Words are the coins making up the currency of sentences, and there are always too many small coins.
quote by Jules Renard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dross coins and wealth
i.
Dross coins and wealth
Dross coins and wealth
Dross coins and wealth
You wallow in them
You think of them again, again
Dross coins and wealth
Dross coins and wealth
Dross coins and wealth
One even grey a blank vacant sterility.
ii.
Round the green hill
The rivulet glideth:
The birds flieth
The owl singeth
How happy is the earth to-day!
iii.
From the small dale
The shepherd voice ariseth
Into a sweet canticle
As the day falleth
As the red dusk cometh
And night in mantle dark
By the next dale is coming
Coming fast:
Coming fast
Like sleep
Sleep
Sleep
Welcome sleep
The night cometh
The skies are darkening:
The stars are twinkling
And one by one
Coming like Morpheus with his wand
Into the next sleep beginning
The eye-lids how drowsy lie
And flicker like torch-lights
Slowly
Slowly
Slowly
Mor pheus is breathing slow
His hot and wanton breath
Over my forehead:
So sleep cometh, welcome sleep.
And dream I with open eyes
And through the night
Look I upon the stars in sleep
And dreaming wake and waking dream again.
poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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Human Resources Bank & the Life's gamble?
The smoldering Man,
He felt its smoothness
When he touched
The new big currency note!
And the sadness
When it's changed into
dirty small notes?
O the annoying!
Harsh bitterness
while swallowing
the rough coins
at hard times?
nimal dunuhinga
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Train No: 6009
Mumbai Mail is a jail
causing me to pass through terrible ordeals
station by every small station,
where its hooting woke no one.
As if to bail me out of my strain
an old money lender with his wife
got in and sat opposite at Wadi.
Snacks galore!
Plate after plate
they were emptying
and driving away the beggars
by waving their hands,
when their harsh words
failed to keep them at bay.
In two, three places
they went out, gave sweet packets
to their kin who touched their feet
and blessed them by snuggling them close.
Poor women with babies,
children singing and dancng,
boys and girls cleaning the coach,
the flesh starved skeletons,
buffeted by illness,
the physically and mentally challenged……
Nobody got a coin or a measly food from them.
Giving alms might be a drain on their resources.
and a stain on their palms.
To cause a flutter in their hearts,
I slid down some coins
in the hands of the misfortune.
But the stubborn man
guided all the beggars towards me.
They dropped coins of high value
into the rivers Krishna and the Tungabadra
murmuring the name of some god.
But their coins didn’t slip down
into the river of suffering humanity.
-----------
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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A Coin Of Little Worth
I have seen and liked
silver coins stamped
in ancient Greece Rome
these usually carry the image
of supposedly great men
kings emperors face in profile
but their deeds were often
treacherous harsh cruel
wars these started for more
wealth slaves land to rule
my favourite coin
is a very small coin
tiny of little worth
that a woman with nothing
once gave at the temple
a very very long time ago
My Lord praised her
for giving all her livelihood
for giving more than
all gathered rich worshippers
combined because
proud rich gave a percentage
from all their amassed profit
a percentage calculated
based upon requirements of
law; but a poor woman gave
everything she had
based upon her own giving heart
it is written how Jesus sat down;
with the treasury chests in view
observing how the crowd dropped
money into the treasury chests;
many rich people were dropping in
many coins however a poor
widow woman dropped in only two
small coins which had very little value;
these coins became known as the widow's mite.
Jesus called his disciples and said to them
"Truly I say to YOU that this poor widow
dropped in more than all those dropping
money into the treasury chests; for they
all dropped in out of their surplus,
but she dropped in all of what
she had, her whole living." Mark 12: 41-44.
For the love of God.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Seconds
Seconds
are like small coins
sometimes forgotten
sometimes really needed
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Feel The Pinch
From time to time in plain clothes
a man who goes everywhere in a placid mood
for his living.
Still he could not find a pinnacle.
His wallet has a disease called ' perishable'.
Only coins remain and the currency notes evaporate.
The breadwinner; a rolling stone
will never gather moss
and who destined to be a loner
in his lifetime.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Man's many desires are like the small metal coins he carries about in his pocket. The more he has the more they weigh him down.
quote by Bhagawan Sri Sathya Sai Baba
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On A Handful Of French Money
These coins that jostle on my hand do own
No single image: each name here and date
Denoting in man's consciousness and state
New change. In some, the face is clearly known,—
In others marred. The badge of that old throne
Of Kings is on the obverse; or this sign
Which says, “I France am all—lo, I am mine!”
