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He's weel worthy o' sorrow that buys it wi' his ain siller.
Who Buys My Thought?
Who buys my thought buys not a bottle of honey
But strands of a hopeless future bottled up.
A future that is threatened
By mortal diseases threatened
The future of the African child.
Of eyes that look out and see an endangered tomorrow threatening an already imagined better future.
Who buys my thought buys not a haven of peace and bliss
But of battling thoughts.
Thoughts of what the future would be
The tomorrow of the African child.
Who buys my thought buys a strenous desire for a better tomorrow
A better tomorrow for the African child
Who buys my thought?
poem by Mabel C. Mozie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A fool is happier thinking weel o' himself than a wise man is of others thinking weel o' him.
Sorrow Under Mist
Mist -
Giving wispy vapour to the breath,
Cool calm to autumn afternoons,
A hovering air of mysticism
Over brooding lakes -
Was different here,
Affording company, closeness -
A caring arm around her shoulders.
In the eyes, a once-clear oceanic blue
Wavered under water -
Tears telling torrid truths
She couldn't face -
Like the glowering image in the mirror
You don't see in your mind's eye
Of compensation; delusion.
We see her sitting on the concrete steps
That led down to the dew-laden garden.
She's peering up, sensing her diffuse companion,
Refreshing in its chill; giving crispness
To the stealth of dulling evening.
But the bite of air couldn't lift the sorrow
Of pale youth in love,
Shouldered by a not-in-love and scoffing eye.
Rejection hurt;
Hurts -
Wrenches deep -
Emotion that we can't deny!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
Sorrow Rain
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Who drinks at night, buys himself death, who drinks in bed, buys himself a coffin.
War And Peace.
What is peace if there is
No war, something to fight
Wordy or towards murder,
We cannot but exist
Without war, tired we find
The peace, sometines
A momemnt. sometimes
A long time, till our tiredness
Wears off, then again
It is fight all right,
Like life is made to fight
To finish till the last breath,
While we fight away
To gain some goods, fame,
Our life is never complete
Without great many
Number of wars, battles
Or at least a wordy duel daily.......
Ravikiran Arakkal
poem by Ravikiran Arakkal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet: My Poesy
My Poesy is God-given a gift!
A soothing balm to mind and heart and soul;
No more my ship of life at sea’s adrift;
Bestowed on me has God a better role.
A wordy weapon that can hurt my foes;
A wordy solace that can give mind peace;
A worthy message that can drive out woes;
A ‘destressor’ in distress, giving ease.
My poetry can even others heal!
My poetry has much in-built logic;
My poetry can make all hearts to feel;
My poetry can do wonders/ magic.
My poetry has me endowed mind’s strength,
And I can write quite well for any length.
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Like My Own
There's no sorrow like the sorrow of a martyr'd soul,
There's no sorrow like the sorrow of one who is alone.
There's no sorrow like the sorrow of loving one who's gone,
There's never been a sorrow so much deeper than my own.
Sorrow and joy
Being in poverty is sorrow.
Leaving comfort is sorrow.
Wish withheld is sorrow.
Fear upheld is sorrow.
Contact with unpleasantness is sorrow.
Separation from pleasantness is sorrow.
If there is no shadow
There will be no ray.
Both compliments each other..
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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.'
Address to a Haggis
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak yer place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my airm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dicht,
An cut you up wi ready slicht,
Trenching your gushing entrails bricht,
Like onie ditch;
And then, Oh what a glorious sicht,
Warm-reekin, rich!
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmaist, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.
Is there that ower his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him ower his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit:
Thro bloody flood or field to dash,
Oh how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his wallie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if Ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Something about the women in the genealogical register of Jesus Christ
(after P.W. Buys)
Right next to the Timna road she is in a veil
where small Tamar alluring waits on Juda,
Salmon could not refuse the slut Rahab
when she sneaked to him in the dark night.
Boas was well-off and a big flatterer
when for days he secretly watched Ruth.
I can have contempt on these women as a leader
and still I wonder how He regards me with esteem?
