If you have ploughed with oxen, married a widow and never said a bad word - surely you go to heaven.
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Today... 'The Word
Word of love and the Word made flesh
Word incarnate forever blessed
Word of life and the Word of light
Word of power and Word of might.
Word that was spoken, Word of the Lord
Word of the Law and the Word of God
Word of peace and Word eternal
Word of truth and last Word of all.
Word of wisdom and the Word of healing
Word from heaven, a Word so appealing
Word fulfilling the Word of prophecy
Word of the Spirit and Word of destiny.
Word of exhortation and Word of grace
Word of encouragement and Word of faith
Word of promise and a Word of insight
Word from the beginning and Word of delight.
Word of knowledge and a Word of boldness
Word of peace and the Word of righteousness
Word of the covenant and Word of love
Word of the Father from heaven above.
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box)
The Word
Find the word, understand the word,
Depend on the word;
The word is heaven and space, the word the earth,
The word the universe.
The word is in our ears, the word is on our tongues,
The word the idol.
The word is the holy book, the word is harmony,
The word is music.
The word is magic, the word the Guru.
The word is the body, the word is the spirit, the word is being,
The word Not-being.
The word is man, the word is woman,
The Worshipped Great.
The word is the seen and unseen, the word is the existent
And the non-existent.
Know the word, says Kabir,
The word is All-powerful.
Guilt is not so to the guilty
The one who married as second or second time,
The one having a concubine or is cuckolding.
An eloper, a paramour, an incest sinner,
A widow in love, a widow to wed, or a love
Across the cast and creed, all I abhorred.
The concept would have been different
Had I been involved in any of them.
Guilt is the guilt to one till one commits it.
15.09.2000, Paklm
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet: The Word of God
The Word of God has unrivaled power;
No act of Satan can it antagonize;
God chooses men and time like rain shower;
His chosen sheep, their Master recognize.
The Word of God pervades Heaven and Earth;
It finally triumphs when Doomsday comes;
To get it done, there is no person’s dearth;
Heaven’s reward for upright soul’s handsome.
The Bible tells of future things to come,
And warns and guides the people to live right;
It is not true that God remains quite dumb;
God helps each one, his temptations to fight.
The Word of God cannot go wrong at all;
Satan and his bad angels surely fall.
6-7-2001
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A buxom widow must be married, buried, or cloistered.
Song For Heroes
Captain O’Hare was a mariner brave;
He refused to abandon his ship;
A hero, he sleeps in a watery grave—
And his widow is now Mrs. Bipp,
Haw! Haw!
His widow is now Mrs. Bipp!
Henri Dupont was a fearless young ace;
Five thousand feet up he was hit;
Each year on his grave pretty flowers we place—
And his widow is now Mrs. Schmitt,
Haw! Haw!
His widow is now Mrs. Schmitt!
Corporal Dunn was a volunteer bold;
He plunged in the deadliest fray;
A bayonet thrust laid him out stony cold—
And his widow is now Mrs. Gray,
Haw! Haw!
His widow is now Mrs. Gray!
But Peter McGuck was a cowardly sneak,
Like a hound he remained home in fear;
When fishing one day he fell into the creek—
And his widow is now Mrs. Greer,
Haw! Haw! Haw!
Mrs. William O’Houlihan Greer!
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Black Knight's Song
Knight And Wamba
There came three merry men from south, west, and north,
Ever more sing the roundelay;
To win the Widow of Wycombe forth,
And where was the widow might say them nay?
The first was a knight, and from Tynedale he came,
Ever more sing the roundelay;
And his fathers, God save us, were men of great faine,
And where was the widow might say him nay?
Of his father the laird, of his uncle the squire,
He boasted in rhyme and in roundelay;
She bade him go bask by his sea-coal fire,
For she was the widow would say him nay.
Wamba
The next that came forth, swore by blood and by nails,
Merrily sing the roundelay;
Hur's a gentleman, God wot, and hur's lineage was of Wales,
And where was the widow might say him nay?
Sir David ap Morgan ap Griffith ap Hugh
Ap Tudor ap Rhice, quoth his roundelay;
She said that one widow for so many was too few,
And she bade the Welshman wend his way.
But then next came a yeoman, a yeoman of Kent,
Jollily singing his roundelay;
He spoke to the widow of living and rent,
And where was the widow could say him nay?
Both
So the knight and the squire were both left in the mire,
There for to sing their roundelay;
For a yeoman of Kent, with his yearly rent,
There never was a widow could say him nay.
