It is bad to get old, for one goes to bed grumbling.
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Bring Your Happiness Here
When you think about what is right!
Does it keep you up through the night?
Are you feeling your light go dim...
And you're afraid of the darkness,
Moving in?
Oh babe!
Oh babe!
Grit your teeth,
And keep your lips shut tight!
Oh babe!
Oh babe!
Go home and lock all your doors...
And relax your mind tonight!
When you see that things are falling apart,
And in your heart you want it to come...
To a stop!
And politicians seem to lie everyday.
You don't know what to believe,
Or want to hear what they say!
But,
Oh babe!
Oh babe!
Grit your teeth,
And keep your lips shut tight!
Oh babe!
Oh babe!
Go home and lock all your doors...
And relax your mind tonight!
Oh babe!
Oh babe!
Enjoy the moment for what it is.
Oh babe!
Oh babe!
Don't spend another second squeezing out,
More...
Of your charity tears!
No babe!
Oh babe!
Enjoy the moment for what it is.
No babe!
Oh babe!
Remove all that grumbling...
Get up!
Get out and live.
Oh babe!
Oh babe!
Get up.
Get out.
And bring your happiness here!
Oh babe!
Oh babe!
Get up.
Get out.
And bring your happiness here!
Oh babe!
Oh babe!
Remove all that grumbling...
Get up!
Get out and live.
Oh babe!
Remove all that grumbling...
Get up!
Get out and live.
Oh babe!
Get up.
Get out.
And bring your happiness here!
'I would like with you to 'Samba'
Get up.
Get out.
And bring your happiness here!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Grumbling is the death of love.
quote by Marlene Dietrich
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The grumbling mother-in-law forgets that she once was a bride.
He ne'er did a gude darg that gaed grumbling about it.
Grumbling and carping are the muscles of the weak.
The moon tonight
The moon tonight--
I even miss
her grumbling.
Translated by Robert Hass
poem by Kobayashi Issa
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A wheel not greased will creak. [Those who are not properly paid will not work without grumbling.]
Him, who incessantly laughs in the street, you may commonly hear grumbling in his closet.
quote by Johann Kaspar Lavater
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Say to all small and great, and that often, that fully, quickly and willingly, without grumbling and contradiction, they do all your commands that are not against God.
quote by Robert Grosseteste
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Some people are always grumbling because roses have thorns. I am thankful that thorns have roses.
quote by Alphonse Karr
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Some people are always grumbling because roses have thorns; I am thankful that thorns have roses.
quote by Alphonse Karr
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hand In Hand
i like to be formal with you
so we walk hand in hand in the park.
more civil, we go just there
talking, not the kissing
and the hugging, for that would
go beyond the norms of
simple acceptable intentions.
but look at you, you are lonely still
you dress your face with that
grumbling look of an old ass hole.
tonight we go walking again
under the moon under the stars
we stop under the big tree
we'll do what makes us free
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Life's Precious Things
My hopes burn out, desires rot
I’m never happy with what I got
A grumbling heart, undying pain
“It’s unfair, it’s wrong”, I always complain!
What I’ve got has no value for me
Easy gotten, they’re gotten free
What I haven’t is what matters most
Run as I do chasing its ghost!
When I stop the run, where the journey ends
I lament my follies but can’t make amends
They were always there, waiting in the wings
I never cared to find, life’s precious things!
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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All That I Hear From The Rain At Dawn
all that i hear from the rain at dawn
when in the usualness of
waking up early
the mind begins what it must do
is this grumbling of things that always leave us
why people do not stay
why this world rotates and tilts
why you are left in the corner of the door
always waiting
for someone to return back to your arms again
when the years have dimmed into some rotten memories
into dust into air
and your face has become nothing but an empty
space in one of the lonely corners
in your heart
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Five minutes ago...
you toddled up
slapped my face
stumbling
grumbling
running race
football jumper
muddy shoes
teeth that loosened
legs that grew
homemade bow
brand new shoes
not worn-out yet
underdaks the ones
that stretched
cotton socks
jeans that fit
it seems 5 minutes
where did you go?
NOTE: Also on this page: http: //www.mmbpublishing.com/MothersDayPoems.html
poem by Frances Macaulay Forde
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The Door's Grief
ah, the door's grief is not really brief,
it has been there since the hinges were fixed,
though it does not sound like an old man
grumbling, though its creaking sound
is hidden on a dropp of mechanical
oil,
there are those who still slam it
and out of too much fear
its grief lies hidden continually
on every closing
when you open it, it gives a respectable smile
yet you fail to understand
what was suppressed from what was not so valiantly expressed
there is no word for this
even the door cannot describe it
till this moment
when you close it again and again
as it becomes
another wall of the house again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Seat
Wet ancient beards saw
The seat of being
As a muscular davenport
Encircled by a dome of ribs.
Their thunder was the entrails
Looping below. Love was sated
In the loins, it made perfect sense,
And the earth being flat
Chained all the stars to the ground.
Grumbling gods determined
Fate, had walking-sticks for sex parts,
Having made all the things.
But in spurts revolutions came,
Meeting steely resistance,
Falling heads, a tumult of wrath,
That given time
Became self-evident.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Summer Storm
it came stamping down the street
one heaving June (so thick my
tongue could slice the air)
complaining all the way,
grumbling, gargling each dropp as
it pelted my shoes with muffled joy,
and a little bit of
god would show as he parted the
sky in a sudden quick
(just to let us know he's still around)
the clouds all
coughed til their summered
juice spilled on cracked asphalt -
which never said thankyou.
with each deep breath of every cloud i
sighed and groaned for the mad
freedom of the shimmering storm
not wishing for the power of
the air, but just to be a piece
of rain and splatter love on the
sidewalk.
(June 9,1965)
poem by Donna Ialongo
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Controlling
There is no consoling,
Those who are controlling.
Sometimes experiences they have had...
Gives them a certain insight.
Dictating choices made.
With no need for questions to be asked.
Some are wise beyond their years.
Some make decisions that bring them tears.
But whatever it is and the task...
It has to be done their way!
With a returned mumble grumbling,
That does not last!
Perhaps it is a point to prove.
With ultimately leaving,
Nothing for anyone else to say.
Advice given to them will be heard.
And that may be detected...
On another given day!
There is no consoling,
Those who are controlling.
And the ones who know them best...
Think of them as loving folks.
Knowing they will do what needs to be done.
Seldom with complaint.
Rarely with protest!
Maybe they can be a bit more overprotective.
But also...
One will find them to have little time for themselves.
Finding them quite dependable!
And sometimes pests...
Who are never at rest!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I Wonder About The Cicada That You See
i know that this morning
you walk on the park
on a sunny day and it
is, of course, hot
and then you see this cicada
and i wonder if it is
singing
or grumbling
on this very hot sunny day by the park
i wonder if the cicada stares
at you
i wonder if you talk to the cicada
i wonder if
something happens that you
cannot just forget
about the cicada
i wonder if everything is unfinished
images half-printed
i wonder if at all, to whatever we see and feel and
talk about i wonder if
there must be conclusions
i wonder if
we must limit only to our own observations
leave it that way
like a bat hanging on the wall
and then
just that, whether if flies away or drops dead
you say
i do not honestly know and
i have really nothing to say
i like it with you,
something unfinished, and perhaps that is the beauty in you
this suspended suspense
suspenseful till nowhere
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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