The fields were fruitful and starving men moved on the roads. The granaries were full and the children of the poor grew up rachitic.
quote by John Steinbeck
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
They are starving for happiness
They are starving for happiness
Their belly is full of mess
Joy is their food
Without it their dead
Starving all way of hunger
Cry in every saw they looked
Fingers are in cold, shivering
They are starving for happiness
Mind looked in every crying eye
Drops let fall. As they saw
No mistakes done, no wonder
They are starving for happiness
Open hair, all scenes amazing
No soft blow of air, nothing
They can’t survive more
They are starving for happiness
Heart full of sorrows, no glow
Hands red, can’t move long
Lot of hunger, full of blood
They are starving for happiness
poem by Monica kulal
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My Healer Baby
MY HEALER BABY
Dating is a white butterfly,
Its separations are black,
My soul is a sad child
Grew in charity with lack.
My graceful poor baby,
Who dream is wounded, baby.
Looking at stony roads,
My hopes grew into roads.
I burnt, my ashes grew,
Into a flower of luckless dreams.
A companion to the dream, my baby,
Whose joy is wounded, my baby.
Love is water in the stream,
Has run beside you flowing.
Seeing your weak state also
Hasn't gone a moment of waving
From pains suffers, my healer baby,
Whose faith seems victorious, my baby.
poem by Uktamoy Khaldorova
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We Are The Children
We are the children of the sun
and the stars.
We are the children of the hippies,
who were strung out on peace and love,
and heroin when they conceived us.
We are the children of alcoholics,
conceived in blackouts.
We are the children of the punk rockers,
screwed into this world on beer and anger.
We are the children of the poor,
raised on welfare and food stamps,
and government housing.
We are the children of the middle class,
borrowing from the government to get a college degree,
to get a job with a pension from corporate amerika,
who has already fired our fathers and mothers,
before they could retire.
We are the children of the rich,
who, like our fathers and mothers before us,
care only about obtaining more wealth.
We are the children of the doctors, dentists,
and lawyers, who care more about their Porsches
and Mercedes than they do their patients.
We are the children of the American dream,
roaming the streets with a blanket,
and a garbage bag full of aluminum cans.
We are the children, who now have the children,
and we hope they won't learn racism from us,
like we learned it from our moms and dads.
We are the children who can change the inevitable,
alter our destiny, change the future from futile to
fruitful.
Amen.
poem by Mikel K Poet
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An Ending Of The Sad Story
it is such sad history
that even I am noting have
the strength to describe it
our country star, moved to the city
and were missing fresh air,
one meadow, water and fields,
not mentioning forests which
we seated - a long time ago when
not yet was our children
and this way, we were full of hope,
that will grow out of the star, super star
and the village will get well-deserved
bonuses like the most however,
our country star, moved to the city
and we ran short of words in order
to stop her a village, administrator said,
but alone she came back longing
behind the fresh air, one meadow,
fields and forests which alone we planted.
and now, this sad history isn't already
so sad but... I am pressed for time
entire to describe. I must see to it...
about the star, because again for us
she will splatter...
poem by Maria Barbara Korynt
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Holy Thursday (Experience)
Is this a holy thing to see.
In a rich and fruitful land.
Babes reduced to misery.
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!
And their sun does never shine.
And their fields are bleak & bare.
And their ways are fill'd with thorns
It is eternal winter there.
For where-e'er the sun does shine.
And where-e'er the rain does fall:
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.
poem by William Blake
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Holy Thursday
Is this a holy thing to see
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reduced to misery
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!
And their sun does never shine.
And their fields are bleak & bare.
And their ways are fill'd with thorns.
It is eternal winter there.
For where-e’er the sun does shine,
And where-e’er the rain does fall:
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.
poem by William Blake from Songs of Experience (1794)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop
The summer and autumn had been so wet,
That in winter the corn was growing yet,
'Twas a piteous sight to see all around
The grain lie rotting on the ground.
Every day the starving poor
Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door,
For he had a plentiful last-year's store,
And all the neighbourhood could tell
His granaries were furnish'd well.
