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Life On Mercury
If it had not once existed,
Could something without a history...
Become dependent permanently,
To fix and stick as if cement.
If it had not once existed,
Could respect and discipline...
Find their way into our minds,
And stayed forever as if meant!
Anything is possible,
Like life on Mercury.
A planet no one mentions.
But who knows what there breathes?
Anything is possible,
Like life on Mercury.
A planet no one mentions.
But who knows what there breathes?
If it had not once existed,
Could respect and discipline...
Find their way into our minds,
And stayed forever as if meant!
Anything is possible,
Like life on Mercury.
A planet no one mentions.
But who knows what there breathes?
Everyday something new is claimed and named.
Everyday something new created,
Comes and remains.
And everyday we find something new to entertain.
If it had not once existed,
Could something without a history...
Become dependent permanently,
To fix and stick as if cement.
Anything is possible,
If it's craved as a sentiment.
Anything is possible,
If it's wanted bad enough to begin.
If it had not once existed,
Could respect and discipline...
Find their way into our minds,
And stayed forever as if meant!
Anything is possible,
Like life on Mercury.
A planet no one mentions.
But who knows what there breathes?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I told Warren if he mentions Prop. 13 one more time, he has to do 500 push-ups.
quote by Arnold Schwarzenegger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Whenever a critic mentions the salary of an actor, I'm thinking, He's not talking about the movie.
quote by Harold Ramis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Expectations Not Anticipated
Don't address it.
That's the easiest way,
Something that is needed to be said...
Never gets delivered.
And keeping an intention meant,
With a content...
Eventually becomes meaningless.
Until someone mentions,
They have been waiting...
With expectations not anticipated.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Some Things Just Get Too Old
To tap into one's energy,
With a sapping of most of it away...
To then say how distant someone has become,
With a leaving of nothing getting done...
By those voicing their complaints,
Should expose to anyone passing judgement...
Just who had been doing all the work.
AND promoting those to sit...
WITH a getting paid to do it no one mentions.
Some things just get too old but not quick enough!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Coltrane came to New Orleans one day and he was talking about the jazz scene. And Coltrane mentions that the problem with jazz was that there were too few groups.
quote by Branford Marsalis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Old Woman Beside The Nipa Hut...
as i walk away
she calls my name
i am not related to her
and exactly
i do not her too,
she calls for help
and mentions names of
his children
and her husband long dead
years ago
i walk faster and not looking back
and i thank myself for all these contentments
everything is fair
nothing diminishes me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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So this is why I'm always say happy that somebody mentions Rwanda, because behind Rwanda, we have Africa.
quote by Boutros Boutros Ghali
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I read the papers every day just to discover if one mentions Anna Held.
Tomes
There is a section in my library for death
and another for Irish history,
a few shelves for the poetry of China and Japan,
and in the center a row of imperturbable reference books,
the ones you can turn to anytime,
when the night is going wrong
or when the day is full of empty promise.
I have nothing against
the thin monograph, the odd query,
a note on the identity of Chekhov's dentist,
but what I prefer on days like these
is to get up from the couch,
pull down The History of the World,
and hold in my hands a book
containing nearly everything
and weighing no more than a sack of potatoes,
eleven pounds, I discovered one day when I placed it
on the black, iron scale
my mother used to keep in her kitchen,
the device on which she would place
a certain amount of flour,
a certain amount of fish.
Open flat on my lap
under a halo of lamplight,
a book like this always has a way
of soothing the nerves,
quieting the riotous surf of information
that foams around my waist
even though it never mentions
the silent labors of the poor,
the daydreams of grocers and tailors,
or the faces of men and women alone in single rooms-
even though it never mentions my mother,
now that I think of her again,
who only last year rolled off the edge of the earth
in her electric bed,
in her smooth pink nightgown
the bones of her fingers interlocked,
her sunken eyes staring upward
beyond all knowledge,
beyond the tiny figures of history,
some in uniform, some not,
marching onto the pages of this incredibly heavy book.
poem by Billy Collins
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Tomes
There is a section in my library for death
and another for Irish history,
a few shelves for the poetry of China and Japan,
and in the center a row of imperturbable reference books,
the ones you can turn to anytime,
when the night is going wrong
or when the day is full of empty promise.
