An ox and an ass don't yoke well to the same plough.
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The single mother
The word bastard has lost its stigma.
Having child without marriage is no more a sin
Single motherhood has come as a welcome sign.
The yoke of marriage is dispensed with.
The word chastity has lost its meaning.
Having affairs is not construed as shame.
No need of pre or extra marital.
The yoke of commitment is dispensed with.
The word husband has lost its standing.
No need of a man to head a family.
Sex without obligation is his blessing.
The yoke of monogamy is dispensed with.
The word father has lost its identity.
The pleasure of servility is gone.
To work for posterity is stripped.
The yoke of sweat is dispensed with.
The word mother has retained its strength.
Pleasure of her identity is established.
Possessiveness of woman is not threatened.
The yoke of bondage is dispensed with.
Man and woman are as free as cave men.
Variety in sex keeps their lust feeding.
Want of companionship will doom their end.
The yoke of orphanage will soon threaten.
01.09.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Cupid Turned Ploughman. - From Moschus
His lamp, his bow, and quiver laid aside,
A rustic wallet o'er his shoulders tied,
Sly Cupid, always on new mischief bent,
To the rich field and furrow'd tillage went;
Like any ploughman toil'd the little god,
His tune he whistled, and his wheat he sow'd;
Then sat and laugh'd, and to the skies above
Raising his eye, he thus insulted Jove:
Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms restrain,
And as I bid you let it shine or rain,
Else you again beneath my yoke shall bow,
Feel the sharp goad, and draw the servile plough;
What once Europa was Nannette is now.
poem by Matthew Prior
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My father was a progressive farmer, and was always ready to lay aside an old plough if he could replace it with one better constructed for its work. All through life, I have ever been ready to buy a better plough.
quote by Andrew Taylor Still
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Antarctica
Jim Moginie/Rob Hirst/Martin Rotsey/Peter Garrett)
I'm a snow plow
I must now plough on
I'm a snow plough
I'm a settler's son
I'm a storm cloud
Rain myself all over the place
I'm a storm cloud
Wipe that smile right off your face
There must be one place left in the world
Where the mountains meet the sea
There must be one place left in the world
Where the water's real and clean
I'm a landslide
I'm a downhill run
I'm a landslide
Open season's just begun
There must be one place left in the world
Where the skin says it can breathe
There's gotta be one place left in the world
It's a solitude of distance and relief
There's gotta be one place left in the world
I'm a snow plough
There has to be one place left in the world
I'm a snow plough
One place
One place left in the world
I'm a short fuse
I'm a snow blues
I'm a landslide hummin' I'm a downhill runnin'
There must be one place left in this world
Where we can be
song performed by by Midnight Oil
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Take care of your plough, and your plough will take care of you.
A Ring Presented to Julia
Julia, I bring
To thee this Ring.
Made for thy finger fit;
To shew by this,
That our love is
(Or sho'd be) like to it.
Close though it be,
The joynt is free:
So when Love's yoke is on,
It must not gall,
Or fret at all
With hard oppression.
But it must play
Still either way;
And be, too, such a yoke,
As not too wide,
To over-slide;
Or be so strait to choak.
So we, who beare,
The beame, must reare
Our selves to such a height:
As that the stay
Of either may
Create the burden light.
And as this round
Is no where found
To flaw, or else to sever:
So let our love
As endless prove;
And pure as Gold for ever.
poem by Robert Herrick
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My Yoke
Bound by my faults;
Yoked to my past;
Tied to my problems;
Chained by my sins;
This is the way,
I spend each day;
And life goes on,
Since I was born!
My yoke pulls me down;
My heart feels so torn;
My feet stagger too;
My duties, I can’t do;
Devils love to see
Me never, ever free;
With mind in despair,
My body cannot bear!
Yet, I must break my yoke;
I must free my chains;
I must walk upright;
I must walk in the light;
The Holy Spirit
Can make me fit;
I can overcome
Whatev’r temptations come.
Why must I worry?
Why must I hurry?
The past, let me bury;
God, I am sorry;
Lord, keep me steadfast;
Let me not be aghast;
My troubles cannot last;
Soon, they’ll be things of past!
When God’s with me,
He makes me free;
My yoke feels light;
My life is bright;
My strength returns;
For God love burns;
All things are fine;
When God is mine!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 6-1-2009
poem by John Celes
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The Plougher
Sunset and silence! A man: around him earth savage, earth broken;
Beside him two horses -- a plough!
Earth savage, earth broken, the brutes, the dawn man there in the sunset,
And the Plough that is twin to the Sword, that is founder of cities!
"Brute-tamer, plough-maker, earth-breaker! Can'st hear? There are ages
between us.
Is it praying you are as you stand there alone in the sunset?
"Surely our sky-born gods can be naught to you, earth child and earth
master?
Surely your thoughts are of Pan, or of Wotan, or Dana?
"Yet why give thoughts to the gods? Has Pan led your brutes where they
stumble?
Has Dana numbed pain of the child-bed, or Wotan put hands to your plough?
"What matter your foolish reply! O man, standing lone and bowed earthward,
Your task is a day near its close. Give thanks to the night-given God."
.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Slowly the darkness falls, the broken lands blend with the savage;
The brute-tamer stands by the brutes, a head's breadth only above them.