[Reference: "Stamboek" (Genealogical register) by P.W. Buys.]
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Dowie Dens Of Yarrow
Late at e'en, drinking the wine,
And ere they paid the lawing,
They set a combat them between,
To fight it in the dawing.
'Oh, stay at hame, my noble lord,
Oh, stay at hame, my marrow!
My cruel brother will you betray
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.'
'Oh, fare ye weel, my ladye gaye!
Oh, fare ye weel, my Sarah!
For I maun gae, though I ne'er return,
Frae the dowie banks of Yarrow.'
She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair,
As oft she had done before, O;
She belted him with his noble brand,
And he's away to Yarrow.
As he gaed up the Tennies bank,
I wot he gaed wi' sorrow,
Till, down in a den, he spied nine arm'd men,
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.
'Oh, come ye here to part your land,
The bonnie Forest thorough?
Or come ye here to wield your brand,
On the dowie houms of Yarrow?'
'I come not here to part my land,
And neither to beg nor borrow;
I come to wield my noble brand,
On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.
'If I see all, ye're nine to ane;
An that's an unequal marrow:
Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand,
On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.'
Four has he hurt, and five has slain,
On the bloody braes of Yarrow;
Till that stubborn knight came him behind,
And ran his body thorough.
'Gae hame, gae hame, good-brother John,
And tell your sister Sarah,
To come and lift her leafu' lord;
He's sleepin' sound on Yarrow.'
'Yestreen I dream'd a dolefu' dream;
I fear there will be sorrow!
I dream'd I pu'd the heather green,
Wi' my true love, on Yarrow.
'O gentle wind, that bloweth south,
From where my love repaireth,
Convey a kiss from his dear mouth,
And tell me how he fareth!
'But in the glen strive armed men;
They've wrought me dole and sorrow;
They've slain--the comeliest knight they've slain--
He bleeding lies on Yarrow.'
As she sped down yon high, high hill,
She gaed wi' dole and sorrow,
And in the den spied ten slain men,
On the dowie banks of Yarrow.
She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair,
She search'd his wounds all thorough,
She kiss'd them, till her lips grew red,
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.
'Now, haud your tongue, my daughter dear!
For a' this breeds but sorrow;
I'll wed ye to a better lord
Than him ye lost on Yarrow.'
'Oh, haud your tongue, my father dear!
Ye mind me but of sorrow:
A fairer rose did never bloom
Than now lies cropp'd on Yarrow.'
poem by Andrew Lang
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Where There's Smoke, There's Failure
So it goes like this,
Guy meets girl.
Guy buys flowers.
Girl puts them in a vase.
Guy buys a ring.
Girl says yes.
Guy goes to work.
Girl goes to work.
Guy meets girl.
Girl meets guy.
Guy and girl fight about girl and guy.
Guy leaves work for new work and gets an apartment by himself.
Girl moves over seas and doesn't have to work any more because she has a new guy and the old guy has to send her money from his new work.
Guy writes poems.
Guy writes about new girl and old girl and new guy and work and old friends.
Guy wants to stop working and sell poems about the stuff in his life so that he can do other stuff in his life without having to go to real work.
Guy does not yet have high selling collection of poems.
Guy goes to work.
Guy meets girl.
Guy buys flowers.
poem by John W. McEwers
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A man in a bookstore buys a book on loneliness and every woman in the store hits on him. A woman buys a book on loneliness and the store clears out.
quote by Doug Coupland
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Oh, My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose
O my luve is like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June;
My love is like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonny lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only love!
And fare thee weel, awhile!
And I will come again, my love
Though it were ten thousand mile.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Happiness May Come Later....
there is always
a sorrow inside us
do not be shy
say a little
we, men, do not want
to tell about this sorrow
women know that
but just like us they are not saying anything
it is this respect for sorrow
that makes it dignified
well kept,
well minded, but never spoken
when you share it with someone else
what good will it give her?
she has also her own sorrow
inside her
no matter how well dressed
no one wants to take it
it is the dignity of sorrow
to be silent and just be itself
it will always be here
waiting for her sister.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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