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The wheel of fortune turns round incessantly, and who can say to himself, I shall to-day be uppermost.
Divine right of kings means the divine right of anyone who can get uppermost.
quote by Herbert Spencer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Each age tries to form its own conception of the past. Each age writes the history of the past anew with reference to the conditions uppermost in its own time.
quote by Frederick Jackson Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Like The Summer Fruits
Uppermost,
Outermost,
With the same images;
Images of the sun and the moon,
Extortion!
Like a puzzle;
To make an impact,
With gladness,
Like the summer fruits;
However, she really needed someone like you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Self Opinion
At dawn, the rising of the sun
alerts the cockerel to crow.
Although in his opinion
The cock doth cause the sun to glow.
And there are many little men.
Who like the cockerel will crow
to prove their worth again, again.
I wonder was it always so.
I feel no need to brag and boast.
I am content to simply be.
My own opinion uppermost
Lacks not for credibility.
At least not in my own eyes
though others may think otherwise.
04/07/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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040710c Waves Is Calling Me
i wear single layer of socks today
i use two for protection from cold
felt so good, my toes could breathe
blood circulation zips to its heights
my toenails turn reddish from pale
but i lost that solid grip on my stride
it could be nice if i can wear shorts
or t-shirts that says 'springtime to me'
and run around the beach whole day
work must comes first for good living
if i have a chance i go up to uppermost
of this structure to peek how's the beach
poem by Manonton Dalan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Man.
A man who knows he is a man,
his gentleness quite freely shows.
His confidence is such, he can
dispense with all the macho shows.
For which lesser men feel the need.
All bluff and braggadocio.
A man who knows he is a man
sees little need to brag and boast
He acts gently because he can
show tenderness is uppermost,
he knows he's not an also ran.
He is a man first and foremost.
His instinct always to protect
The weak, the old and the helpless
He treats all women with respect
But tolerates the foolishness
of lesser men who can't expect
to be admired for manliness.
A man who knows he is a man
within himself is quite content.
By nature he's a gentleman
to all and sundry evident.
He is no ranting puritan!
to be a man his sole intent.
Apr-12
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Lang Coortin
The ladye she stood at her lattice high,
Wi' her doggie at her feet;
Thorough the lattice she can spy
The passers in the street,
'There's one that standeth at the door,
And tirleth at the pin:
Now speak and say, my popinjay,
If I sall let him in.'
Then up and spake the popinjay
That flew abune her head:
'Gae let him in that tirls the pin:
He cometh thee to wed.'
O when he cam' the parlour in,
A woeful man was he!
'And dinna ye ken your lover agen,
Sae well that loveth thee?'
'And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir,
That have been sae lang away?
And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir?
Ye never telled me sae.'
Said - 'Ladye dear,' and the salt, salt tear
Cam' rinnin' doon his cheek,
'I have sent the tokens of my love
This many and many a week.
'O didna ye get the rings, Ladye,
The rings o' the gowd sae fine?
I wot that I have sent to thee
Four score, four score and nine.'
'They cam' to me,' said that fair ladye.
'Wow, they were flimsie things!'
Said - 'that chain o' gowd, my doggie to howd,
It is made o' thae self-same rings.'
'And didna ye get the locks, the locks,
The locks o' my ain black hair,
Whilk I sent by post, whilk I sent by box,
Whilk I sent by the carrier?'
'They cam' to me,' said that fair ladye;
'And I prithee send nae mair!'
Said - 'that cushion sae red, for my doggie's head,
It is stuffed wi' thae locks o' hair.'
'And didna ye get the letter, Ladye,
Tied wi' a silken string,
Whilk I sent to thee frae the far countrie,
A message of love to bring?'
'It cam' to me frae the far countrie
Wi' its silken string and a';
But it wasna prepaid,' said that high-born maid,
'Sae I gar'd them tak' it awa'.'
'O ever alack that ye sent it back,
It was written sae clerkly and well!
Now the message it brought, and the boon that it sought,
I must even say it mysel'.'
Then up and spake the popinjay,
Sae wisely counselled he.
'Now say it in the proper way:
Gae doon upon thy knee!'
The lover he turned baith red and pale,
Went doon upon his knee:
'O Ladye, hear the waesome tale
That must be told to thee!
'For five lang years, and five lang years,
I coorted thee by looks;
By nods and winks, by smiles and tears,
As I had read in books.
'For ten lang years, O weary hours!