A head's breadth? Ay, but therein is hell's depth, and the height up to
heaven,
And the thrones of the gods and their halls, their chariots, purples, and
splendors.
poem by Padraic Colum
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Brothers, let us glorify freedom’s twilight
Brothers, let us glorify freedom’s twilight –
the great, darkening year.
Into the seething waters of the night
heavy forests of nets disappear.
O Sun, judge, people, your light
is rising over sombre years
Let us glorify the deadly weight
the people’s leader lifts with tears.
Let us glorify the dark burden of fate,
power’s unbearable yoke of fears.
How your ship is sinking, straight,
he who has a heart, Time, hears.
We have bound swallows
into battle legions - and we,
we cannot see the sun: nature’s boughs
are living, twittering, moving, totally:
through the nets –the thick twilight - now
we cannot see the sun, and Earth floats free.
Let’s try: a huge, clumsy, turn then
of the creaking helm, and, see -
Earth floats free. Take heart, O men.
Slicing like a plough through the sea,
Earth, to us, we know, even in Lethe’s icy fen,
has been worth a dozen heavens’ eternity.
poem by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
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Earth An Epic
Even by bloodshed, which is indefinably superior to gold
Dreams did not become realities-
Only fools do not know that
evolution also is subject to evolution-
** * * * * * * *
When the earth is ploughed with a plough
Only then it becomes a country
When the earth is ploughed with a quill
Then it becomes an epic
If it is not ploughed either with a plough or quill
It is merely just merely earth-
* * * * * * * * * *
24 hours of distance lies from sun to sun
only two hearts of distance lies
from human being to human being-
The sky opening up its pink folds
flying itself in the winds of dawn-
Look! How many riffles of distance lies
From village to war-
poem by Seshendra Sharma
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Hymn 127
Christ's invitation to sinners, or, Humility and pride.
Mt. 11:28-30.
"Come hither, all ye weary souls,
Ye heavy-laden sinners, come;
I'll give you rest from all your toils,
And raise you to my heav'nly home.
"They shall find rest that learn of me;
I'm of a meek and lowly mind;
But passion rages like the sea,
And pride is restless as the wind.
"Blest is the man whose shoulders take
My yoke, and bear it with delight;
My yoke is easy to his neck
My grace shall make the burden light."
Jesus, we come at thy command;
With faith, and hope, and humble zeal,
Resign our spirits to thy hand
To mold and guide us at thy will.
poem by Isaac Watts
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At The Sound Of The Drum
ARE you going for a soldier with your curly yellow hair,
And a scarlet coat instead of the smock you used to wear?
Are you going to drive the foe as you used to drive the plough?
Are you going for a soldier now?
I am going for a soldier, and my tunic is of red
And I'm tired of woman's chatter, and I'll hear the drum instead;
I will break the fighting line as you broke your plighted vow,
For I'm going for a soldier now.
For a soldier, for a soldier are you sure that you will go,
To hear the drums a-beating and to hear the bugles blow?
I'll make you sweeter music, for I'll swear another vow--
Are you going for a soldier now?
I am going for a soldier if you'd twenty vows to make;
You must get another sweetheart, with another heart to break,
For I'm sick of lies and women and the harrow and the plough,
And I'm going for a soldier now!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Earth An Epic
Even by bloodshed, which is indefinably superior to gold
Dreams did not become realities-
Only fools do not know that
evolution also is subject to evolution-
** * * * * * * *
When the earth is ploughed with a plough
Only then it becomes a country
When the earth is ploughed with a quill
Then it becomes an epic
If it is not ploughed either with a plough or quill
It is merely just merely earth-
* * * * * * * * * *
24 hours of distance lies from sun to sun
only two hearts of distance lies
from human being to human being-
The sky opening up its pink folds
flying itself in the winds of dawn-
Look! How many riffles of distance lies
From village to war-
poem by Seshendra Sharma Seshendra Sharma
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The Plough of Time
Night closed my windows and
The sky became a crystal house
The crystal windows glowed
The moon
shown through them
through the whole house of crystal
A single star beamed down
its crystal cable
and drew a plough through the earth
unearthing bodies clasped together
couples embracing
around the earth
They clung together everywhere
emitting small cries
that did not reach the stars
The crystal earth turned
and the bodies with it
And the sky did not turn
nor the stars with it
The stars remained fixed
each with its crystal cable
beamed to earth
each attached to the immense plough
furrowing our lives
poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
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Where shall the ox go, and not have to plough?
Whither shall the ox go, where he will not have to plough?
The Furrow
An old horse to the furrow - an old man to the plough -
For the young horse and the young lad, they're needed yonder now -
The horse, so young and mettled he scarce had known the rein,
That shook his feathered fetlocks and tossed his streaming mane -
The lad that used to drive him, so strong and straight and tall,
That dressed him fine with ribbons and groomed him in the stall.
Ah, there as here, old Captain, we know, both I and you,
He'll drive a straight furrow as he always used to do!
The clods before the ploughshare fall heavily apart,
But never a clod among them so heavy as my heart -
To smell the clean earth breaking and the kind country smells,
And think o' the stink and reek there, and the bursting o' the shells.
An old horse to the furrow - an old man to the plough -
And the young horse and the young lad . . . how fare they yonder now?
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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