Or else the Eagle that dared soar alone.
Even as these coins, so are these lives and years
Mixed and bewildered; yet hath each of them
No less its part in what is come to be
For France. Empire, Republic, Monarchy,—
Each clamours or keeps silence in her name,
And lives within the pulse that now is hers.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Golden Coins
(words & music by giant - baum - kaye)
Say youre mine, then ask me what you will
All your dreams, my darling Ill fulfill
Golden coins, I will bring to you
Silver trinkets and rubies too
In return dear Im begging you
For the pleasures of love
Ill bring gifts, like you never saw
Priceless garments that youll adore
Persian rugs to enhance your floor
For the pleasures of love
Darling, choose anything you please
Rich brocade, or woven tapestries
In exchange, I plead on my knees
For the pleasure of love
Golden coins, Ill place at your feet
Precious jewels to make life complete
All my treasures are yours my sweet
For the pleasures of love
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Koin Untuk Prita (Coins for Prita)
cring, cring
berjatuhan koin-koin
cring, cring
hati si miskin memanggil
cring, cring
koin kecil berarti penting
cring, cring
bila bersama tak ada yang tak mungkin
cring, cring
koin-koin terus berdering
cring, cring
tangan si kecil memberi
cring, cring
sedikit koin yang dikira tak berarti
cring, cring
bila bersatu bukit pun benar-benar jadi
klink, klink
coins dropping
klink, klink
the heart of poor calling
klink, klink
small coin for important meaning
klink, klink
if together impossible is nothing
klink, klink
coins keep ringing
klink, klink
little hands giving
klink, klink
small coin thought has no meaning
klink, klink
if united the hill really building
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Treasured
Treasure is a lovely love, a built book,
One of the heavens contains the treasure.
Treasure forbade me to truly become you,
Understanding the gold and silver is becoming clear.
Let golden items sway, let gold become heavenly
By being money and wealth of a man in reign.
The money colder is the money touched;
Anywhere you go, is the silver being rich?
Let coins be coins as far as the eyes glance,
The body I suffer shall happen to be in the river of gold.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Three Coins
In the fountains of our youth
are scattered three coins of our life.
The past, the present and the future
all of them lay there.
As we dip into the waters,
we try to pluck out each coin.
We may grab the past,
maybe even the present,
but the future lies beyond our reach
elusive, as it will always be.
We have lived the past,
the present we are living.
However, the future
is never ours to see
and so we leave the three coins
in the fountains of our youth
where they will always be.
19 August 2009
poem by David Harris
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The Most Beautiful
a hand bag as big as a brief case,
have compartments, but not arranged,
stuffed stuffs are many,
lip sticks, mascara, eye liner,
powder and creams to smooth the surface,
peeler, scrubber and the polisher,
scissors, clips and gloss.
perfect hair and branded dress.
a wallet with few credit cards,
a zipper for coins and currency notes,
come out as they are,
who are the most beautiful people,
in the world?
Women or Men?
I say Men are the most beautiful people,
because they do not need make up.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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For a change
I
The being
The rest of my life
Thou
The being
The rest of your time
We both put our hat down
To everything passing by
Beg for small coins
The rest of someone’s ownership
For a change
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The name of my ailment was longing, and it was not cured till I finally went to the department store and counted out the money in small coins before the dismayed clerk. When I came to the house, I held up the instrument before the eyes of the astonished household.
quote by William Christopher Handy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Getting Mugged for Christmas
Getting mugged for Christmas
Christmas girls and boys
We're getting mugged for Christmas
Round yon virgin toys
Homeward Christmas folly
Never felt so good
Coming to an alley
IN YOUR NEIGHBOURHOOD
FIIIIIVE Golden coins...
Was all we had
They tried to take them
So I smashed one in the face
And I screamed like a partridge in a Puriri
(Return to original tune)
My best friend fell over
And they kicked him in the back
I was not too sober
So I joined in the attack.
If you try to take my money
I won't calls the pigs
I will simply run away
after kicking you in the figs
FIIIIIIVE Golden Coins...
Getting mugged for Christmas
Christmas girls and boys
Getting mugged for Christmas
By a Fat Santa Claus.
poem by Ashley Hawkes
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Castile
Orange blossoms blowing over Castile
children begging for coins
I met my love under an orange tree
or was it an acacia tree
or was he not my love?
