind
to reach perfection, heightening his fears
that he may have miscalculated
the mathematical laws of flight,
and that the morning’s planned attempt
should be postponed until he is sure
the sum does not equal his own death.

V.

As he falls asleep, he thinks he hears
the ominous vibration of wing struts.
He centers his weight, struggling
not to turn edgewise to the wind,
until all at once, in equilibrium,
he glides on the streams of the sky
before beginning a spiral descent,
landing at last by an earth-bound angel
who listens raptly to a woman reading aloud
from the Codex on the Flight of Birds.


Kathleen L. Housley, 2011



About the Author

Making her home in Connecticut, Kathleen L. Housley graduated from Upsala College and holds a Masters from Wesleyan University. Her research and writing interests display a faithful humanism that is both deep and wide, integrating such diverse fields of inquiry as 19th-century suffragism, abolitionism, and Bible translation, the history of art and art collecting in the Modern period, cosmology, anthropology, and the material sciences—all in addition to theology and poetry. Her latest three books are Black Sand: The History of Titanium (2007); a book of poetry, Firmament (2008); and Keys to the Kingdom: Reflections on Music and the Mind (2010), a collection of meditations on the transformative power of music and friendship. Her work has appeared in the journals Image, Isotope, The Christian Century, and Ars Medica, and her poem “A Psalm for a New Human Species” previously appeared on the BioLogos website.

R.E. Slater - Jars of Clay (a poem)



Jars of Clay
by R.E. Slater

Is there a reconciliation that may be found

At the weathered hands of Father Time -

Where hearts are broken beyond remits

Groaning loving-care’s clarion chimes?

Ringing o' ringing in the halls of wear

Unheard a dulled ear’s deaf stirrings -

Unwearied ensnaring grasping fares

Soon ruined a dark reef’s moorings?

Then away, away, come away at once

To faith’s fraught shoals and lauded lands -

Where sycamore trees arise tall bonded communions

And butterscotch'd groves flow o’er grace’s rolling strands.

Bathed in rosetted fugues of cherry blossoms perfuming sweet airs

And there lie 'twining amid the hallowing silences of shrouded black boles -

In spellbound hush o'er lush verdant swards of pilloried souls risen all-glorious

Whence plucked from death’s withering hands and unsparing scythe unreaped.

Lifting as thrice bound sonatas upon forgiveness’ flutes of fruit’d harmonies

Bursting unfettered lo discord’s mighty lairs of chaining darkness -

Ruptured from cold earth's torn despairs and chiming griefs

Forever moored a glad Fellowship’s eternal fortresses.

Nay, if ever a reconciliation ere be found in thee

Pray fall Incarnate Love unsparingly -

Poured from yielded earthen jars of knelling clays

Birthing sweet ambrosial nectars remitting parched souls a’thirst.


                                                                                                  - R.E. Slater

                                                                                                      Sept – Nov, 2011

                                                                                                                                                                                            @copyright R.E. Slater Publications

                                                                                                                                                            all rights reserved



The rich black boles of blooming cherry trees

AUTHOR’S NOTES

I have written and re-written this verse attempting to purge its sealed mysteries into sight for us poor earth-bound souls faithless and benighted in humanity’s withholding cloths of fleshly concerns and mortal pales. I wanted to fashion a poem that collided intense descriptions with lurid imagery, and against irregularly compressed metaphors, again, and again, and again, until we wearied of the words and could only read it numbed and lost within the verse’s sublimity.

I further wished to avoid reading this poem in tripping verse, or in everyday rhyming parlance, and have broken up the meter just enough to momentarily pause the eyes and arrest our attentions. There is, however, a slight cadence that can be found within its phrases when initiated by breathing stops and pauses. I also imposed an uncommon structure onto it that would mash together its sacred thoughts into a blinding composition of white light whose prismatic rainbow is only seen when read more thoughtfully.

Lastly, I wished to convey life’s greater adventures found within the rich compositions of everyday joys and wonders, beheld in the arts, in sound and canvas, horticulture and nature, sacred communions and worship. How each abounds to us at the Divine’s hand as they can abound from ourselves to one another’s hands when practicing the arts of service to one another. For is not the heart of creation like that of its Creator?

Hence, we may deliver life - against death’s imposing grip - when seeking to help and assist those near to us in common ways. Through the simplicities of listening, sharing, respecting, loving. We do this in the knowledge that we are chosen vessels brought into this life to enrich one-another’s lives - however beggarly they may first appear to our sight or circumstances. For it is not the vessel itself that brings life’s fullness to bear, but the ambrosial nectars that that vessel holds within which enriches friendships and fallow, wheel and fortune.

Curiously, this poem’s thematic elements blend in with its visual shape, and when later discovering this I made both one, into a visual poem about becoming jars of clay. For it is in the very act of service to others - and only then - that our true purpose may be found in acts of sharing with one another in a community of common-use pottery. Some dinged up and battered, others enriched and ornate. But no matter, it is the nectars within the vessel that gives all-and-one joy and usefulness. And yet, there are some pots that are cracked, and others that leak, that can give no service to anyone until bound-up and restored into service’s assembly. The metaphor extends even further when considering unused dusty bowls and unwashed pots unprepared for service to anyone until discovered and re-purposed by a fellowship’s divine.