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Black Widow
I just love my nightmares
I cant wait to sleep
Enjoying all my dreams
Got no regrets
I can be a flash of lightning
Striking down on rocks
Burning down the law
Getting things I never got
Turning the world
Nothing unheard
One night can be more than a day
Just like a black widow
Like a black widow
I cant stand the dreamers
Scared of things that fly
They just have sweet fantasies
And fade and die
Nightmares - are so good, so good
And they always end just when they should
Nightmares are cool, nightmares are cruel
I love the fun and the thrill
Just like a black widow
Like a black widow
Black widow
Just like a black widow
Here comes the morning
And who can deny
Leaving the dream is so hard
I love my nightmares
I await their return
And this time, Im dressed to kill, dressed to kill
Just like a black widow............
song performed by by U. D. O.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Psalm 55
O if I had wings like a dove
I would surely fly away
If I could feel the rain from above
I would live another day
Yet I wander in this rainless place
And death is never far away
If I could only see His face
I would surely live another day
The wind and the storms are all around
And I cry out to God and pray
If I could break free and was not bound
I would surely live another day
I will cast my burden on the Lord
And He shall sustain me
I will lay down and rest in His word
And in His presence I surely shall be
poem by Frank McEleny
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet: Man Sins All Life
I liked to be a saint but could not be,
As I committed sins so easily;
I liked to be a priest which wasn’t easy!
Temptations come to him rather strongly.
I liked to be a ‘brother, ’ “no, ” said mom;
A doctor serves better when not cloistered;
I liked to be a catechist so dumb,
But, got married because I was pestered.
But devils spare not even married men,
And even now, I am a great sinner!
But God shows me how to walk to Heaven;
I know I will become a clear winner.
So, let me be good man God, all my days;
And never go astray from Heaven’s ways.
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Do It Again
(graham russell)
I used to watch you walk away
Till the road you take would bend
I was the man to turn you on
And you knew it after all
Come tomorrow when Im all weary
You would turn me down again
At least thats the way I can remember
(chorus)
Do it again, do it again, do it again
Do it again, do it again, do it again
Every single word you told me got home
Im still thinking about them
Every little secret we should have known
And we cant live without them
You surely started something
You surely gave me something new
(chorus)
And I do think about you each now and then
And each time it gets tighter
From the road I can see the last break
And my heads getting lighter
You surely started something
You surely gave me something...you
(chorus)
You surely started something
You surely gave me something ...you
(chorus)
song performed by by Air Supply
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Autumn
He told his life story to Mrs. Courtly
Who was a widow. 'Let us get married shortly',
He said. 'I am no longer passionate,
But we can have some conversation before it is too late.'
poem by Stevie Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Earth An Epic
Even by bloodshed, which is indefinably superior to gold
Dreams did not become realities-
Only fools do not know that
evolution also is subject to evolution-
** * * * * * * *
When the earth is ploughed with a plough
Only then it becomes a country
When the earth is ploughed with a quill
Then it becomes an epic
If it is not ploughed either with a plough or quill
It is merely just merely earth-
* * * * * * * * * *
24 hours of distance lies from sun to sun
only two hearts of distance lies
from human being to human being-
The sky opening up its pink folds
flying itself in the winds of dawn-
Look! How many riffles of distance lies
From village to war-
poem by Seshendra Sharma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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You Should Have Been The One For Me
Bye my lover! ! !
Bye my friend;
You should have been the one for me,
But you left me and married another man.
Bye my lover! ! !
Bye my friend;
Your should have been the one for me,
But your eyes met another man in the land of your muse.
You should have been the one for me,
And you surely know how much i love you!
For i did my best for you,
Even to back up your school's research work;
But you left me and married another man.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Widow of Massacre
Some said she lost,
None said she crossed,
Nothing was known clear
Something about her was fear.
Everything, though said,
She's a widow of massacre.
If asked, she never say,
because witness you can pay,
She lost hee husband,
Then lost her hand.
Everything, though said,
She's a widow of massacre.
Behind her, there're stories,
Behind stories, there's worries,
Her village was ambushed,
And in bullets, washed.
Everything, though said,
She's a widow of massacre.
She survived the claws of wild,
After death of her single child,
Finally she ran to this village,
Where we paid her homage.
Everything, though said
She's a widow of massacre.
poem by Buyunde Acura Sylivester
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Seed
A seed
A bird had swallowed
While in fruit,
Had fallen in some rocky land
As Bird-droppings,
And sprouted into
A lovely tree,
With massive trunk
And boughs with verdant leaves,
And luscious fruits
As birds built nests
And wayfarers had shade from scorching sun!
A seed
A farmer sowed
In fertile land,
Ploughed by oxen
And sweat of brow
’neath scorching sun,
Did sprout also:
But ceased to grow
And withered
As the rains had failed
That year!
Although in both the cases
Seeds seemed similar,
Why did the farmer’s toil
Didn’t fructify?
Perhaps,
The bird had gulped
The best of fruits with seed
That grew despite the rocky soil!
Perhaps, the farmer’s work
Remained by God
Unblessed!
Man’s selfishness
At times ruins his labor great!
The heart of man matters!
Each seed
That’s sowed on earth
Grows by Heaven’s decree!
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Paddy Murphy's Wake
The priest had been here earlier and the rosary was said
and relatives and friends in single file were offering condolences.
'Sorry for your troubles, ' one by one they said,
bending over Maggie Murphy, silent in her rocker,
a foot or so from Paddy, resplendent in his casket,
the two of them much closer now than they had ever been.