I have nothing against
the thin monograph, the odd query,
a note on the identity of Chekhov's dentist,
but what I prefer on days like these
is to get up from the couch,
pull down The History of the World,
and hold in my hands a book
containing nearly everything
and weighing no more than a sack of potatoes,
eleven pounds, I discovered one day when I placed it
on the black, iron scale
my mother used to keep in her kitchen,
the device on which she would place
a certain amount of flour,
a certain amount of fish.
Open flat on my lap
under a halo of lamplight,
a book like this always has a way
of soothing the nerves,
quieting the riotous surf of information
that foams around my waist
even though it never mentions
the silent labors of the poor,
the daydreams of grocers and tailors,
or the faces of men and women alone in single rooms-
even though it never mentions my mother,
now that I think of her again,
who only last year rolled off the edge of the earth
in her electric bed,
in her smooth pink nightgown
the bones of her fingers interlocked,
her sunken eyes staring upward
beyond all knowledge,
beyond the tiny figures of history,
some in uniform, some not,
marching onto the pages of this incredibly heavy book.
poem by William Taylor Collins
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Play not on me
.
Mere the name of you
When someone mentions
Why should I go berserk?
The very face of you
Even after you left me,
Why should I hang on?
The seat you sat on,
Whenever I cross over,
Tells me your presence. Why?
You’re no more obliged.
I’m no more privileged.
Yet I pursue the mirage. Why?
The more you neglect
The more you titillate.
I grow desperate. Why?
You know- why?
You want to be
Merely a spectator.
You know- why?
You want only me
To play and amuse.
Play with me
But not play on me.
24.09.99
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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George Foreman is easier and has the bigger name and have you noticed that Foreman never calls me out or ever mentions my name? He is afraid of me like most fighters are and most people want to forget about Larry Holmes, like he never ever existed.
quote by Larry Holmes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Causalities of Love
Casualties of love:
The broken heart,
The weary soul that sinks,
The formerly happy rhythms
Of a positive life
Turning slow and morose.
If a friend
Mentions he saw you
And says her face is thin
And the brightness
Of her eyes
Has faded
Into tears of regret,
My own sadness
Will become intense.
One day,
We’ll meet
Simply for tea,
And I’ll bring you flowers.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Benefits of a Suppression
As a show of unified belligerence,
They defy truth...
And those who speak it!
Coming together as they do,
In a mental collective sickness.
One of consciousness would not believe,
If not witnessed.
It is a torture of sorts.
An oppression they have been taught,
To self inflict.
And they get upset...
Quickly!
If anyone mentions it.
Or assist in its resistance.
This is a brand of slavery,
Without an appearance of a branding done!
And yet accepted by everyone addicted.
For all of the benefits,
Of a suppression they get!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Bright Stars Sing A Song Of Joy
The bright stars sing a song of joy,
they are telling the world when you are coming to me
en continually one of them are jumping,
flowering blue-white in the heaven.
Continually the wind mentions your beautiful name,
softly it whispers our secrets to branches,
it witnesses our being together while it blows
and its pitch dark night
when your teeth glitter while you laugh in joy.
poem by Gert Strydom
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In Your Cave
in your cave
there is no sun
man-made
or superficial
or whatever
and so darkness
reigns
complete darkness
and when he mentions
about shadows
do not believe him
in your cave
there was complete
silence too
and so when he talked
about a dialogue
between two
speakers
do not ever believe him
in your cave
there was no life ever
and when he talked about
death
and numbness and indifference
that was then when i believed him
and i agreed
that indeed that man has his own name
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It Keeps On Hurting
Within every love affair,
there comes a hurting time.
Sometimes it keeps on hurting
until the end of time.
Tears fall on the pillow
where you once rested your head.
The evening shadows
grow longer every day,
since you left with your new love
and went far away.
Now it just keeps on hurting,
every time someone
mentions your name.
It just keeps on hurting
for I’ll never find
someone to replace you.
poem by David Harris
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Goodbye
He had only one vision now,
as he chained himself not to be set free.
He was afraid of living.
No, he did not want anything from world,
or god.
He was not him always. Somebody in him
was watching.
Any gratitude he did not want to expect.
Not obliged anybody.
Wanted to go, but stayed.
Sons and daughters, he loved them –
for not getting cash mentions from them.
Some debts he would never pay back.
It is time for a deep breath of relief.
Empty house, empty soul,
and mind full of hurts.
He wanted to say goodbye.
poem by Satish Verma
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