All this will not be finished in the first hundred days. Nor will it be finished in the first thousand days, nor in the life of this administration, nor even perhaps in our lifetime on this planet. But let us begin.
John F. Kennedy in Inaugural address (1961)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
The Teachers Are Afraid Of The Pupils
Theres too many people
Planning your downfall
When your spirits on trial
These nights can be frightening
Sleep transports sadness
To some other mid-brain
And somebody here
Will not be here next year
So you stand by the board
Full of fear and intention
And, if you think that theyre listening
Well, youve got to be joking
Oh, you understand change
And you think its essential
But when your profession
Is humiliation
Say the wrong word to our children ...
Well have you, oh yes, well have you
Lay a hand on our children
And its never too late to have you
Mucus on your collar
A nail up through the staff chair
A blade in your soap
And you cry into your pillow
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
Say the wrong word to our children ...
Well have you, oh yes, well have you
Lay a hand on our children
And its never too late to have you
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
To be finished would be a relief
Im very glad the spring has come
The sun shines out so bright
All the birds that are on the trees
Are singing for delight
song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Are My Poems Finished/ And I Finished With Them?
ARE MY POEMS FINISHED/ AND I FINISHED WITH THEM?
Are my poems finished
And I finished with them?
Each day has a beauty of its own
Light, wind, trees, colors, flowers.
All I see
The cracks in the grey pavement before me.
The cool cool wind at my back
The prayer ahead.
Even this poem is not properly finished
And I a fool racing and rushing
Through another
Again and again and again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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She Needs Years To Make A Poem
i am not surprised with what she just said
to make a poem of her life
she needs years and years
perhaps a hundred years
if need be to make the best poem
of her life
her words are days and days
her stanzas her dwelling place
her commas and punctuations
her naps and long hours of sleep
her poem is her life
she lives inside it
she breathes every word every letter
and when she reads it when it is finished
she speaks her last, hounding silence
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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One Hundred Thousand Marching
One hundred thousand marching
One hundred thousand men
One hundred thousand heading
To a place and a time when
One hundred thousand dying
One hundred thousand cold
One hundred thousand praying
Forever young and never old
One hundred thousand lives were lost
One hundred thousand felt the pain
One hundred thousand maimed and slaughtered
And yet those armies march again.
poem by David Keig
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Days
- Album: Reality
- Lyrics and music by David Bowie
Hold me tight
Keep me cool
Going mad
Don't know what to do
Do I need a friend?
Well I need one now
All the days of my life
All the days of my life
All the days I owe you
All I've done
I've done for me
All you gave
You gave for free
I gave nothing in return
And theres little left of me
All the days of my life
All the days of my life
All the days I owe you
With redeyed pain I'm knocking on your door again
My crazy brain in tangles pleading for your gentle voice
Those storms keep pounding through my faded heart
I'll play your sooth my sorry soul
All the days of my life
(All the days of my life)
All the days of my life
(All the days of my life)
All the days I owe you
All the days of my life
(All the days of my life)
All the days of my life
(All the days of my life)
All the days I owe you
All the days of my life
(All the days of my life)
All the days of my life
(All the days of my life)
All the days I owe you
All the days of my life
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The programme has ended, something has finished, and he has a sense of something having finished its course, and then all of a sudden he turns away and this other thing has just finished its course, this other person.
quote by Atom Egoyan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Manipulated Distrusting Days
Manipulated distrusting days.
And...
There seems no end to them.
Although we live them with a craze that stays.
We have been manipulated and we're not phased.
Manipulated distrusting days.
And...
We live dishonest and in cheating ways.
And...
To defend them not too many are offended.
In fact we're taught to end them we will be defeated.
We feed upon these days as selfish feeding beasts.
Loving to be greedy as if at an endless feast.
Manipulated distrusting days.
And...
We live dishonest and in cheating ways.
And...
To defend them not too many are offended.
In fact we're taught to end them we will be defeated.
Manipulated distrusting days.
And...
We feed upon these days as selfish feeding beasts.
Loving to be greedy as if at an endless feast.
Manipulated distrusting days,
And...
We're in the midst of them.
Until these days are finished.
We're in the midst of them,
And loving every minute.
Manipulated distrusting days,
And...
We're in the midst of them,
And loving every minute.
We're in the midst of them.
Until these days are finished.
We're in the midst of them,
As if we are committed.
We're in the midst of them.
We're in the midst of them.
Until these days are finished.
We're in the midst of them,
And we can't quit...
These manipulated distrusting days,
And...
We're in the midst of them,
And loving every minute.
Manipulated distrusting days!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Life Is But A Dream
Life is but a dream
and I haven’t finished mine.
I sit in old revelries
of laughter in forgotten time.
I think of days gone by,
the sunshine and the rain,
friends and family ties.
Some of whom I will never meet again.
Life is but a dream
and I haven’t finished dreaming yet.
My world is still filling up
with heartaches and regret.
There is no time to stop,
take stock of the situation,
as dreaming seems to be
now my major occupation.
23 June 2008
poem by David Harris
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What If I Do Not Have To Do Anything Anymore?
What if I do not have anything to do anymore?
What if I am finished?
I have written what I could write
I have gotten to where I can get
Not very far
But it was what I am capable of -
What if I am finished
And all I have to do is rest
And write small poems
Bad or good as they are
And not even these
For the rest of my life?
What if I can say to myself
I need not try anymore
Because I can do no more
And I am finished?