At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day
To quiet the poor without delay;
He bade them to his great Barn repair,
And they should have food for the winter there.
Rejoiced such tidings good to hear,
The poor folk flock'd from far and near;
The great barn was full as it could hold
Of women and children, and young and old.
Then when he saw it could hold no more,
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;
And while for mercy on Christ they call,
He set fire to the Barn and burnt them all.
"I'faith 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he,
"And the country is greatly obliged to me,
For ridding it in these times forlorn
Of Rats that only consume the corn."
So then to his palace returned he,
And he sat down to supper merrily,
And he slept that night like an innocent man;
But Bishop Hatto never slept again.
In the morning as he enter'd the hall
Where his picture hung against the wall,
A sweat like death all over him came,
For the Rats had eaten it out of the frame.
As he look'd there came a man from his farm--
He had a countenance white with alarm;
"My Lord, I open'd your granaries this morn,
And the Rats had eaten all your corn."
Another came running presently,
And he was pale as pale could be,
"Fly! my Lord Bishop, fly," quoth he,
"Ten thousand Rats are coming this way,...
The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"
"I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he,
"'Tis the safest place in Germany;
The walls are high and the shores are steep,
And the stream is strong and the water deep."
Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away,
And he crost the Rhine without delay,
And reach'd his tower, and barr'd with care
All the windows, doors, and loop-holes there.
He laid him down and closed his eyes;...
But soon a scream made him arise,
He started and saw two eyes of flame
On his pillow from whence the screaming came.
He listen'd and look'd;... it was only the Cat;
And the Bishop he grew more fearful for that,
For she sat screaming, mad with fear
At the Army of Rats that were drawing near.
For they have swum over the river so deep,
And they have climb'd the shores so steep,
And up the Tower their way is bent,
To do the work for which they were sent.
They are not to be told by the dozen or score,
By thousands they come, and by myriads and more,
Such numbers had never been heard of before,
Such a judgment had never been witness'd of yore.
Down on his knees the Bishop fell,
And faster and faster his beads did he tell,
As louder and louder drawing near
The gnawing of their teeth he could hear.
And in at the windows and in at the door,
And through the walls helter-skelter they pour,
And down from the ceiling and up through the floor,
From the right and the left, from behind and before,
From within and without, from above and below,
And all at once to the Bishop they go.
They have whetted their teeth against the stones,
And now they pick the Bishop's bones:
They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb,
For they were sent to do judgment on him!
poem by Robert Southey
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unicef**united Nations Interest For Children Of Every Faith
look around, and what do you see
children of all races and creeds
white, yellow, black, olive complexioned too.
don't you realize that they all need you?
look at pictures and read the news
children all over the world
starving and without parents and love.
must they pay for the elders mistakes
must they be the victims of our ignorance.
let us give them what we had as kids.
love, food, affection is all they ask.
look at their faces and think
of your own children and if they would
survive, if they were in their places.
no matter what our beliefs.
we are children of GOD
so let us all do our part.
let us help and love one another
let us all become sister and brother.
don't let our little sisters and brothers starve
open up your minds and your hearts.
give a part of yourself that you
have yet to give
and let these poor children live.
poem by Louis Rams
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A Farewell
Remember me and smile, as smiling too,
I have remembered things that went their way--
The dolls with which I grew too wise to play--
Or over-wise--kissed, as children do,
And so dismissed them; yes, even as yoy
Have done with this poor piece of painted clay--
Not wantonly, but wisely, shall we say?
As one who, haply, tunes his heart anew.