A silent guest of honor, Paddy now had nothing more to say,
waked in aspic, if you will, in front of his gothic fireplace.
But the hour was getting late and still the widow hadn't wept.
Her eyes were swept Saharas and the mourners wanted tears.
They had fields to plow come morning and they needed sleep
but the custom in County Kerry was
no one leaves a wake until the widow weeps.
Fair Maggie could have married any man in Kerry,
according to her mother, who almost every day reminded her of that.
'Maggie, ' she would say, 'you should have married Mickey.
His limp was not that bad, ' but Maggie wouldn't listen.
Instead, she married Paddy, 'that pestilence out walking'
as her mother often called him
even on a Sunday but only after Mass.
Maggie married Paddy the day he scored the only goal
the year that Kerry took the trophy back from Galway.
That goal was no small thing, Paddy would remind us all forever
until one of us would gag and buy him another drink.
That goal, he'd shout, was something historians would one day note,
even if they hadn't yet, and every time he'd mention it,
which was almost daily, Maggie's mother would remind her daughter
that she should have married Mickey and had a better life.
The final time her mother praised poor Mickey,
a screaming match ensued, so loud it woke the rooster
the day before her mother, feverish in bed,
gurgled like a frog and died.
This evening, though, as the wake wore on,
the mourners grew more weary
waiting for the tears the widow hadn't shed.
Restless in his folding chair, Mickey put his bottle down
and rose to give the eulogy it had taken days to memorize.
'Folks, ' he said, 'if all of us would holler down to Paddy now,
he'd holler back, I'm sure, and tell us,
despite the flames and all that smoke, that Kerry
winning over Galway is all that ever mattered, even now.
We'll always have cold Paddy over there to thank for that.'
The Widow Murphy hadn't moved all evening,
but after hearing Mickey speak, she began to rock with fury
as she raised a purple fist, shook it to the heavens
and then began to hum her favorite dirge.
The mourners all joined in and hummed along until
midnight pealed on the mantel clock and then,
as if released by God Himself, the mourners one by one
rose from folding chairs and left in single file, freed
by a hurricane of the Widow Murphy's tears.
poem by Donal Mahoney
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poor Boy’s Christmas
Observe, my child, this pretty scene,
And note the air of pleasure keen
With which the widow’s orphan boy
Toots his tin horn, his only toy.
What need of costly gifts has he?
The widow has nowhere to flee.
And ample noise his horn emits
To drive the widow into fits.
MORAL:
The philosophic mind can see
The uses of adversity.
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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Beast and Man in India
They killed a Child to please the Gods
In Earth's young penitence,
And I have bled in that Babe's stead
Because of innocence.
I bear the sins of sinful men
That have no sin of my own,
They drive me forth to Heaven's wrath
Unpastured and alone.
I am the meat of sacrifice,
The ransom of man's guilt,
For they give my life to the altar-knife
Wherever shrine is built.
The Goat.
Between the waving tufts of jungle-grass,
Up from the river as the twilight falls,
Across the dust-beclouded plain they pass
On to the village walls.
Great is the sword and mighty is the pen,
But over all the labouring ploughman's blade--
For on its oxen and its husbandmen
An Empire's strength is laid.
The Oxen.
The torn boughs trailing o'er the tusks aslant,
The saplings reeling in the path he trod,
Declare his might--our lord the Elephant,
Chief of the ways of God.
The black bulk heaving where the oxen pant,
The bowed head toiling where the guns careen,
Declare our might--our slave the Elephant,
And servant of the Queen.
The Elephant.
Dark children of the mere and marsh,
Wallow and waste and lea,
Outcaste they wait at the village gate
With folk of low degree.
Their pasture is in no man's land,
Their food the cattle's scorn;
Their rest is mire and their desire
The thicket and the thorn.
But woe to those that break their sleep,
And woe to those that dare
To rouse the herd-bull from his keep,
The wild boar from his lair!
Pigs and Buffaloes.
The beasts are very wise,
Their mouths are clean of lies,
They talk one to the other,
Bullock to bullock's brother
Resting after their labours,
Each in stall with his neighbours.
But man with goad and whip,
Breaks up their fellowship,
Shouts in their silky ears
Filling their soul with fears.
When he has ploughed the land,
He says: "They understand."
But the beasts in stall together,
Freed from the yoke and tether,
Say as the torn flanks smoke:
"Nay, 'twas the whip that spoke."
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Earth An Epic
Even by bloodshed, which is indefinably superior to gold
Dreams did not become realities-
Only fools do not know that
evolution also is subject to evolution-
** * * * * * * *
When the earth is ploughed with a plough
Only then it becomes a country
When the earth is ploughed with a quill
Then it becomes an epic
If it is not ploughed either with a plough or quill
It is merely just merely earth-
* * * * * * * * * *
24 hours of distance lies from sun to sun
only two hearts of distance lies
from human being to human being-
The sky opening up its pink folds
flying itself in the winds of dawn-
Look! How many riffles of distance lies
From village to war-
poem by Seshendra Sharma Seshendra Sharma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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