I coorted thee by signs;
By sending game, by sending flowers,
By sending Valentines.
'For five lang years, and five lang years,
I have dwelt in the far countrie,
Till that thy mind should be inclined
Mair tenderly to me.
'Now thirty years are gane and past,
I am come frae a foreign land:
I am come to tell thee my love at last -
O Ladye, gie me thy hand!'
The ladye she turned not pale nor red,
But she smiled a pitiful smile:
'Sic' a coortin' as yours, my man,' she said
'Takes a lang and a weary while!'
And out and laughed the popinjay,
A laugh of bitter scorn:
'A coortin' done in sic' a way,
It ought not to be borne!'
Wi' that the doggie barked aloud,
And up and doon he ran,
And tugged and strained his chain o' gowd,
All for to bite the man.
'O hush thee, gentle popinjay!
O hush thee, doggie dear!
There is a word I fain wad say,
It needeth he should hear!'
Aye louder screamed that ladye fair
To drown her doggie's bark:
Ever the lover shouted mair
To make that ladye hark:
Shrill and more shrill the popinjay
Upraised his angry squall:
I trow the doggie's voice that day
Was louder than them all!
The serving-men and serving-maids
Sat by the kitchen fire:
They heard sic' a din the parlour within
As made them much admire.
Out spake the boy in buttons
(I ween he wasna thin),
'Now wha will tae the parlour gae,
And stay this deadlie din?'
And they have taen a kerchief,
Casted their kevils in,
For wha will tae the parlour gae,
And stay that deadlie din.
When on that boy the kevil fell
To stay the fearsome noise,
'Gae in,' they cried, 'whate'er betide,
Thou prince of button-boys!'
Syne, he has taen a supple cane
To swinge that dog sae fat:
The doggie yowled, the doggie howled
The louder aye for that.
Syne, he has taen a mutton-bane -
The doggie ceased his noise,
And followed doon the kitchen stair
That prince of button-boys!
Then sadly spake that ladye fair,
Wi' a frown upon her brow:
'O dearer to me is my sma' doggie
Than a dozen sic' as thou!
'Nae use, nae use for sighs and tears:
Nae use at all to fret:
Sin' ye've bided sae well for thirty years,
Ye may bide a wee langer yet!'
Sadly, sadly he crossed the floor
And tirled at the pin:
Sadly went he through the door
Where sadly he cam' in.
'O gin I had a popinjay
To fly abune my head,
To tell me what I ought to say,
I had by this been wed.
'O gin I find anither ladye,'
He said wi' sighs and tears,
'I wot my coortin' sall not be
Anither thirty years
'For gin I find a ladye gay,
Exactly to my taste,
I'll pop the question, aye or nay,
In twenty years at maist.'
poem by Lewis Carroll
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Lang Coortin'
THE ladye she stood at her lattice high,
Wi' her doggie at her feet;
Thorough the lattice she can spy
The passers in the street,
"There's one that standeth at the door,
And tirleth at the pin:
Now speak and say, my popinjay,
If I sall let him in."
Then up and spake the popinjay
That flew abune her head:
"Gae let him in that tirls the pin:
He cometh thee to wed."
O when he cam' the parlour in,
A woeful man was he!
"And dinna ye ken your lover agen,
Sae well that loveth thee?"
"And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir,
That have been sae lang away?
And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir?
Ye never telled me sae."
Said - "Ladye dear," and the salt, salt tear
Cam' rinnin' doon his cheek,
"I have sent the tokens of my love
This many and many a week.
"O didna ye get the rings, Ladye,
The rings o' the gowd sae fine?
I wot that I have sent to thee
Four score, four score and nine."
"They cam' to me," said that fair ladye.
"Wow, they were flimsie things!"
Said - "that chain o' gowd, my doggie to howd,
It is made o' thae self-same rings."
"And didna ye get the locks, the locks,
The locks o' my ain black hair,
Whilk I sent by post, whilk I sent by box,
Whilk I sent by the carrier?"
"They cam' to me," said that fair ladye;
"And I prithee send nae mair!"
Said - "that cushion sae red, for my doggie's head,
It is stuffed wi' thae locks o' hair."
"And didna ye get the letter, Ladye,
Tied wi' a silken string,
Whilk I sent to thee frae the far countrie,
A message of love to bring?"
"It cam' to me frae the far countrie
Wi' its silken string and a';
But it wasna prepaid," said that high-born maid,
"Sae I gar'd them tak' it awa'."
