Lyrics By Lin Lane
Seems like yesterday I watched your fingers
play the piano, and heard your music unfold.
In memories, the romantic vision of us lingers,
though love's symphony dulled like tarnished gold.
When we were together, you wrote for me,
songs you scored day and night to compose
of the passion between an oak and willow tree,
Lyrics sweet as the fragrant scent of a rose.
Chorus:
But your love wilted like a flower
whose leaves lie withered on the keys.
My heart is wounded and I've no power
to make the miserable ache inside of it ease.
Tender notes on sheet music, ripped and torn.
No longer sung for they bring pain and grief,
stabbing me like a rose's sharpest thorn.
From loss of yesterday's passion there's no relief.
Can time erase the memories I fear won't fade?
Traces of us and what use to be linger in me.
I sway as if slayed by a dagger, and I'm afraid
that from the ghost of you, I'll never be free.
Chorus:
Your love wilted like a flower
whose leaves lie withered on the keys.
My heart is wounded and I've no power
to make the miserable ache inside of it ease.
Categories:
slayed, break up,
Form: Lyric
Seems like yesterday I watched your fingers
play the piano, and heard your music unfold.
In memories, the romantic vision of us lingers,
though love's symphony dulled like tarnished gold.
When we were together, you wrote for me,
songs you scored day and night to compose
of the passion between an oak and willow tree,
Lyrics sweet as the fragrant scent of a rose.
Chorus:
But your love wilted like a flower
whose petals lie withered on the keys.
My heart is wounded and I've no power
to make the miserable ache inside of it ease.
Tender notes on sheet music, ripped and torn.
No longer sung for they bring pain and grief,
stabbing me like a rose's sharpest thorn.
From loss of yesterday's passion there's no relief.
Can time erase the memories I fear won't fade?
Traces of us and what use to be linger in me.
I sway as if slayed by a dagger, and I'm afraid
that from the ghost of you, I'll never be free.
Chorus:
Your love wilted like a flower
whose leaves lie withered on the keys.
My heart is wounded and I've no power
to make the miserable ache inside of it ease.
Categories:
slayed, lost love,
Form: Lyric
“taste” …
she whispered
making sure the “s” lingered on her
tongue like syrup …
I needed no instruction,
but her plea was proper music, nonetheless
prelude to pleasurable murmurings from
both our gullets,
though I put the vibrations of my low,
rumbling moan to good use
(as any obsequious scoundrel should)
her squeaky sigh wrapping
my core like a vine,
saturating my extremities …
another whisper - “tell me … pleeease”
I knew exactly what
and she knew I couldn’t speak,
my mouth being otherwise engaged,
so I sounded the syllables
letting them rumble slowly … again
and that …
brought the bloom -
both her hands weaving their way
through my hair
pulling me tightly to her
holding …
crying out -
the sounds of bliss that I lived to hear
the sultry song that slayed me …
and I?
an enormous smile on my face that
she couldn’t see, of course
but I think, perhaps,
she could tell …
all the same.
Categories:
slayed, analogy, passion, sensual,
Form: Free verse
Hello its Moi..Me who sees.? Green sick actions and plans
Do others agree.? Plans to kill some Ostriches a herd four
Hundred strong.' All quite healty..Ceetificated; tested yet
That has been ( submerged? Hidden? My this is surely
Wrong? Must they follow the seven hundred Koalas? That
Green policies eagerly slayed.? Such pointless pagan obcenity (as a helpfull move explained) because they are
Not native I guess.?? These immigrants feathered though.'
Could get the pest?
The Pasitney familiy's pride and joy..Thats what I'm led to
Know.' ( there is a petition ) up snd running now I advise if
You feel like helping thats one way how so.' Maybe you live near? A letter or two? I have taken a few minures just this
Poem; I do..God bless all readers, may all be well.' Will you
Move against this now encroaching, of a shown complying hell.?
Categories:
slayed, appreciation, caregiving, education,
Form: Rhyme
I was sipping tea, so calm, so sweet,
Charts were clean, no sign of heat.
NY session, chill as can be,
Then—BOOM!—the news comes straight for me:
“Trump is back, and he's not done—
More tariffs, more drama, more Twitter fun!”
He taxed China, slapped their goods,
Markets flipped—I lost my “shoulds.”
Steel from Canada? Hit with a fee,
Even Mexico got no trading glee.
The EU cried, “C’mon, that’s rough!”
But Trump said, “We’re playing tough!”
Aluminum, cars, tech and trade—
One tweet from him, and pips get slayed.
My EUR/USD took a nosedive trip,
I watched my SL… then lost my grip.
I yelled, “NOT AGAIN! Not this chart!”
Trump’s tweet just ripped my setup apart.
But I’m a trader—I wipe my tears,
Been dancing with markets for 5 long years.
I suited up, with sniper glare,
Revenge is pips—I scalped with flair.
So when Trump tweets and markets spin,
I don’t panic—I dive right in.
A little chaos? That’s my jam,
I’ll milk that news—thank you, fam!
Lesson learned: in this trading game,
Even Trump can bring you fame.
If you play it smart, catch that spike—
You’ll turn his tweets into profit-like.
Categories:
slayed, adventure, africa, dark, emotions,
Form: Narrative
I melted into liquid azure.
Beached in her breasts.
God is a woman??
Nurturing spirit.
Held womb like.
Trials of life no more.
Feminine vibrations resound.
Spiritual harmony.
Ego to zero.
Hate erased.
Melanin copper magnetic.
And so, I was born.
I felt safe.
And so, I returned.
Lost in her hair.
But look what I found there.
You saved me from the satyr.
Slayed with love.
Tears fell.
And so did the empire.
