It is my contention that Aesop was writing for the tortoise market. hares have no time to read.
quote by Anita Brookner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In real life, it is the hare who wins. Every time. Look around you. And in any case it is my contention that Aesop was writing for the tortoise market. Hares have no time to read. They are too busy winning the game.
quote by Anita Brookner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Slow and steady wins the race.
Aesop in The Hare and the Tortoise
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Contention is inseparable from creating knowledge. It is not contention we should try to avoid, but discourses that attempt to suppress contention.
quote by Joyce Appleby
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This is mainly because I spend a lot of time writing and so don't have much time to read; I hate to waste that time reading what may turn out to be junk food for the mind, when there's so much real writing to be read.
quote by John Sladek
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Be a tortoise
Gratitude and compassion are front legs;
Fortitude and tolerance are hind legs.
With these as limbs, one moves like a tortoise
But with a tough shell made of good will.
He can’t run with hares but can move safe.
08.03.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Even An Old Man Does Not Wish To Read
EVEN AN OLD MAN DOES NOT WISH TO READ
Even an Old Man does not wish to read
An Old Man’s Poetry-
What is the use of bad health litanies
And endless complaints of disappointments?
And wonderings about Waste and Loss
And about Time never to return
And all one has erred in?
An Old Man longs for Beginning again.
An Old man wants what he cannot have
And wishes to be what he cannot be-
And write as if there were new worlds waiting to be found within himself
And great adventures and explorations in writing and writing and writing
An old man longs for freshness deep down things
And dry dry dry is all
Theory
And Grey his life.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Tortosise and the Hare: The true story
So you think tortoise
won the race,
not so.
Today the last
of Hare's descendants
passed on.
Oh his death
bed from his
lips came this,
my great, great
so many grandfather
was bribed,
to throw the race,
to the Tortoise
by the way of carrots,
his greatest weakness
you didn't really think
the Tortoise could have
won do you. Then he passed on.
wrote 4-14-07
I'm Not Like You
I sit here now,
Writing this poem.
You read it now,
No matter what’s goin.
Sometimes it’s rainy,
Sometimes it’s not.
You read this poem now,
Go do you the homework you forgot.
Life can be simple,
It can also be complicated.
Be when read this now,
Please don’t get frustrated.
Thanks for reading this,
You’re a cool person that much is true.
But to spend the time and read,
I’m probably not much like you.
The Tortoise (Love Poem)
This girl came to my party,
And petted my tortoise,
In nineteen sixty four,
When I was eight, and
No-one noticed, not even me.
She still complains today
That she missed out on
Her jelly and ice-cream,
When she was seven, and
No one noticed, not even me.
I think when ten years later this
Beautiful blonde said yes, she
Would be mine, and is today, this
Tortoise slow was still around, and
No one noticed, not even me.
I tell our children now grown-up,
That I have found a tortoise is
The perfect way to find the girl,
Who will be yours forever, when
You are eight and she is seven.
poem by Ian Beckett
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I have wisdom
I have wisdom
I am writing poem.
I am not a child of market
I am not calling you to gossip
I am not writing a poem
To divert your attention
From main point of discussion.
I am writing poem for you
And you are reading my poem
With full seriousness.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Separate From Me
“Separate from me, ” said Abraham to Lot,
“our people cannot coexist with one another.”
Lot chose to live in Sodom, where it’s very hot,
and said to Abraham: “It really doesn’t bother
me that all the people there are dreadful sinners.”
Its nightlife influenced him to be the city’s chooser.
Some people do not have a knack for picking winners,
but do not pity Lot. Although he was a loser
who nearly fried to death and lay with both his daughters,
he ended up the ancestor of Israel’s kings,
when Ruth the Moabite caught up with Boaz, tortoise
that breaks its safety shell and flies with wifely wings.
This is a story that we learn in Aesop’s fables,
relating how the tortoise overtook the hare;
Boaz was a hare who didn’t care for labels,
thought anti-Ruth discrimination wasn’t fair.
In ancient Athens ostracism was ten-yearly,
a ritual that allowed return, recalling Lot’s
descendant who returned to Abraham sincerely,
by tying nuptial knots while cutting Gordian knots.
3/14/06
poem by Gershon Hepner
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The Wicked Postman
Why do you sit there on the floor so quiet and silent, tell me,
mother dear?
The rain is coming in through the open window, making you all
wet, and you don't mind it.
Do you hear the gong striking four? It is time for my brother
to come home from school.
What has happened to you that you look so strange?
Haven't you got a letter from father today?
I saw the postman bringing letters in his bag for almost
everybody in the town.
Only father's letters he keeps to read himself. I am sure the
postman is a wicked man.
But don't be unhappy about that, mother dear.
