One should either be sad or joyful. Contentment is a warm sty for eaters and sleepers.
quote by Eugene O'Neill
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Come Join The Abolitionists
Come join the Abolitionists,
Ye young men bold and strong.
And with a warm and cheerful zeal,
Come help the cause along;
O that will be joyful, joyful, joyful,
O that will be joyful, when Slavery is no more,
When Slavery is no more.
'Tis then we'll sing, and offerings bring,
When Slavery is no more.
Come join the Abolitionists,
Ye men of riper years,
And save your wives and children dear,
From grief and bitter tears;
O that will be joyful, joyful, joyful,
O that will be joyful, when Slavery is no more,
When Slavery is no more,
'Tis then we'll sing, and offerings bring,
When Slavery is no more.
Come join the Abolitionists,
Ye dames and maidens fair,
And breathe around us in our path
Affection's hallowed air;
O that will be joyful, joyful, joyful,
O that will be joyful, when woman cheers us on,
When woman cheers us on, to conquests not yet won.
'Tis then we'll sing, and offerings bring,
When woman cheers us on.
Come join the Abolitionists,
Ye sons and daughters all
Of this our own America-
Come at the friendly call;
O that will be joyful, joyful, joyful,
O that will be joyful, when all shall proudly say,
This, this is Freedom's day-Oppression flee away!
'T is then we'll sing, and offerings bring,
When freedom wins the day.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Respect For The Sleepers (demo)
Well I don't really know my self
Cause I ain't I really tried
Rutting leaning on that crazy stuff
Too many friends have died
Got respect for the sleepers
But the sleepers...
I'll be buried in the same old way
But probably not for years
Yeah, I'll be buried in the same old way
From TV whiskey and beer
Got respect for the sleepers
But the sleepers are dead
Well I don't really know my self
Cause I ain't I really tried
But falling that crazy stuff
Too many friends have died
Got respect for the sleepers
All the sleepers are dead
Yeah, they're dead
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life Of Contentment
To suit and to pursue in seconds...
A life of contentment.
And one you can depend,
A life of contentment.
To put an end to affixed evils,
A life of contentment.
With satisfactions that begin,
A life of contentment.
To have it there and with decision,
Is...
A life of Contentment./
With a rule that is so crucial,
A life of contentment.
And desired as a need...
A life of contentment.
To always have and never leave.
To suit and to pursue in seconds...
A life of contentment.
And one you can depend,
A life of contentment.
To put an end to affixed evils,
A life of contentment.
With satisfactions that begin,
A life of contentment.
To have it there and with decision,
Is...
A life of Contentment./
With a rule that is so crucial,
A life of contentment.
And desired as a need...
A life of contentment.
To always have and never leave.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Killers
I am singing to you
Soft as a man with a dead child speaks;
Hard as a man in handcuffs,
Held where he cannot move:
Under the sun
Are sixteen million men,
Chosen for shining teeth,
Sharp eyes, hard legs,
And a running of young warm blood in their wrists.
And a red juice runs on the green grass;
And a red juice soaks the dark soil.
And the sixteen million are killing. . . and killing
and killing.
I never forget them day or night:
They beat on my head for memory of them;
They pound on my heart and I cry back to them,
To their homes and women, dreams and games.
I wake in the night and smell the trenches,
And hear the low stir of sleepers in lines--
Sixteen million sleepers and pickets in the dark:
Some of them long sleepers for always,
Some of them tumbling to sleep to-morrow for always,
Fixed in the drag of the world's heartbreak,
Eating and drinking, toiling. . . on a long job of
killing.
Sixteen million men.
poem by Carl Sandburg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Emerald Eyes
Your eyes are emeralds
Soaking up the space
Between us; taking me
Higher than the stars
Way above the clouds…
Your eyes are emeralds
Ghost writing my smiles
In the rain, in the rain
I learn to smile again…
Joyful taping, joyful…
Dancing on the tiles
Your eyes are emeralds
With a devilish wink
With something to disguise
You warm my spirit my soul
And curl my toes
In the rain, in the rain
I learn to smile again…
Joyful taping, joyful…
Dancing on the tiles
Feelings like butterflies
Flutter to the highest climes
Oh hold my hand,
And I'll hold on to your wings…
And stare hypnotized into,
Your emerald eyes…
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Oh Love Filled Days
Oh happy day
Oh happy day
When Mary finds
She is entwined
With Grace Devine
Oh happy day
Oh happy day
Oh joyful day
Oh joyful day
When Jesus lay
On a pile of hay
Oh how the angels play
On Christmas day
Oh joyful day
Oh joyful day
Oh love filled day
Oh love filled day
When Jesus lay
In a lonely tomb
From the afternoon
Till he rose on Easter day
Oh love filled day
Oh love filled day
Oh happy day
Oh joyful day
Oh love filled day
Entered the earth
In the most humble way
Taught us how to pray
Took our sins away
Oh happy day
Oh joyful day
Oh love filled days
When he came to stay
poem by Brian Kilpatrick
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Living House
I saw you in a house of rooms,
It must be saving the bed of contentment,
Feeding the living of people,
Creating contentment as you speak.
My love is fastened to the door
And the window is collapsing.
My violent pages work for the more,
Rooms are rooms meaningful.
The saviour is brought to the houses
And he saves us from slaughter.
I come to you in the middle of town,
As far as the eye keeps, like one hard.
The contentment is just about.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Happiness comes out of contentment, and contentment always comes out of service.
quote by Harbhajan Singh Yogi
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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There is no end of craving. Hence contentment alone is the best way to happiness. Therefore, acquire contentment.
Lunar Eclipse
Turn the corner
and you will find, some dark figures
huddled together under the rains
of words. In a fractured
embrace. One chunk of floating
pain falls on you. The assassin
had come quietly.