What if I am done
And can take relief from this
While still longing to do more
And dissatisfied with where I have not gotten?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Krzysztof: They say that if you combined an entire lifetime's experiences and relived them all in one go, you'd end up staring at fireworks for roughly four days straight, 51 days of deciding what to wear and two weeks eating potato chips. Boredom... two years. That's over seven hundred days of waiting around and hoping for something to happen.
line from All These Sleepless Nights, script by Michal Marczak (2016)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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It is inevitable that some defeat will enter even the most victorious life. The human spirit is never finished when it is defeated...it is finished when it surrenders.
It is inevitable that some defeat will enter even the most victorious life. The human spirit is never finished when it is defeated... it is finished when it surrenders.
Why I Am Not A Painter
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
poem by Frank O'Hara
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When The Devil Is Finished With You
jesse james was a legend
jesse james was a killer,
jesse james was shot in the back.
There's a time to wrap it up, a time to begin,
But the devil was finished with him.
Bonnie Parker had a pistol
she robbed banks for a living,
she had the law on her trail,
good things can happen, bad things can occur,
But the devil was finished with her.
some believe in God,
some believe in the devil,
some don't believe anything at all.
you got time to work it out, until your time is through,
and the devil is finished with you
poem by Richard Jarboe
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Twenty-nine Thousand Four Hundred Seven Sunsets
Twenty-nine thousand four hundred seven sunsets
With one same sun on the one same sea.
In the early days by my mother’s side,
Though she’d often tell me of the sun and of the sea,
I seldom watched, and never for long,
The slow dissolve,
The melt and plunge,
Now you see it, now you don’t-
So many sunsets lost.
Twenty-nine thousand four hundred seven sunsets
With one same sun on the one same sea.
The years of my youth were marked by friends and sport,
Often whole days on the beach-
Raging winds and mammoth waves
Or a still, glass sea, not a cloud in the sky,
And every shade in between.
I rarely fathomed the myriad shapes and colors,
An ever-changing landscape-
So very many sunsets lost.
Twenty-nine thousand four hundred seven sunsets
With one same sun on the one same sea.
The middle-aged years pinned me to my work;
Yet through a window from time to time,
Or on holiday, if I risked the break,
I’d notice how lovely a sunset could be-
So very many sunsets lost forever.
Twenty-nine thousand four hundred seven sunsets
With one same sun on the one same sea.
At last, in these final days, each sunset is anticipated, craved.
Regardless the mood of the sea, it will receive the sun.
No matter the face of the sky, it will let go the same.
The sun itself, always churning, always burning,
Swells with new brilliance, new radiance and splendor
Each time it approaches the sea,
Then morphs into a molten pool on the sea’s surface
Before plunging from view-
Never more a sunset lost.
Twenty-nine thousand four hundred seven sunsets
With one same sun on the one same sea.
Then one glorious day,
The day of my twenty-nine thousand four hundred and sixth sunset,
And I at my usual place along the shore,
Saw the sun rise out of the sea from where it had just set!
The sun rose back up into the sky, and
In the very next moment on the very same day, it set again.
I experienced my twenty-nine thousand four hundred and seventh sunset,
The second in one day!
Oh glorious day!
A sunset gained.
Twenty-nine thousand four hundred seven sunsets
With one same sun on the one same sea.
(In 2 Kings 20: 9-11 the Lord made the shadow go back 10 steps. Certainly, at that exact moment, somewhere in the world, someone saw the sun dissolve on the horizon and then rise again.)
Daughter, Forgive
Her days were
Whole
On Mexican tile and
Daddy’s slippers
Ahead a full life
Days without maps
Years without provenance
Years and debris
Memory is debris
Clutter and fantasy
In black and white
In crackled sepia
Never in life color
The tartar of bad memory
Calcifies and becomes plaque
Becomes part of the finished work
A life nonetheless
poem by Guillermo Veloso
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A finished product is one that has already seen its better days.
quote by Art Linkletter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Resigned
She'd sweep. She'd clean
and then she'd mop.
When she finished
she would drop
and wipe her brow
wet with sweat.
But she never cried
nor did she fret.
She'd sung. She'd whistled
and then she'd hummed.
When she finished
she succumbed
and lay right down
upon her cot,
too tired to think about
what her life was not.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Man Or Machine
Auto, bus, walking and sweating dermis,
somehow on time I reach my office.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
breakfast time, toast, butter and tea glass,
hurriedly I eat, unaware it may appear boorish and crass.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
lunch time, dosa containing rice, dal and yeast,
the way I eat can put to shame any wild beast.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
till evening, I am tired, drowsy and dozy
but I skip the plan to go outside to have some tea.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
My head aches, my eye burns
but I continue work amidst yawns.
work needs to be finished on time so I sit infront of computer.
Just before logout, I work with great pace,
with time I contest, compete and race.
work needs to be finished on time so a computer sits infront of computer.
Copyright reserved by the author
poem by Md. Asadullah
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Written in Black Ink
Upon
The tear-stained
Paper
She writes
Writes,
Her story
Her experiences
Her life
Written in
Black ink
Upon
The tear-stained
Paper
She writes
Writes,
Her sorrows
People she lost
People who are gone
Written in
Black ink
She writes for
Days and
Days
Until
At last
Her masterpiece
Is finished
Her eyes Begin to
Close and
Oblivion Takes hold
And when she
Awakens
Her story will be written
Written in black ink
poem by Autumn Winds
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