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My Heart Sings
My heart sings.
My heart sings the songs of happiness.
My heart sings the songs of joy.
My heart sings the songs of peace.
My heart sings the songs of the Blues.
My heart sings the songs of the Gospel.
My heart sings the songs of good news.
My heart cries a melody for all to hear.
My heart sings the harmonies of love.
My heart sings a song of beauty
that comes from the Thorne Birds
just before they die.
My heart sings songs to keep me alive.
My heart sings songs for as long as it beats.
My heart sings forever.
My heart sings haluwasa.
My heart sings.
poem by Jennifer Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A woman’s wants
Men must have a sense of humour
To corner a woman’s fevour.
She responds to the alert head.
Men must have a mind of toughness.
She responds to the strong mind.
Being handsome is of no use.
18.02.2006
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Not Having Obtained The Much Needed Kiss
she is hugless and i am briefless
she is far away from the clutches of my arms
i send my pic hugging the air
she responds by saying she is feeling hot and sexy in there
i send another pic
i am kissing my own lips. How dare? How could i ever do such thing?
Narcissus. Jesus!
she responds, you are a good model for organic farming,
i look like shit. She ends it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Believers In Other Faiths
Most Christians
believers
in other faiths
also only
wish to hear
what they
want to believe.
Individuals
the world over
tailor belief
to personal
needs desires
hopes dreams
expectations.
Prayer for self
or for others?
Both choice needs
are appropriate
in circumstances
ranging from normality
to extreme emergency.
God listens
responds
according
to true needs
lifetime plans
responds firmly
in need eternity.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Today to me, tomorrow to you [Azi mie, mâine ţie]
In me
And in you,
And in him
The heart sings the same
And weeps and it's grim.
It sings and it cries
Stuck deep in our chest.
It sings in the moment we open our eyes
And cries when our soul goes to rest.
When it sings and wind raves
We shut our sad graves.
When sings full of gloom
We shut our small room.
There is just one whim
In me
And in you
And in him.
poem by Ion Minulescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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No regrets Sailor; And yet to go?
He pushes the boat into the sea.
He jumps and holds the rickety oars,
Sits comfortably
And he rows.
Waves welcome him in a friendly manner
And he sings his soliloquy!
'The trip won't be rough and calm like a lass.'
Then the vast sky responds; 'There won't be rough at all
But you know where you go?
Wherever you go do not come to a conclusion
That the voyage is over and yet to go? '
[Take care my seafarer son! And please convey my loving regards to old friends perhaps with their wreckage, if you meet them on your way! Let them know that your grandpa still breathes hardly! ]
* To Oskar! one of my poet friends.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Velvet
(paul waaktaar / lauren savoy)
Her skin is like velvet
Her face cut from stone
Her eyes when shes smiling
Will never reach home
But hear how she sings
Her touch would be tender
Her lips would be warm
But when were together
Im always alone
But hear how she sings
But hear how she sings
Hear how she sings
Her skin is like velvet
So I went to her home
Her place like a palace
With things you cant own
Her skin is like velvet
And hear how she sings
Hear how she sings...
song performed by by A-Ha
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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LI FRATI D'UN PAESE (The Friers of The Village)
Senti sto fatto. Un giorno de st'istate
Lavoravo ar convento de Genzano,
E ssentivo de sopra ch'er guardiano
Tirava giù biastime a carrettate;
Perché, essenno le gente aridunate
Per cantà la novena a ssan Cazziano,
Cerca qua, chiama là, quer zagristano
Drento a le celle nun trovava un frate.
Era vicino a notte, e un pispillorio
Già se sentiva in de la chiesa piena,
Quanno senti che ffa ppadre Grigorio.
Curze a intoccà la tevola de cena,
E appena che fu empito er refettorio
Disse: "Alò, frati porchi, a la novena!".
English
Listen to this story. During last summer one day
I was working at the monastery in Genzano [1] ,
When I heard upstairs the sacristan
Swearing like a trooper.