A song was knifed today.
Turn off the lights. A smeared
moon will rise tonight in earth’s
shadow. Now hashish eaters were
coming, now hashish eaters.
Unnoticed, disconnected,
stinging. From olive to bleeding heads,
poetry to prey.
The koel will not sing tonight.
poem by Satish Verma
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Old Heads
Old heads, leaning bodies supporting clusters of gargoyle grins.
An illusion? Simply a confusion of a thousand crooked noses?
I perceive eyes spinning in their orbits attempt to settle into poses.
There they stand tattooed with wrinkles, crowned with antlers
Whose numbers and girth reflect their power immortal.
These sleepers old, these sleepers new, born aloft to be
Soaked in dew. Hanging on for dear life, some prefer to wrap
Their roots around another’s, clinging with the might of Titans,
Hanging on as if the Earth herself was the fairest of lovers.
Twisted torsos of headed sleepers weep over long forgotten lore.
If only they could keep their memory safe, if only they were given
The opportunity to recite their wisdoms before they are slain,
Laid down the woodsman. The crown of the forest is fallen,
Will man in his folly never cease is the rape of his Mother?
What charm he shows in his care for the fairest of lovers.
poem by David Lacey
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Dream
Nothing comes during a sleep above a dream,
You better wake up and face reality,
You never get ahead just laying around in bed,
What you can see you really can achieve.
Dream means a sleepless fulfillment though I wonder why,
You wake up out of the darkness and let life begin,
Oh dream means a sleepless fulfillment oh I wonder when,
Wake up out of the darkness and let life begin.
Some people are living only on hopes and dreams,
But youve got to wake up to the plans and scenes,
The journey of life is only one step ahead,
But you never get there tossing and turning in bed,
Youre facing the world with no plans for tomorrow,
And now youre wondering whats waiting around the bend.
Dream means a sleepless fulfillment unless you try,
Sleepers, they hold on t dreams while the world passes by,
Dream means a sleepless fulfillment (though) unless you try,
Sleepers, they hold on to dreams while the world passes by.
Dream means a sleepless fulfillment though I wonder why,
Sleepers hold on to dreams while the world passes by, one more time,
Dreams a sleepless fulfillment though unless you try,
Sleepers hold on to dreams.....
song performed by by Grace Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Here Today, Gone Tomorrow
All the days we think of as today
are really just tomorrow.
For I've found that things don't change,
there always will be sorrow.
Sorrow that will come to some
that came yesterday
is just transferred to others
as it comes their way.
When we think of joyful,
the joyful is today.
So enjoy the joyful
for tomorrow it goes away.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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From labour health, from health contentment spring; contentment opes the source of every joy.
quote by James Beattie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Very Joyful
Revealed to me!
In Norderstedt;
With your muse!
But, it was very joyful to see it.
Very, every, query;
Revealed to me!
With your muse,
But, it was very joyful to see it.
Ferry, jerry, merry, berry, sherry, terry!
In Norderstedt;
With your muse,
But, it was very joyful to see it.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A good life is a series of joyful meetings and joyful moments.
quote by Francis Bacon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Minimal
I study the lives on a leaf: the little
Sleepers, numb nudgers in cold dimensions,
Beetles in caves, newts, stone-deaf fishes,
Lice tethered to long limp subterranean weeds,
Squirmers in bogs,
And bacterial creepers
Wriggling through wounds
Like elvers in ponds,
Their wan mouths kissing the warm sutures,
Cleaning and caressing,
Creeping and healing.
poem by Theodore Roethke
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Abundance doesn't know contentment, but contentment is abundance.
Fervency
Channelled energy releases
distress, translates transparency,
misgivings melt, magic peace is
contentment, authenticity
Oppression conquered liberates
courage as 'simple' satisfies.
Subjective tempests abate,
fervency inspires soul wise.
Hibernation finishing, births day,
Flowering fervor facilitates
springboard sweeping sleep away,
evolution unleashes joyful play.
Hopefulness reverberates,
optimistic future celebrates.
(14 May 2012)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Balloon Faces
The Balloons hang on wires in the Marigold Gardens.
They spot their yellow and gold, they juggle their blue and red, they float their faces on the face of the sky.
Balloon face eaters sit by hundreds reading the eat cards, asking, “What shall we eat?”—and the waiters, “Have you ordered?” they are sixty balloon faces sifting white over the tuxedoes.
Poets, lawyers, ad men, mason contractors, smartalecks discussing “educated jackasses,” here they put crabs into their balloon faces.
Here sit the heavy balloon face women lifting crimson lobsters into their crimson faces, lobsters out of Saragossa sea bottoms.
Here sits a man cross-examining a woman, “Where were you last night? What do you do with all your money? Who’s buying your shoes now, anyhow?”
So they sit eating whitefish, two balloon faces swept on God’s night wind.
And all the time the balloon spots on the wires, a little mile of festoons, they play their own silence play of film yellow and film gold, bubble blue and bubble red.
The wind crosses the town, the wind from the west side comes to the banks of marigolds boxed in the Marigold Gardens.
Night moths fly and fix their feet in the leaves and eat and are seen by the eaters.
The jazz outfit sweats and the drums and the saxophones reach for the ears of the eaters.
The chorus brought from Broadway works at the fun and the slouch of their shoulders, the kick of their ankles, reach for the eyes of the eaters.
These girls from Kokomo and Peoria, these hungry girls, since they are paid-for, let us look on and listen, let us get their number.
Why do I go again to the balloons on the wires, something for nothing, kin women of the half-moon, dream women?
And the half-moon swinging on the wind crossing the town—these two, the half-moon and the wind—this will be about all, this will be about all.
Eaters, go to it; your mazuma pays for it all; it’s a knockout, a classy knockout—and payday always comes.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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