"O ever alack that ye sent it back,
It was written sae clerkly and well!
Now the message it brought, and the boon that it sought,
I must even say it mysel'."
Then up and spake the popinjay,
Sae wisely counselled he.
"Now say it in the proper way:
Gae doon upon thy knee!"
The lover he turned baith red and pale,
Went doon upon his knee:
"O Ladye, hear the waesome tale
That must be told to thee!
"For five lang years, and five lang years,
I coorted thee by looks;
By nods and winks, by smiles and tears,
As I had read in books.
"For ten lang years, O weary hours!
I coorted thee by signs;
By sending game, by sending flowers,
By sending Valentines.
"For five lang years, and five lang years,
I have dwelt in the far countrie,
Till that thy mind should be inclined
Mair tenderly to me.
"Now thirty years are gane and past,
I am come frae a foreign land:
I am come to tell thee my love at last -
O Ladye, gie me thy hand!"
The ladye she turned not pale nor red,
But she smiled a pitiful smile:
"Sic' a coortin' as yours, my man," she said
"Takes a lang and a weary while!"
And out and laughed the popinjay,
A laugh of bitter scorn:
"A coortin' done in sic' a way,
It ought not to be borne!"
Wi' that the doggie barked aloud,
And up and doon he ran,
And tugged and strained his chain o' gowd,
All for to bite the man.
"O hush thee, gentle popinjay!
O hush thee, doggie dear!
There is a word I fain wad say,
It needeth he should hear!"
Aye louder screamed that ladye fair
To drown her doggie's bark:
Ever the lover shouted mair
To make that ladye hark:
Shrill and more shrill the popinjay
Upraised his angry squall:
I trow the doggie's voice that day
Was louder than them all!
The serving-men and serving-maids
Sat by the kitchen fire:
They heard sic' a din the parlour within
As made them much admire.
Out spake the boy in buttons
(I ween he wasna thin),
"Now wha will tae the parlour gae,
And stay this deadlie din?"
And they have taen a kerchief,
Casted their kevils in,
For wha will tae the parlour gae,
And stay that deadlie din.
When on that boy the kevil fell
To stay the fearsome noise,
"Gae in," they cried, "whate'er betide,
Thou prince of button-boys!"
Syne, he has taen a supple cane
To swinge that dog sae fat:
The doggie yowled, the doggie howled
The louder aye for that.
Syne, he has taen a mutton-bane -
The doggie ceased his noise,
And followed doon the kitchen stair
That prince of button-boys!
Then sadly spake that ladye fair,
Wi' a frown upon her brow:
"O dearer to me is my sma' doggie
Than a dozen sic' as thou!
"Nae use, nae use for sighs and tears:
Nae use at all to fret:
Sin' ye've bided sae well for thirty years,
Ye may bide a wee langer yet!"
Sadly, sadly he crossed the floor
And tirled at the pin:
Sadly went he through the door
Where sadly he cam' in.
"O gin I had a popinjay
To fly abune my head,
To tell me what I ought to say,
I had by this been wed.
"O gin I find anither ladye,"
He said wi' sighs and tears,
"I wot my coortin' sall not be
Anither thirty years
"For gin I find a ladye gay,
Exactly to my taste,
I'll pop the question, aye or nay,
In twenty years at maist."
poem by Lewis Carroll from Phantasmagoria and Other Poems
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Meeting
After so long an absence
At last we meet agin:
Does the meeting give us pleasure,
Or does it give us pain?
The tree of life has been shaken,
And but few of us linger now,
Like the prophets two or three berries
In the top of the uppermost bough.
We cordially greet each other
In the old, familiar tone;
And we think, though we do not say it,
How old and gray he is grown!
We speak of a Merry Christmas
And many a Happy New Year;
But each in his heart is thinking
Of those that are not here.
We speak of friends and their fortunes,
And of what they did and said,
Till the dead alone seem living,
And the living alone seem dead.
And at last we hardly distinguish
Between the ghosts and the guests;
And a mist and shadow of sadness
Steals over our merriest jests.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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At The Close
To Thee, dear God of Mercy, both appeal,
Who straightway sound the call to arms. Thou know'st;
And that black spot in each embattled host,
Spring of the blood-stream, later wilt reveal.
Now is it red artillery and white steel;
Till on a day will ring the victor's boast,
That 'tis Thy chosen towers uppermost,
Where Thy rejected grovels under heel.
