What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his?
quote by Emile M. Cioran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Browning's tragedies are tragedies without villains.
quote by Edward Dowden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Six legs... but who can see them? .....[SHORT; Nature observations; Humor]or]bservation; Humor]
As I read an article about how we humans age,
I suddenly spied a comma crawling slowly ‘cross the page.
I knew it couldn't be a comma, but it WAS so small
that if it were much smaller, I'd NOT see it at all.
I'm sure it was an insect or some related critter.
I wonder if, on that page, it did leave some insect litter.
I tried to pick out the legs it'd have if an insect it truly were,
but my eyes, not being microscopes, could only see a moving blur.
poem by Bri Edwards
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There’s a dragon fly
hanging at the mirror image of the window
catching the eye of a shrike
and the bird flashes past with stretched out claws
and for a moment the insect vibrates scared
and are swept away
by the bird that later twitters on the barbed wire
where it pierces the insect with a nail
and I am caught in the scene
and see the spreading its black wings
preparing for the next victim
and every insect that it spots
it catches.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The transformation scene, where man is becoming insect and insect has become at least man and beyond that - a flying, godlike, shimmering, diaphanous, beautiful creature.
quote by Michael O'Donoghue
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Left Hand
It was typical of you
To give it to me plain
The sign on your door
Said make your mind up or go away
It was difficult for me
To figure you out
Left hand
Always wants to know what the right is doing
Tell the way we miss out on something
We're free
But there is nothing when I present
It was typical of you
To feather your nest
Try to explain
Me and my big mouth were laid to rest
There's nowhere to go
But I'm not hanging around
Left hand
Pick me up and then you put me down
Left hand
Always wants to know what the right is doing
Tell the way we miss out on something
We're free
But there is one thing when I present
Left hand
Left hand
Left hand
Always wants to know what the right is doing
song performed by by Crowded House
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Don't Talk Song
Don't talk to me about tragedies
Because I had all the tragedies
That are written in my books
And I had survived all of them
Don't talk to me about the bad weather
Because that weather makes me very tired
poem by Aldo Kraas
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A Dragon Fly
that lingers at the mirror image of the window
is swept away
when every insect catches the eye of a butcher bird
and I am caught in the scene
where it pierces the insect on the barbed wire,
is swept away
where the insect looses its life
and the bird is preparing for its next victim
where it pierces the insect on the barbed wire
and I see the bird spreading its black wing
as it twitters on the barbed wire and slaps its wings
and the bird is preparing for its next victim
while each insect it catches so smartly
where it is set on each movement,
as it twitters on the barbed wire and slaps its wings
and the bird becomes a deadly thing
that lingers at the mirror image of the window
where it is set on each movement,
when every insect catches the eye of a butcher bird.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Lion and the Insect
The Lion lazily lies on the grass,
Purveying his kingdom of gold flowers
As they sway in the wind, but kingdoms pass
And so too does sunlight with the hours.
The Lion grips the land with a well-placed paw.
The Earth trembles slightly beneath his claws.
The Insect unfolds its transparent wings
To swim through thick, sweaty savannah air.
It floats in the soupy mirage heat brings,
Transfixed on flying from the lambent glare
Of the open sky's harsh, cloudless splendor.
The hungry Insect mustn't surrender.
The Lion fears the Insect and hides among
The gold flowers. He's unafraid to rest.
While he worries that, if his paw were stung,
He could lose control of his clenched int'rests,
Like a coward, the Lion waits all night
Until the Insect dies a parasite.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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O' Violence In The Mind Of Spinsters!
A tiny insect bite,
On the slender foot
Of adolescent girl!
Her feet are soft like petal,
The pain is so severe,
She gets lot of tears!
Soft nature in her disappears,
Smashed the insect to smears,
O' Violence in the mind of spinsters!
poem by V.K. Kanniappan
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Car Washers (Fun Poem 34)
You pull into a car park
and they spring out of nowhere.
