Life through my bloodshot eyes
would scare a square 2 death
and never a moment 2 rest
Fun and games are few
but treasured like gold 2 me
cuz I realize that I must return
2 my spot in poverty
But mock my words when I say
my heart will not exist
unless my destiny comes through
and puts an end 2 all of this
When the win-ter winds are blow-ing,
And we ga-ther glad and gay,
Where the fire its light is throw-ing,
For a mer-ry game at play,
There is none that to my know-ing,—
And I've play-ed at games enough,—
Makes us laugh, and sets us glow-ing
Like a game at Blind-man's Buff.
They say of me, and so they should,
It's doubtful if I come to good.
I see acquaintances and friends
And making enviable names
In science, art, and parlor games.
But I, despite expert advice,
Keep doing things I think are nice,
And though to good I never come-
Inseparable my nose and thumb!
We shall not ever meet them bearded in heaven
Nor sunning themselves among the bald of hell;
If anywhere, in the deserted schoolyard at twilight,
forming a ring, perhaps, or joining hands
In games whose very names we have forgotten.
Come memory, let us seek them there in the shadows.
The storm-dances of gulls, the barking game of seals,
Over and under the ocean .
Divinely superfluous beauty
Rules the games, presides over destinies, makes trees grow
And hills tower, waves fall.
The incredible beauty of joy
Stars with fire the joining of lips, O let our loves too
Be joined, there is not a maiden
Burns and thirsts for love
More than my blood for you, by the shore of seals while the wings
Weave like a web in the air
Divinely superfluous beauty.
the children played games
getting from here
to where the truth was
without touching a flake
needless to say
the only ones who got there
but while the honest ones
shrank back from
the touch of snow
were where the truth was
Listen to me, O thou who hast not seen old friends
[of experience]! Vex not thyself with this Wheel of
Heaven which has neither surface nor foundation: content
thyself with what thou hast and, as a peaceable spectator,
observe here below the various games to which men are
Paul Laurence Dunbar
I know a man
With face of tan,
But who is ever kind;
Whom girls and boys
Leaves games and toys
Each eventide to find.
When day grows dim,
They watch for him,
He comes to place his claim;
He wears the crown
The sand-man is his name.
When sparkling eyes
And busy lips grow dumb;
When little heads
Nod toward the beds,
We know the sand-man's come.
Chief of old friends! hearken to what I say,
Let not heaven's treacherous wheel your heart dismay;
But rest contented in your humble nook,
And watch the games that wheel is wont to play.