Only I wish her eyes may not be blue,
The eyes of a new angel. Ah! she may
Miss something that I found,--perhaps the clue
To those long silences of yours, which grew
Into one word. And should she not be gay,
Poor lady! Well, she too must have her day.
poem by Charlotte Mary Mew
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Tatooed Drums
Crushed silence dissolving into the milestone of the whole truth
Recognition of emarald paddy fields
River is river
Roads are roads
The path to the path to the path to the path
No shortcut to enlightened
reason
iIlogical contexts creation of meanings
Blue fields in the photographic image of the play-world
I Can't Pretend That I Am Your Superman
I can pretend that I am your
Superman
Because the poor people in our community
Is starving and I need to give them a helping hand
By sharing some of my food with them
I can pretend that I am your superman
Even though we are wasting so much food
That could easily feed the entire community
And it is shame on us
Because we don't think of the others that are poor
In our communities that are starving and living
On the streets of our community
poem by Aldo Kraas
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The Spoon... (In Our Hands)
the spoon in our hands
digs the graves of starving children.
our choice to turn away,
buries those afflicted by war.
when we take first,
without a thought to giving...
we bury the body of god,
among the poor and the homeless.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Its Money That I Love
I dont love the mountains and I dont love the sea and I dont love jesus he never done a thing for me I aint pretty like my sister or smart like my dad or good like my mama its money that i
Its money that I love they say thats money cant buy love in this world but itll get you a half-pound of cocaine and a sixteen-year old girl and a great big long limousine on a hot september
Now that may not be love but it is all right one, two its money that I love wanna kiss you three, four its money that I love used to worry about the poor but I dont worry anymore used to wor
Out the black man now I dont worry about the black man used to worry about the starving children of india you know what I say about the starving children of india ? I say, oh mama i
Oney that I love its money that I love its money that I love
song performed by by Randy Newman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'm Tired
I'm tired
Not i went to sleep at 2: 00 am and had to wake up early
Not like dozing off in class
Not tired like I need more sleep
But tired of bloody wars and useless fighting
Of seeing poor, starving children who look like very fragile twigs
Of those people who are victims of hate crimes beacuse they are
different
Of hearing about children plagued my bruises from abuse
Of racism that is still and probably will always be devouring the world
I'm especially tired because I can't do much to help it all
poem by Leila Mass
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The dual scourge of hunger and malnutrition will be truly vanquished not only when granaries are full, but also when people's basic health needs are met and women are given their rightful role in societies.
quote by Gro Harlem Brundtland
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Daily Prayer
Dear Lord watch over us in all our days,
lead us through the rocky roads
that we encounter in our lives.
Carry us when the roads become too much to bare.
Lead us to a more fruitful life
away the one that almost destroyed us.
Dear Lord help us cross the raging waters
that threaten to drown us in its murky depths.
Dear Lord, do this for us and we will always follow thee.
Amen.
20 March 2010
poem by David Harris
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From The Jesus Papers....
the question we have to ask ourselves
is whether Jesus would be a member of the present
Christian church?
would He choose to be American?
or would He walk the starving roads of Africa?
would He flee with the women and children
in the countries bombed?
would He be a political force,
or a political dissident?
would He be a capitalist, a socialist, or an anarchist?
would He self immoliate with the Tibetan monks
in the name of freedom?
would He carry the bodies out of the mines?
would He hold the addict's hands?
would He call capital punishment justice, or murder?
would He turn His back on the poor, the homeless, and the jobless?
would He be white, black, or brown?
would He condemn? or walk in compassion?
would He hate Muslims, Buddhists, and atheists?
would He be a patriot, or a rebel?
would you let Him in your house?
would He be an illegal immigrant?
would He throw the money changers out of Wall Street?
out of Washington? out of the church?
would you Know Him if you met Him?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Last of The Flock
I
In distant countries have I been,
And yet I have not often seen
A healthy man, a man full grown,
Weep in the public roads, alone.
But such a one, on English ground,
And in the broad highway, I met;
Along the broad highway he came,
His cheeks with tears were wet:
Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;
And in his arms a Lamb he had.
II
He saw me, and he turned aside,
As if he wished himself to hide:
And with his coat did then essay
To wipe those briny tears away.
I followed him, and said, 'My friend,
What ails you? wherefore weep you so?'
--'Shame on me, Sir! this lusty Lamb,
He makes my tears to flow.