“Do you want your car washed
while you’re doing your shopping?
We do not charge a lot.”
My answer is no.
“Sorry mate but my car is under scientific study.
I am an insect- ornithologist.
I study bird droppings and insect splatters.
I get out every night with my tweezers,
take the remaining bits off,
and put them in a specimen jar.
I am also going in for
the dirtiest car of the year award.
I have won it three times already.
So you see my car does not need a wash thank you.”
They look at me somewhat strangely
before they go on their merry way.
Therefore, the next time you pull into a car park
and someone wants to wash your car.
Just tell them you are an insect-ornithologist
engaged in a scientific study.
They will never understand what you mean.
They might think you are somewhat strange,
but you will save yourself a packet.
Now that ain’t strange, that is wise.
(22 July 2007)
poem by David Harris
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The present
There is no present
Other than the past and the future.
There is no centre
Other than right and left.
But the life centers
Right at the present.
01.04.2006
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A Crown Of Worms
I am the author, dream up your pain
Drink as did bacchus, rebel just like cain
Lord of the city, I shall remain
All pandemonium, I shall reign
Sit in my fortress, up on my hill
Drinking the wine, 'til I've had my fill
Building up high, my castle walls
Oh, to veil my splendid fall
I present you, I present to you,
I present you this crown of worms
Surrounding myself with mysery
Drawn curtains heavy of my history
Exquisite I am, perfect unity
On my left hand is false majesty
I feign affection, efute the true story
Dispute with creation, the lie is my glory
I care for no one, my gospel is death
For me the light's gone, only darkness is left
I present you, I present to you,
I present you this crown of worms
As black in deed, as cold as stone
A commandment of one, as proud as gold
As neglected in spirit, as time is old
As legion is numbers, as legend is told
I am alone, with the agony of truth
My power of will, my judgement and chain
My end is knowledge and conscience of guilt,
My final confusion hidden from me till I'm done
song performed by by Megadeth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Picasso Anti-War Pigment Symbols
Pablo Picasso moments
painted Spanish Civil War screams
Guernica shows tragedies
war sown suffering festering war inflicts
upon drift swept caught conflict individuals
consumes pale innocent seed civilians
cubist monumental status
perpetual reminder tragedies
anti-war pigment symbols
black white intolerant party issues
suffering people animals landscapes
buildings wreckage violence chaos
stage rage left fractured wide-eyed bull stands
over a lost woman mother shadow grieving pities
raw ruptured screams dead child in waste arms
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Leg
I know your legs are
On the legs of Baali the demon king
I know your legs are
On the head of Bharata your brother
I know your legs are on the
Head of Uddhaba your follower.
You have no leg I heard.
I Know you are present everywhere
Everytime and in everybody.
I do not know what a leg is.
I know the insect has six legs
I know the animal has four legs
I know the bird has two legs.
Your leg is my project paper
I do not know howmany legs you have
I do not know I a leg is.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Insect
Insect.
On my blue lined writing pad a tiny insect walks,
it appears lost and hesitates before crossing a line,
lost in this vast wilderness of the unwritten.
I try to blow it off the paper, but somehow glues
itself to the paper and will not budge.
I cannot touch it tiny as it is I will surely squash it.
Nothing I can do for now, leave it to its own devise,
go watch TV. When I returned it has gone, a sheet
of paper with nothing written on is a lonely place
and has no story to tell.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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My Tiny Fellow Traveller
An insect shaped like a butterfly
Not really willing to die
For he feared to be flown
By the wind that was being blown
In the train I was travelling by
Which was passing through low and high
Leaving barren and tilled landscapes behind
And moving regularly ahead towards its goal to find;
The insect was too small
Trying his best to creep on a wall
Of flesh and blood which was of my
No other than but left thigh
On which he was creeping
To find a shelter or something
To be safe against the blowing wind
This he decided in his mind;
His wings blotted black and white
For me it's a fine sight
I was infatuated by the scene
And everything else was to me unscene
He still lay on my thigh
As if trying to be safer
But the wind was not getting slower
Nor did he pass anywhere by;
Meanwhile, the rain started
And even closer to me he shifted
I spread my palm on his body
To avoid wind and rain drops
When the rain and the wind ceased
And my train at its goal reached
He slipped somewhere away
Bidding me no thanks nor good bye.
