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Gypsy Tinker's unmask face
The old man is travelling along the road and his menders of pots and pans.
Besides money he collects meals as goodwill from the goody-goodies to his starving family.
There are leakages in his pots and pans but he neglects to mend them.
Whoever comes to his shack?
Wholeheartedly who agrees his plight?
If the Nobel prize they decided to grant for a spontaneous smile?
The priority should go to this unsophisticated soul.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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You cook vegetable soup
You cook vegetable soup
and I look at you
while you cut green beans,
carrots, onions, celery, parsley
and tomatoes into two pots.
There are herbs, spices
and pepper that you are scattering
and two types of soup powder
that you throw in
and the pots steam and buzz
while I am washing the dishes
and the smell
makes me hungry
and I wonder
if the soup
are going to taste as good
as it smells.
We drink tee
and there’s medicine
that you give for flu
to me
and it’s great
to be with you
to read the look
in your beautiful eyes.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Drought and famine..
The drought here is intolerable,
Find no water in few weeks,
The desert is cooler at night,
Moving reptiles water slight,
Power suit human talk climate,
Change and the glacier afloat,
Hearing that feel thirstier,
tipping of cigarette buds, hotter,
Throwing the cover of sweets,
Arrival of tiny pests, uninvited,
Drought in the middle of the mall,
In the middle of the town and hall,
Where the Chinese pots are kept,
All in a row in soil are the plants,
Silent roots dig no more for water,
Drought is declared in the pots,
Where human find no time,
To water these pitiful shrubs,
Where human fail to see the living,
Waiting for water with hope,
Where human throw the empty bottles,
Those collect the trash keep the pots clean.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Cast away care
Cast away care; he that loves sorrow
Lengthens not a day, nor can buy to-morrow ;
Money is trash, and he that will spend it,
Let him drink merrily, fortune will send it.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, oh, ho !
Play it off stiffly, we may not part so.
Wine is a charm, it heats the blood too,
Cowards it will arm, if the wine be good too ;
Quickens the wit, and makes the back able,
Scorns to submit to the watch or constable.
Merrily, &c.
Pots fly about, give us more liquor,
Brothers of a rout, our brains will flow quicker ;
Empty the cask, score up, we care not ;
Fill all the pots again, drink on, and spare not.
Merrily, &c.
poem by Thomas Dekker
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Saint Patty s Day Poem -Enjoy
LEPRECHAUN (3/16/12)
The leprechauns are singing and dancing
Around their pot of gold
For they have a story that must be told.
Of a man who they called St. pat
Who through his fear pulled in the welcome mat.
He knew that the wee people were mischievous beings
And all they done he was seeing.
They would play jokes on all around
Although they couldn't be seen, and didn't make a sound.
They would go to the nearest inns
And spike the ales and the gin.
Once they saw that everyone was polluted
They would go in and their purses would be looted.
This was how they could fill their pots of gold
Or at least that's how the story was told.
They knew that most would tend to forget
And this was the easiest way yet.
Being robbed and not recalling
And their wives would start their balling.
Now if one of them could be caught
To their pots of gold, that person must be brought
But On this pot of gold there was a spell cast
That if taken- it would not last
It would be spent drinking the night away
And in the morning, the leprechauns would once again play.
So enjoy this ST. PATTY S day
For in their hands the gold will stay.
poem by Louis Rams
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Don't break your shins on your neighbors' pots.
If ifs and ans were pots and pans, there'd be no trade for tinkers.
You may cook in small pots aw well as in large ones.
Prajapati or prajapita
Can potter ever slaughter?
His own work as creator
He is called father of mankind
And go on making shapes of different kind
He is also known as clay maker
Another name given for him as "prajapita"* or creator
As almighty creates entire human race
You may find with him pots of different shapes
Not all the pots survive
As not all the children live
In this world and meet the fate
Some may come early and some may come late
You will not find single person of same appearance
Even if found it will be one in million chance
You can never find identical nose and face
Where as there is limited scope to make it from base
How can we forget our own creator?
Who has given us everything as our real mentor?
If all his creations survive successfully
Then there won't be any place left to love peacefully
Many pots break during process
Many break while finding access
Yet some of them come out to find the world
Remind us of power that has been lying in his fold
Not only he is known for his creative work
But exclaimed for exemplary show pieces work
His hand moves without any measurement
To be precise and near to precision instrument
I love to praise his ability to shape
He has no thesis or roads on the map
It is purely human instinct to perfection
The art pieces speak of excellent action
* Prajapati or prajapita…. The father of human race
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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If ifs and ands were pots and pans there'd be no work for tinkers.
A potter eats from a broken piece of his pots.