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Aise Hain Anna Hamare...
Khuskismat hain hum sare
mile hame jo Anna Hazare
Sath do milkar duniya walon
Pakar inke Har ek ishaare
Khuskismat hain hum sare
mile hame jo Anna Hazare
Diya hai maa ne ratna hame
Jo sabki aankhon ke hain tare
Desh ki khatir jee rahe jo
Aise hain Annaa hamare
Khuskismat hain hum sare
mile hame jo Anna Hazare
Hoga khatam ab bhrastachar
Anna ki ye har saans Pukare
Swarg sa sunder bane ye desh
khushiyon ke hon har or nazare
Khuskismat hain hum sare
mile hame jo Anna Hazare
Ishwar do sadbudhhi sabko
Karte gunah kyon itne sare
Rukhsat hoge duniya se “deep’’
Hoga na kuch sath tumhare
Khuskismat hain hum sare
mile hame jo Anna Hazare
poem by Deepak Kumar deep
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tamanna(wish)
TAMANNA YE AANSU HUM PITE TO JARUR HAI
LEKIN USKA SHUKRIYA KARNA KABHI NA BHULTE HAI
MALIK HAI VO JAISA CHAHE VAISA RAKHE
HAME SIRF DUA MANGNA HAI KI VO HAME DEKHE
WE SUFFER AGONY AND PAIN WITH TEARS
BUT ALWAYS THANK ALMIGHTY FOR GRACE
HE MAY KEEP US IN ANY CONDITION AS SAVIOR AND PROTECTOR
WE CAN ONLY ASK FOR MERCY AND BLESSINGS
NAHI KOI FARIYAD KARNI HAI AUR NAHI KOI SHIKAYAT
BUS NAJRE KAYAM RAHE AUR MILTI RAHE INNAYAT
JO USE DENA HAI VO BINA MANGE HI DE DEGA
BAKI BURE KARMO KA JAWAB TO HAME HI DENA PADEGA
NOTHING TO COMPLAINOR NOTHING TO PRESENT
ONLY PRAYER FOR BLESSINGS AND GRACE
HE MAY GIVE IT EVEN WITHOUT ASKING
WE NEED TO ANSWER FOR THE ILLS COMMITED
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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An Impetuous Resolve
When little Dickie Swope's a man,
He's go' to be a Sailor;
An' little Hamey Tincher, he's
A-go' to be a Tailor:
Bud Mitchell, he's a-go' to be
A stylish Carriage-Maker;
An' when _I_ grow a grea'-big man,
I'm go' to be a Baker!
An' Dick'll buy his sailor-suit
O' Hame; and Hame'll take it
An' buy as fine a double-rigg
As ever Bud can make it:
An' nen all three'll drive roun' fer me
An' we'll drive off togevver,
A-slingin' pie-crust 'long the road
Ferever an' ferever!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Dowie Houms of Yarrow
LATE at een, drinkin' the wine,
And ere they paid the lawin',
They set a combat them between,
To fight it in the dawin'.
'O stay at hame, my noble lord!
O stay at hame, my marrow!
My cruel brother will you betray,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.'
'O fare ye weel, my lady gay!
O fare ye weel, my Sarah!
For I maun gae, tho' I ne'er return
Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow.'
She kiss'd his cheek, she kamed his hair,
As she had done before, O;
She belted on his noble brand,
An' he 's awa to Yarrow.
O he 's gane up yon high, high hill--
I wat he gaed wi' sorrow--
An' in a den spied nine arm'd men,
I' the dowie houms o' Yarrow.
'O are ye come to drink the wine,
As ye hae doon before, O?
Or are ye come to wield the brand,
On the dowie banks o' Yarrow?'
'I am no come to drink the wine,
As I hae don before, O,
But I am come to wield the brand,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.'
Four he hurt, an' five he slew,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow,
Till that stubborn knight came him behind,
An' ran his body thorrow.
'Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John,
An' tell your sister Sarah
To come an' lift her noble lord,
Who 's sleepin' sound on Yarrow.'
'Yestreen I dream'd a dolefu' dream;
I ken'd there wad be sorrow;
I dream'd I pu'd the heather green,
On the dowie banks o' Yarrow.'
She gaed up yon high, high hill--
I wat she gaed wi' sorrow--
An' in a den spied nine dead men,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.
She kiss'd his cheek, she kamed his hair,
As oft she did before, O;
She drank the red blood frae him ran,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.
'O haud your tongue, my douchter dear,
For what needs a' this sorrow?
I'll wed you on a better lord
Than him you lost on Yarrow.'
'O haud your tongue, my father dear,
An' dinna grieve your Sarah;
A better lord was never born
Than him I lost on Yarrow.
'Tak hame your ousen, tak hame your kye,
For they hae bred our sorrow;
I wiss that they had a' gane mad
When they cam first to Yarrow.'
The Soldier's Return
When wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning;
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor but honest sodger.
A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia, hame again,
I cheery on did wander:
I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.
At length I reach'd the bonie glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my e'en was swelling.
Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, "Sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,
O! happy, happy may he be,
That's dearest to thy bosom:
My purse is light, I've far to gang,
And fain wad be thy lodger;
I've serv'd my king and country lang-
Take pity on a sodger."
Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,
And lovelier was than ever;
Quo' she, "A sodger ance I lo'ed,
Forget him shall I never:
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake it;
That gallant badge-the dear cockade,
Ye're welcome for the sake o't."
She gaz'd-she redden'd like a rose -
Syne pale like only lily;
She sank within my arms, and cried,
'Art thou my ain dear Willie?'
'By him who made yon sun and sky!
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man; and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded.
'The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er be parted.'
Quo' she, "My grandsire left me gowd,
A mailen plenish'd fairly;
And come, my faithfu' sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!"
For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger's prize,
The sodger's wealth is honor:
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he's his country's stay,
In day and hour of danger.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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It is a sweet and seemly thing to die for one's country.
If it is not seemly, do it not if it is not true, speak it not.
quote by Marcus Aurelius
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sir Hugh; Or The Jew's Daughter
Four-and-twenty bonny boys
Were playing at the ba,
And by it came him sweet Sir Hugh,
And he playd o'er them a'.
He kickd the ba with his right foot
And catchd it wi his knee,
And throuch-and-thro the Jew's window
He gard the bonny ba flee.
He's doen him to the Jew's castell
And walkd it round about;
And there he saw the Jew's daughter,
At the window looking out.
'Throw down the ba, ye Jew's daughter,
Throw down the ba to me!'
'Never a bit,' says the Jew's daughter,
'Till up to me come ye.'
'How will I come up? How can I come up?
How can I come to thee?
For as ye did to my auld father,
The same ye'll do to me.'
She's gane till her father's garden,
And pu'd an apple red and green;
'Twas a' to wyle him sweet Sir Hugh,
And to entice him in.
She's led him in through ae dark door,
And sae has she thro nine;
She's laid him on a dressing-table,
And stickit him like a swine.
And first came out the thick, thick blood,
And syne came out the thin;
And syne came out the bonny heart's blood;
There was nae mair within.
She's rowd him in a cake o lead,
Bade him lie still and sleep;
She's thrown him in Our Lady's draw-well,
Was fifty fathom deep.
When bells were rung, and mass was sung,
And a' the bairns came hame,
When every lady gat hame her son,
The Lady Maisry gat nane.
She's taen her mantle her about,
Her coffer by the hand,
And she's gane out to seek her son,
And wandered o'er the land.
She's doen her to the Jew's castell,
Where a' were fast asleep:
'Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh,
I pray you to me speak.'
'Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear,
Prepare my winding-sheet,
And at the back o merry Lincoln
The morn I will you meet.'
Now Lady Maisry is gane hame,
Make him a winding-sheet,
And at the back o merry Lincoln,
The dead corpse did her meet.
And a the bells o merry Lincoln
Without men's hands were rung,
And a' the books o merry Lincoln
Were read without man's tongue,
And neer was such a burial
Sin Adam's days begun.
poem by Andrew Lang
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The Oubit
It was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang,
A feckless hairy oubit, and merrily he sang-
'My Minnie bad me bide at hame until I won my wings;
I show her soon my soul's aboon the warks o' creeping things.'
This feckless hairy oubit cam' hirpling by the linn,
A swirl o' wind cam' doun the glen, and blew that oubit in:
Oh when he took the water, the saumon fry they rose,
And tigg'd him a' to pieces sma', by head and tail and toes.
Tak' warning then, young poets a', by this poor oubit's shame;
Though Pegasus may nicher loud, keep Pegasus at hame.
Oh haud your hands frae inkhorns, though a' the Muses woo;
For critics lie, like saumon fry, to mak' their meals o' you.
Eversley, 1851.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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Significance, winter, November, unfold, union, bay, seemly, sky
Significance, winter, November, unfold, union, bay, seemly, sky
Winter grey has set in
And its November 7th
The skies are too light to early
They are merely and extension of this grey
Upon my rising
The bay is grey the sky and its meeting are one
They are a union
Announcing
Significance
A statement of fullness
It is the linger of these many long months
As they unfold
First fall
Honoring us with its ways of
Offering difference, warm to cold days
Rain
Ice
Sleet
Then snow, then winter
Cold
Bitter brilliance
My afternoon drink is not a warm one
My wandering come with wearing sweaters
And scarves
I for the first time actually see the
Winter coming in over the gulf coast
Unlike in the years past where it was all
Seemly a summer vacation
Copyright Dharma Barbara Rose G
poem by Dhrama Barbara Rose Guada
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Patty of the Vale
'A weedling child on lonely lea
My evening rambles chanced to see;
And much the weedling tempted me
To crop its tender flower;
Exposed to wind and heavy rain,
It's head bow'd lowly on the plain;
Hand silently it seem'd in pain
Of life's endanger'd hour.
And and wilt thou bid my bloom decay,
And crop my flower, and me betray,
And cast my injured sweets away?-
Its silence seemly sigh'd
'A moment's idol of thy mind!
And is a stranger so unkind
to leave the shameful root behind,
Bereft of all its pride?'
And so it seemly did complain;
And beating fell the heavy rain;
And low it droop'd upon the plain,
To fate resign'd to fall:
My heart did melt at its decline,
And ' Come,' said I, ' thou gem divine,
My fate shall stand the storm with thine;'
So took the root and all.'
poem by John Clare
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Better be freends at a distance than enemies at hame.
Chairity begins at hame, but shouldna end there.