I read this, then I dreamed this:
can waking take back what happened to me?
Bells of San Miguel
ringing in the distance
his hair in the shadows blond-white
I dreamed this,
does that mean it didn't happen?
Does it have to happen in the world to be real?
I dreamed everything, the story
became my story:
he lay beside me,
my hand grazed the skin of his shoulder
Mid-day, then early evening:
in the distance, the sound of a train
But it was not the world:
in the world, a thing happens finally, absolutely,
the mind cannot reverse it.
Castile: nuns walking in pairs through the dark garden.
Outside the walls of the Holy Angels
children begging for coins
When I woke I was crying,
has that no reality?
I met my love under an orange tree:
I have forgotten
only the facts, not the inference—
there were children, somewhere, crying, begging for coins
I dreamed everything, I gave myself
completely and for all time
And the train returned us
first to Madrid
then to the Basque country
Anonymous submission.
poem by Louise Gluck
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Big Speech
Sentences are big, small as well,
Their tailors stupidly work
And the tools split when words are built.
The tools are a spirit, a well-being, a promise,
The tools benefit us in soothing ways.
The sentences become a speech for the royal kings,
They think overall that they own them,
Giving work and problems, saving us, living with danger.
The intelligence of a wish is that of writing
And poetry.
Words spell what we know,
They always now keep magic
That the king sows deep in the land.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Jazz and The Hobo
It was a Saturday morning
And you were 19
and you were racing along
Victoria Street having just left
Victoria Railway Station
on your way to Dobell's
Jazz Record Shop
moving quickly
through the sea
of humanity
thinking of jazz
and what record
you were going to buy
at the shop that day
imaging yourself
fingering through LP sleeves
taking a mental note
of which one
you might buy
a John Coltrane or Miles Davis
an Art Blakey or maybe
a Dizzy Gillespie
a jazz record being played
over the loudspeakers
in the shop
you mingling with others
in the crowded place
when this hobo stopped you
taking hold of your jacket gently
and said
have you got some small change
for a sandwich?
no
you replied
I haven't
and rushed on
through the crowd
fingering in your pocket
loose change
silvery coins
and his voice
in your head
as you raced along
and your conscience
nagging you
maybe the voice
of the believed in Christ
so you stopped
and turned around
and made your journey back
through the people
passing by
your fingers taking hold
of the coins
the silvery loose change
and there he was
the hobo asking others
the same question
and they too went by
shaking their heads
or saying
no sorry no change
and you took his hand
and put in the loose silver
into his open palm
and said
here go buy yourself
a sandwich or whatever
and you turned
and left looking over
your shoulder
and he stood there
staring at his palm
and the coins shining
in the morning sun
and then you looked ahead
thinking of the record shop
and the LPs and the jazz music
being played
but deep down
in some other part of you
you knew you'd given
to one who maybe
was hungry
and had unconsciously
prayed.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Burial Of Tragedy
Recollection of childhood,
Takes me behind to the past,
The memories,
Sometimes make me sad,
And sometimes quite glad.
Now I recall a man, middle aged,
Mysteriously mad,
I knew not his origin, he ambled
Through the nearby town,
With disheveled hair,
Dressed in tattered brown,
He had unwashed body
With lean sable legs, and feet
Always with sole-broken boots.
Though his face was harrowed,
Yet emitted prints of learning.
He didn't accept coins
Or notes of charity, nor did he beg
As if these diminished his dignity.
He only lived on the pieces
Of fallen fruit, and often tumbled
On them with a grin,
And a smile devoid of pleasure;
He slept at night in an ancient,
Deserted inn beside the highway,
Made in the reign of Sher Shah Suri.
The man roved around the town,
With an old leather-bag,
Always pressing against his heart,
He never allowed anyone to touch,
As if he concealed some gems of treasure.
Ah! At one wintry night at last,
The cold caught him, the folk found
Him dead lying supine in the morn,
But still pressing the contents
To his heart; with ever growing curiosity
They unfastened the straps,
And brought out nothing
But his degree of graduation,
All crippled, and faded;
The forsaken graduate lay dead,
As if there lay an incarnated tragedy
Waiting for its funeral, and all mourners
Threw coins and notes of currency
For shroud and perfumes:
The necessary items of a decent burial.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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