Because while the people had gathered
To sing the novena [2] for St.Cassian,
The sacristan, looking for the friars high and low,
Could not find any of them in their rooms.
Night was approaching, and a whispering
Already came from the crowded church,
So listen what Father Gregory did.
He ran to sound the dinner bell
And as soon as the refectory was full
Said: "Hurry up, lousy friars, to the novena!"
poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Secret Dreams
The abbot is a saintly man.
He praises me because I can
transcribe and illustrate the word.
So that the gospel may be heard
by other men on other lands,
He says that God has blessed my hands.
Although my frame is poor and weak
and that my talent is unique.
The holy books that I produce.
A bishop would be proud to use
From other duties I am free
save for my calligraphy.
But still pray to God each nigh
to heal my body set me right.
Because I would much rather be
outside and work laboriously.
But I must do as He commands
The abbot says he understands.
How very hard it is for me
to write of things I’ll never see.
Each man must serve as best
he can as soldier priest or husbandman.
To everyman God gave a skill
his part of Gods plan to fulfil.
We are all where we’re meant to be
and must accept this patiently.
I trust the Abbot he is wise
It’s not for us to criticise.
Where we are placed in the great scheme.
but still I am allowed to dream
and in my dreams I’m tall and strong
I need no crutch to get along.
but dreams are not reality.
I am not as I’d like to be.
So I will do the best I can.
As God expects from any man.
Although I sometimes wonder why
I must suffer from such frailty.
It is the cross I have to bear.
My faith in God I can declare
by copying his Holy Word
I wield my quill pen like a sword.
I am to frail and weak to fight
but I have strength and skill to write.
I transcribe and I illustrate
the word of God in copperplate,
in coloured inks of different hues.
My given task I can’t refuse.
The abbot says he can rely
upon my skill and my trained eye.
To train the younger monks to do
the work the way I’ve taught them to.
The time will come when I can’t see.
when old age catches up with me.
The copying will still go on
long after I am dead and gone.
Then I shall reap as I have sown.
My secret dreams to God are known.
I do not think he will condemn
my wish to be like other men.
28-Sep-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Soul sings other’s poem
Soul sings other’s poem
When you don’t write one
It sings as if it is a dawn
In a tune of silence
Undresses unaware of around
Echoes to the strokes
As if it is climax…
Sings a song of rape
Unless you write one of Union….
Soul sings other’s poem
poem by Free Birds
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An Oarsman
Where is the coast?
Just in the boat
With no one around
He sings even a song!
In western horizon
The king 'Sun' sleeps alone
Merry clouds go brown
(So far) He sings the song!
A shower of rain
Can't let him pain
Miss.Windy starts to frown
(So far) He sings the song!
With force of angry waves
Even rocks can be damaged
How about his wooden bound?
(So far) He sings the song!
His old rudder shapes him solo
How to manage to and fro
Further rowing, no allowed
(So far) He sings the song!
Oh, my dear oarsman!
I wanna know your song
Give people to be strong
Like you, never down! !
poem by Eindaray Kyaw
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So noble a heart
That sings of joy
And sings of Heaven in Thee
Can carry a mark
Of a sky like toy
An Eagle of Heaven to see
In flight to burst
Its laughter wings
Days last and first
In a soul that sings
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Abbot of Carcuela, you eat up the pot and ask for the pipkin.
Lost and Found
Belongings lost grant wisdom's gain,
possessions, - if they come again -
cannot contentment bring, soul soothe,
as on Life's tramway mortals groove...
Distinctions must be made: from pain
reactive hope responds, seeks strain
symphonic, harmony to move
free, forwards, from walls, all remove.
Through causal links heart sings refrain
more optimistic, may refrain
from fear, what others may approve,
to confidence as days improve.
Empowered yolk sheds yokes from wasted past,
prepares fresh dish delicious, tastes repast.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The election of the abbot is not stopped for want of a monk.
What the abbot of Bamba cannot eat he gives away for the good of his soul.
He who has been first a novice and then an abbot, knows what the boys do behind the altar.
No man understands knavery better than the abbot who has been a monk.