To-day I fetched him from the rock;
He is the last of all my flock,
III
'When I was young, a single man,
And after youthful follies ran,
Though little given to care and thought,
Yet, so it was, an ewe I bought;
And other sheep from her I raised,
As healthy sheep as you might see;
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be;
Of sheep I numbered a full score,
And every year increased my store.
IV
'Year after year my stock it grew;
And from this one, this single ewe,
Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
As fine a flock as ever grazed!
Upon the Quantock hills they fed;
They throve, and we at home did thrive:
--This lusty Lamb of all my store
Is all that is alive;
And now I care not if we die,
And perish all of poverty.
V
'Six Children, Sir! had I to feed;
Hard labour in a time of need!
My pride was tamed, and in our grief
I of the Parish asked relief.
They said, I was a wealthy man;
My sheep upon the uplands fed,
And it was fit that thence I took
Whereof to buy us bread.
'Do this: how can we give to you,'
They cried, 'what to the poor is due?'
VI
'I sold a sheep, as they had said,
And bought my little children bread,
And they were healthy with their food
For me--it never did me good.
A woeful time it was for me,
To see the end of all my gains,
The pretty flock which I had reared
With all my care and pains,
To see it melt like snow away--
For me it was a woeful day.
VII
'Another still! and still another!
A little lamb, and then its mother!
It was a vein that never stopped--
Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped.
'Till thirty were not left alive
They dwindled, dwindled, one by one
And I may say, that many a time
I wished they all were gone--
Reckless of what might come at last
Were but the bitter struggle past.
VIII
'To wicked deeds I was inclined,
And wicked fancies crossed my mind;
And every man I chanced to see,
I thought he knew some ill of me:
No peace, no comfort could I find,
No ease, within doors or without;
And, crazily and wearily
I went my work about;
And oft was moved to flee from home,
And hide my head where wild beasts roam.
IX
'Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me,
As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store
I loved my children more and more.
Alas! it was an evil time;
God cursed me in my sore distress;
I prayed, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;
And every week, and every day,
My flock it seemed to melt away.
X
'They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see!
From ten to five, from five to three,
A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;--
And then at last from three to two;
And, of my fifty, yesterday
I had but only one:
And here it lies upon my arm,
Alas! and I have none;--
To-day I fetched it from the rock;
It is the last of all my flock.'
poem by William Wordsworth
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The Seven Sages
The First. My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke
In Grattan's house.
The Second. My great-grandfather shared
A pot-house bench with Oliver Goldsmith once.
The Third. My great-grandfather's father talked of music,
Drank tar-water with the Bishop of Cloyne.
The Fourth. But mine saw Stella once.
The Fifth. Whence came our thought?
The Sixth. From four great minds that hated Whiggery.
The Fifth. Burke was a Whig.
The Sixth. Whether they knew or not,
Goldsmith and Burke, Swift and the Bishop of Cloyne
All hated Whiggery; but what is Whiggery?
A levelling, rancorous, rational sort of mind
That never looked out of the eye of a saint
Or out of drunkard's eye.
The Seventh. All's Whiggery now,
But we old men are massed against the world.
The First. American colonies, Ireland, France and India
Harried, and Burke's great melody against it.
The Second. Oliver Goldsmith sang what he had seen,
Roads full of beggars, cattle in the fields,
But never saw the trefoil stained with blood,
The avenging leaf those fields raised up against it.
The Fourth. The tomb of Swift wears it away.
The Third. A voice
Soft as the rustle of a reed from Cloyne
That gathers volume; now a thunder-clap.
The Sixtb. What schooling had these four?
The Seventh. They walked the roads
Mimicking what they heard, as children mimic;
They understood that wisdom comes of beggary.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Last Dance With Mary Jane
She grew up in a Indiana town,
Had a good lookin' mama who never was around.
But she grew up tall and she grew up right
With them Indiana boys on an Indiana night.
Well she moved down here at the age of eighteen,
She blew the boys away; was more than they'd seen.
I was introduced and we both started groovin'
She said,
song performed by by Tom Petty
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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