poem by Indresh Kumar
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Frame Work
The Present is a precious rug
under which, with care, we sweep,
the Past that few desire undug, -
but through weft warped heaped dust must seep...
Though some may carp while others pet,
the end result remains the same,
those past forgot, those left forget,
pick up the pieces of the game
Life plays with Death, as unpaid debt
and credit balance out to tame
ambitions high whose overthrow
comes when sun’s zenith blinds to shame, -
alike pride, selflessness, and show,
bluff, bluster, submission, lofty aim,
both fear of here and of hereafter,
present tears, and present laughter,
oblivion snuffs all (t) race of fame,
and fossil light frame who will know –
or what – when swallowed every name
by Time whose rhymes and reasons flow
into forgetfullness or flame,
no sentience left to explain
how seasons come and seasons go.
The Present is a rug which, precious, held,
reels on towards a future film withheld,
and though we’d sweep the Past’s dead dust beneath,
it filters through, preparing our own wreath.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Beside Myself
Small child messing down, messing down.
In the streets of bombay.
Cities like this have no shame, no shame;
Indeed, why should they?
Out in the middle distance, several tragedies are playing.
Im beside myself.
Big sister, can you hear him, can you hear him?
Im beside myself.
Big sister, can you see him cry, see him cry?
Im beside myself.
I saw you taking money in the shadows --
In the shadows by the station there.
Ill wish you up a silver train
To carry you to school, bring you home again.
Strip off that work paint and put a cleaner face on.
Im beside myself.
Hollow faced mother with her babe in arms,
Babe in arms-looks through me.
Behind forgotten charms,
Forgotten charms to soothe me.
Between the guilt and charity --
I feel the wimp inside of me.
Im beside myself.
Out in the middle distance, still more tragedies are playing.
Im beside myself.
Im so proud of you --
Swimming up from the deep blue.
Which one of me do you run to?
Im beside myself.
Small child messing down, messing down.
In the streets of bombay.
Cities like this have no shame, have no shame;
Indeed, why should they?
Out in the middle distance, several tragedies are playing.
Im beside myself.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Beside Myself
Small child messing down, messing down.
In the streets of bombay.
Cities like this have no shame, no shame;
Indeed, why should they?
Out in the middle distance, several tragedies are playing.
Im beside myself.
Big sister, can you hear him, can you hear him?
Im beside myself.
Big sister, can you see him cry, see him cry?
Im beside myself.
I saw you taking money in the shadows --
In the shadows by the station there.
Ill wish you up a silver train
To carry you to school, bring you home again.
Strip off that work paint and put a cleaner face on.
Im beside myself.
Hollow faced mother with her babe in arms,
Babe in arms-looks through me.
Behind forgotten charms,
Forgotten charms to soothe me.
Between the guilt and charity --
I feel the wimp inside of me.
Im beside myself.
Out in the middle distance, still more tragedies are playing.
Im beside myself.
Im so proud of you --
Swimming up from the deep blue.
Which one of me do you run to?
Im beside myself.
Small child messing down, messing down.
In the streets of bombay.
Cities like this have no shame, have no shame;
Indeed, why should they?
Out in the middle distance, several tragedies are playing.
Im beside myself.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Emergency Exit
I must be present now
before I can have a past;
I must be present now
to create a future then.
If I still my present mind
and exchange present thoughts
for nothing at all,
I have escaped past and future
and achieved a timeless peace
with no yesterday, no tomorrow.
I am
before
Abraham was.
poem by Brian Taylor
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