For should we disdain the use of our talents and abilities, powers and resources, knowledge and connections, it is to give harm to our societies forever fraught with greed and ambition, pride and jealousy, unkindness and sin. But to become vessels that pour out grace and mercy, humility and kindness, courageousness and truth, is to present a society of men and women strengthened into living, organic fortresses immovable, beauteous and inviting.

So then, it is not how pretty the pot… nor how banged-up and unpainted the bowl or jar…. Value is not found in the thing itself. But in the vessel’s use and service. A simple thing to explain but one forever misunderstood in practice and practicalities. Be then mere “jars of clay” become vessels useful for service.

R.E. Slater

Nov 7, 2011

But now, O LORD, you are our Father;
we are the clay, and you are our potter;
we are all the work of your hand.

                                                  - Isaiah 64.8

But we have this treasure in jars of clay,

to show that the surpassing power

belongs to God and not to us.

                                                              - 2 Corinthians 4.7



Cherry Blossoms



Eels - Hey Man (Now You're Really Living)

 

 

 

 

Eels - Hey Man (Now You're Really Living)

EELS LYRICS
Send "Hey Man (Now You'Re Really Living)" Ringtone to your Cell

"Hey Man (Now You'Re Really Living)"

Do you know what it's like to fall on the floor
And cry your guts out 'til you got no more
Hey man now you're really living

Have you ever made love to a beautiful girl
Made you feel like it's not such a bad world
Hey man now you're really living

Now you're really giving everything
And you're really getting all you gave
Now you're really living what
This life is all about

Well i just saw the sun rise over the hill
Never used to give me much of a thrill
But hey man now you're really living

Do you know what it's like to care too much
'bout someone that you're never gonna get to touch
Hey man now you're really living

Have you ever sat down in the fresh cut grass
And thought about the moment and when it will pass
Hey man now you're really living

Now you're really giving everything
And you're really getting all you gave
Now you're really living what
This life is all about

Now what would you say if i told you that
Everyone thinks you're a crazy old cat
Hey man now you're really living

Do you know what it's like to fall on the floor
And cry your guts out 'til you got no more
Hey man now you're really living

Have you ever made love to a beautiful girl
Made you feel like it's not such a bad world
Hey man now you're really living

People sing
Do you know what it's like to fall on the floor
And cry your guts out 'til you got no more
Hey man now you're really living

Just saw the sun rise over the hill
Never used to give me much of a thrill
But hey man now i'm really living

Awesome Indie quotes

all credit is due this very awesome indie site - http://www.ohsoindie.com/home

I wanted your secret to be about me.

Like mine was about you.

But it wasn't.

'My body is a cage that
keeps me from dancing with the one I love.'


A careless bird is complicated,
an empty nest still leaves a space.'


'They might get a little better air

if they turned themselves into a cloud.'


"You look so good in the clothes of a poser
And when you smiled all the kids fell apart here
I know a place where it's warm and it's dry, dear
Let me take you there"

I'd like to see you undone.
Youth's the most unfaithful mistress.
Still we forge ahead to miss her.
Rushing our moment to shine.


I want to buy you a lot of pretty things
and shyly offer them to you one at a time.


I wish we'd always wake up new.
Refreshed and born again
with nothing left to lose.


Because if seeing is believeing,
then believe that we have lost our eyes.


While you are away
My heart comes undone
Slowly unravels
In a ball of yarn.


Not knowing how to think,
I scream aloud, begin to sink,
My legs and arms are broken down,
With envy for the solid ground,
I'm reaching for the life within me,
How can one man stop his ending,
I thought of just your face,
Relaxed, and floated into space.


And I found this boy, he had a girlfriend at home,
But I swear I didn´t know for sure, and he said wait don´t go,
can I walk you home, to your hotel or so.


I think i'm a little bit in love with you,
But only if you're a little bit, little bit,
Little bit, In lalalala love with me.



I'm a bad boy cause I don't even miss her,
I'm a bad boy for breakin her heart,
And I'm free, free fallin, fallin.



Words are very unnecessary
They can only do harm,
Enjoy the silence...



You know that I could use somebody,
Someone like you and all you know,
And how you speak.


This is how it works,
You're young until you're not,
You love until you don't,
You try until you can't,
You laugh until you cry,
You cry until you laugh,
And everyone must breathe,
Until their dying breath.


On the radio,
We heard November Rain,
That solo's real long,
But it's a pretty song,
We listened to it twice,
Cause the DJ was asleep.


Tell me am I right to think that there could be nothing better,
Than making you my bride and slowly growing old together?
Don't you feed me lies about some idealistic future,
Your heart won't heal right if you keep tearing out the sutures.


Those three words,
Are said too much,
They're not enough.


That's why I copy and paste into your folder with your name,
it'd be more than I can take if I just told you, told you what I feel.


You talk too much.
Maybe that's your way,
Of breaking up the silence,
That fills you up.


I know that we're takin' chances,
you told me life was a risk,
but I just have one last question...
will it be my heart or will it be his?


I think separation is ok,
You’re no star to guide me anyway.


You are my sweetest downfall,
I loved you first.


And tomorrow there's no school,
So lets go drink some more Red Bull,
And not get home 'till about 6:00 o'clock.

*for more awesome Indie/Emo/Alternative quotes from songs and elsewhere
go to this very cool Indie site - http://www.ohsoindie.com/indie-quotes


**for more awesome Indie Music - http://www.ohsoindie.com/indie-music