Tomorrow is market day in the next village. You ask your maid
to buy some pens and papers.
I myself will write all father's letters; you will not find
a single mistake.
I shall write from A right up to K.
But, mother, why do you smile?
You don't believe that I can write as nicely as father does!
But I shall rule my paper carefully, and write all the letters
beautifully big.
When I finish my writing do you think I shall be so foolish
as father and drop it into the horrid postman's bag?
I shall bring it to you myself without waiting, and letter by
letter help you to read my writing.
I know the postman does not like to give you the really nice
letters.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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If I Only Had A Little More Time.
Dear sir, will you read and comment on my poem?
I think if I have time to with so many request most of the time I just read poems as a see them on the website.
Can we do that instead.
Or how how I browse all your poems and pick one that catches my eye?
Why can't I choose when I have the time?
Its not that I don't like these authors I really do.
I would read everyone they wrote given a chance.
But my goodness I work 12 hrs out of the day usually.
And if not working I'm either helping friend repair his home from the flood, or building another computer from old junk computers, or I'm writing.
Can you see how I have a hard time fitting that in always on a constant basis?
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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My companion
I don't know where I'll be,
when who ever buys my book to read.
I was just writing the date on my new
notebook, and these thoughts came to my mind.
Sometimes when I'm going over some
writing I see the date on the paper,
and it brings me memories of
how I felt at the time when I
wrote those poems,
Those notes, they have the flavor
of me. My intimate thoughts my most
saddest and happiest moments of
my existence.
My poems my notes my
stories and my hands, they are one.
One memory in all together.
The way my hands clinch my
writing my every move of prose.
I don't know who
Will want to read the writing coming
from a stranger a none-known poet.
From lonesome I, no one
knows who she is.
I cherish every letter,
word and phrase my hands have writting.
Because all of this has been to me a wonderful
companion of my lonesome life of appetence to feed.
Copyright©ElenaToledo2011
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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The developers, if they decide to move a tortoise, have to pay the long-term costs for enhancing the areas that take care of the tortoise, and it gives us the opportunity to manage an area that is going to be protected.
quote by Gale Norton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I think the market is always going to be around. The goal is not to say, let's get rid of the market, because the market does render a huge number of services, and I don't want to have a fight about the price of something every time I buy a book or a bottle of water.
quote by Susan George
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I've Read A Lot Of Bukowski
wanting to be like him
in his writing style i read a lot about
Bukowski
I sniffed his wine and women
and his writing place
i've read every manuscript
and i begin to like him more than ever
not his style really but his
decision to be just himself
now like him i want to be nobody but myself too.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Love To Read
Is it a misconception,
That writers read...
Other writers' works?
Or reads extensively at all?
Afterall...
When would a true writer,
Find time to get that done...
If one has a love to read?
And...
I am not that one to say,
A reading AND a writing done...
Is an impossibility.
Because I read what I write often.
Regularly and on a daily basis.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Dear Friend
i always love to write, as early as
gradeschool when we were classmates
while you were playing and chasing and stumbling
i just sat on the grass of the playground under a tree and scribble anything
and read a lot about some stories with lots of pictures
and colors of fairies and kings and queens and butterflies and bees,
i do not stop writing, in fact, writing has become my life
that without words i may die an instant death
i dream that i have written novels and stories and lots of poems
i wake up with some ideas like some seeds that i want to sow
and grow in the field and see them become shrubs and trees and forests
and i keep on this life writing and writing and writing and writing
for writing's sake and i wish i may live longer so i may write
some more, some sequels of my love stories and suspense thrillers
and write finally all the poems that are inside my mind
hanging like ripe grapes and creeping like vines on my fence
as i am writing now as you always want to read me
until such time my friend that i will die, or end my life myself (who knows?)
(i will not talk about it now, it is something bizarre and makes me
shiver, but who knows, well you know, all are but possibilities and nothing
but possibilities in this vast wide world of realities and dreams)
there is something i must say somehow
there is something that i must have forgotten, i have not written about myself
i have always written about them, about you, about the world,
please do not refuse me, stop playing with your life,
gradeschool ended
a long time ago, i have one and ultimate request:
write the story of my life, because it is you who only knows about it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Tortoise's World!
Story of a tortoise who hid in his shell
Under the rock in the well
That is where it would dwell
Until one day a frog chased by a snake, did fell
Both, tortoise and frog were friends since they met
They had so much to talk, a lot of fun, you bet
Frog wanted to go home, leave a new friend, not to forget
Frog left, promised, soon it shall return and bring friends to get
Days passed and tortoise was sad and lonely
It rained and rained, and then came the day lovely
Frog came and came Frogs, croaking and singing jolly
Also were there tortoises, fishes and snails, Joy filled the world wholly!
poem by Manjeshwari P MYSORE
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