So in all times of man's descent insane
To brute, did strength and craft combining strike,
Even as a God of Armies, his fell blow.
But at the close he entered Thy domain,
Dear God of Mercy, and if lion-like
He tore the fall'n, the Eternal was his Foe.
poem by George Meredith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Elizabeth
Elizabeth, it surely is most fit
[Logic and common usage so commanding]
In thy own book that first thy name be writ,
Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;
And I have other reasons for so doing
Besides my innate love of contradiction;
Each poet - if a poet - in pursuing
The muses thro' their bowers of Truth or Fiction,
Has studied very little of his part,
Read nothing, written less - in short's a fool
Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,
Being ignorant of one important rule,
Employed in even the theses of the school-
Called - I forget the heathenish Greek name
[Called anything, its meaning is the same]
"Always write first things uppermost in the heart."
poem by Edgar Allan Poe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Joy of Lovemaking
The mind’s flight eases the body
As it heats up every sensual parts
Then the craving begins to defy
The makings of a nurtured mind
To explore, it’s a jungle out there
Anyone can mimic a tiger’s roar
So when the gate opens, let it in
For the best of it has yet to come.
When flesh’s endurance encased
Its motions could make one flies
If there is heaven, it is here now
But its beauty won’t last forever
So take its desirous contemplation
To the uppermost level of ecstasy
If one prefers it as the “7th heaven”
Let there be till their flight is over
Fiction cannot substitute real
But if the heart longs for another
In an empty place of spaced time
It clinches thirst for temporal joy!
poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Misconception
Misconception,
Love, peace, unity;
Miscarriage!
But, let the carriage carry you home.
And, with your courage.
Voyage,
Overworked,
Geometry,
Slip,
Top,
Age, voyage, page, stage, sage, wage! !
At Gilgo Beach;
Of the 51st Edition,
Nude, nudge!
Shaking,
Gathers,
Of the uppermost bough;
The concept of a wondering mind,
The concept of love and peace,
Express, expressed!
Like rats and bats,
One's, once!
Sleepless nights,
To the end,
The end of it,
Hard days,
At the end,
Bad days! !
The toughts of life and the taught of life;
And, finally, to die like a street dog.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Purifier
Water for shower washes away bodily dirt
Drinking water washes away dirt of body’s internal organs
And cleanses blood
Tears washes away dirt of mind
Thus teardrops carry away sins of all kind
And make people good
And give them the power to control mood.
From the lowermost paradise
Breeze will be blown sometimes
In the uppermost hell
So the sinners living there will be able to cry
And become good people
That’s why they will be forgiven someday or other
But the sinners of other hells
Will not be able to shed tears
Because of extreme hot weather
So they will be punished forever and ever.
poem by Asif Andalib
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dishonesty Is Given To Get And Taken
Too many are dishonest.
And living amongst themselves with it.
With a doing of this playfully,
And encouraged to remain children unfit.
To relish their immaturity and 'thick-headedness'.
Too many are dishonest.
And prepared to lie and cheat.
As witnessed by those much younger,
Practicing false beliefs...
They too one day will teach.
Too many are dishonest.
Thinking it 'cool' to fool and deceive.
And too many have grown older,
Without integrity or identities...
To leave,
Future generations...
With a solid effectiveness respected,
As a qualifying priority.
They should expect this from others...
As it is given to get and taken as received.
But this perception is not uppermost,
In minds hosting floating boats...
Circling until their throats are choked!
Since,
Dishonesty...
Is given to get,
And taken...
To receive!
Dis-honesty...
Is given to get,
And taken...
To receive!
With a feeling to fullfill a need.
Dishonesty...
Is given to get,
And taken...
To receive!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Her Praise
SHE is foremost of those that I would hear praised.
I have gone about the house, gone up and down
As a man does who has published a new book,
Or a young girl dressed out in her new gown,
And though I have turned the talk by hook or crook
Until her praise should be the uppermost theme,
A woman spoke of some new tale she had read,
A man confusedly in a half dream
As though some other name ran in his head.
She is foremost of those that I would hear praised.
I will talk no more of books or the long war
But walk by the dry thorn until I have found
Some beggar sheltering from the wind, and there
Manage the talk until her name come round.
If there be rags enough he will know her name
And be well pleased remembering it, for in the old days,
Though she had young men's praise and old men's blame,
Among the poor both old and young gave her praise.
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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