Sent from Yahoo Mail for iPhone
Categories:
slayed, africa, black love, deep,
Form: Free verse
This was one of the first poems I wrote when new at Poetry Soup.com five years ago and I received a wonderful welcome from the lovely poetess Connie Marcum Wong.
White daisy's in a wicker basket
graced the tiny metal casket
where his lifeless body now lay..
Family and friends wrought with grief
shook their heads in disbelief,
as he was only ten years to the day..
His story made the news with it's
familiar tragic hues and the politicians
had their say..
People gathered on that street, lighting
candles, placing wreaths in remembrance
of where he was slayed..
The sun still shines on this space, his spilt
blood cleansed to not a trace but what a price
his community has paid..
What kind of world have we created
when young lives can be negated falling'
victim to gun violence every day..
Categories:
slayed, america, angst, children,
Form: Rhyme
It is a debt; nearly one out of three has sadly paid
Life started to grow, but its first breath was never made
A branch on the family tree that produced no shade
Pain of such an investment unsuccessful; I would not wish for or trade
If I could, I would take the hurt from each mother that this monster has slayed
Cruelty— is what I would name this game that conception has played
The remorseful loss of an unborn child; to sad rest, too many are laid
Categories:
slayed, child, children, loss, mother,
Form: Monorhyme
Insipid be the bounty, lain before the masses.
Languishing are those the ravenous harasses.
Mortals just morsels to a hunger never sated.
Fear laden blood keeps who feeds intoxicated.
The crazed stare unphased, their beckoning insidious.
They whom lay slayed, just meat for the carnivorous.
Of men or of babe be plated and devoured.
To this they're enslaved by ritual empowered.
Disposed as they go the corpses they eviscerate.
Now over, the glow danced by as they incinerate.
Categories:
slayed, dark, murder,
Form: Rhyme
“taste” …
she whispered
making sure the “s” lingered on her
tongue like syrup …
I needed no instruction,
but her plea was proper music, nonetheless
prelude to pleasurable murmurings from
both our gullets,
though I put the vibrations of my low,
rumbling moan to good use
(as any obsequious scoundrel should)
her squeaky sigh wrapping
my core like a vine,
saturating my extremities …
another whisper - “tell me … pleeease”
I knew exactly what
and she knew I couldn’t speak,
my mouth being otherwise engaged,
so I sounded the syllables
letting them rumble slowly … again
and that …
brought the bloom -
both her hands weaving their way
through my hair
pulling me tightly to her
holding …
crying out -
the sounds of bliss that I lived to hear
the sultry song that slayed me …
and I?
an enormous smile on my face that
she couldn’t see, of course
but I think, perhaps,
she could tell …
all the same.
Categories:
slayed, analogy, love, passion, sensual,
Form: Free verse
That vital organ
That pumps blood throughout
We’d die without it, there’s no doubt.
And yet
When it breaks and is betrayed
The person is already slayed.
The heart is a fickle, foolish beast
And a broken one is quite diseased.
Categories:
slayed, betrayal,
Form: Rhyme
From the beloved king and harp player
Whose name reigns as the ancient sword
That slayed the head of Goliath
This name is sung across the wide world
A Hebrew jewel, the cornerstone of Europe
A crown of nobility and sword of the underdog
King of the small kingdom that would birth the sun
Writer of psalms guided by wisdom herself
Father of the most beloved white lamb
This name is sung across the wide world
A Hebrew jewel, the cornerstone of Europe
A crown of nobility and sword of the underdog
For the contest: ETYMOLOGY - the meaning of your name Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Suzette Richards
Categories:
slayed, bible, hero, history, jewish,
Form: Free verse
The Truth About The Real Comedy Of Life
Woe is me, my poor, aching feet do sing
A melody and blindness to ole blue moon
The fountain of youth sold only dry sand
Remember General MacArthur did return
And could be true Atlas held up the world
A damn shame that snails win no races
No broken hearts do not climb mountains
And time is no friend to elephant fever
Caesar did not ride a old pale blue horse
And Rome delighted itself in its sad decay
Jesse James wrote no lying autobiography
And the Pope lost his wits and the Holy Seal
Poe eventually slayed and ate his nemesis
And Laurel and Hardy retired with vast wealth.
Robert Lindley, Prose with a shot of whiskey
Dec. 11th 1971
Categories:
slayed, art, creation, life, visionary,
Form: Prose
Because once a time in a round mud hut
at the edge of the bottomless of pits,
I know that a three- or four-year-old roars with his gut
And he wipes snot with a broken jersey that barely fits
Because on the ratchet corners and bended streets
A growing child runs dust on tracks that gone bicycles drew;
And on his shined cheeks a laugh draws and sweeps
And he basks in the pastoral sun like a songbird and crew
Because the year is 2000 or 2001
And a child’s barely grown father must run to the city.
He must beg— (for working’s sake) ‘til pride comes undone—
The city that spurn him benches, toilets, parks, opportunity
Because ghosts of the ghoul that a people slayed
still lurk and parade office parks and boardrooms,
a child’s barely grown father must wade relics of Apartheid
In spaces of bigheads where he dances mops and brooms
Because a three- or four-year-old is now twenty
And the heirloom in his father’s stock is but lack;
I must work the same zero and struggle as plenty.
I must be black.
Categories:
slayed, anger, black african american,
Form: Quatrain
as of soul pact
we dispensed with tact
and took up our stance
leaving outcomes to chance
and so blood was spilt
that made us wilt with guilt
for though we stood apart
we overplayed our part
forgetting who we are
during the friendly spar
now, we’d have kissed and made up
but our ego wouldn’t shut up
and so we had to be reborn
roles exchanged, object of scorn
as the gods watched dismayed
for the light of truth was slayed
since I was he and he was me
yet through the veil we failed to see
the ultimate reality
Categories:
slayed, introspection, spiritual,
Form: Rhyme
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