The man who removes a mountain begins by carrying away small stones.
quote by William Faulkner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The man who removes a mountain begins by carrying away small stones.
The man who moves a mountain begins by carrying away small stones.
The one who removed the mountain was the one who began carrying away stones.
Migration
Migration
In this rich flat landscape there are no stones they had to
travel to the far mountain and with mule and cart it was
a long arduous journey. Stones were only used as base for
houses and as grave stones, but since these were stolen
so this practice ended, the dead had to do with wooden
crosses which tend to rot when it rains. Farmers buried
their stones under a mass of soil, for safety mounds of
them dotted the flat landscape and made it less monotone.
Modern time, a railway line stretches across the land and
ends in a haze were the mountain begins, stones are now
a common thing, way, all and sundry has one, the poorest
even have gravelled strewn back yards. A clever man decided
to open a rise and sell stones a souvenir as a memory of
the past, when life was idyllic, but he found a mass grave,
not only human skeletons but also household goods, toys
and musical instruments.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Im Carrying
By dawns first light Ill come back to your room again
With my carnation hidden by the packages
Im carrying, something
Im carrying something for you
Ah, long time no see baby sure has been a while
And if my reappearance lacks a sense of style
Im carrying, something
Im carrying something for you
Im carrying.
Im carrying, cant help it.
Im carrying.
Im carrying something for you.
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Those who remove mountains begin by carrying away small stones.
Buddha pined at its Feet for Enlightenment
there is a sacredness
in the mountain
as it reaches up to heaven
humbly carrying spirits
in their last leg in reincarnation realm
they are in the trees
in the stones, in every path
in zero thought meditation
to severe desires, umbilical cord
that attach them to pain, suffering
their endeavour throws
a holy presence
and sits in a spot in your core
you would attribute only
to the Sacred One
the mountain's fresh and minted breath
mersmerises, and seeps
through the physique -
a foretaste of nirvana
the trees are the highest
in reincarnation realm
not a sound as they trumpet
their way up the mountain
carrying the Sacred One
higher than the mountain
its hands and finger all
all ready to embrace him
they pass all his tests -
slash it, chop it, burn it, skin it -
they stay calm and quiet
resigning themselves to fate -
proving that they have renounced
all earthy desires
the bodhi gained enlightenment,
took pity and and shared it with Buddha
as he pined at its feet
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Rucksack Full Of Stones
A Babe…
Born perfect, innocent, ready
Cast into a corrupt world
Parents eagerly present
A family heirloom
A patchwork rucksack
Part-filled with stones
To a wide-eyed child
Begins the journey…
Child given stones of many shapes, sizes
Stones of pity, sorrow, fear, trauma
Stones filled with words like “No”
Stones filled with ugly phrases
Stones filled with abuse, punishment, pain
Rucksack seams burgeon
A growing Soul shouts
“Enough”
Emptying begins…
Through lessons, experiences, prayer
One by one
Removed the stones
Rucksack lightens
By the Grace of God,
Finally emptied
Another Babe born
Rucksack beckons
“Not this time”
Rucksack flung
Into Wisdom’s Fire
Consumed
Ends a vicious cycle…
poem by Ray Lucero
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The Gun
The man has a gun
He knows how to use it
Nine millimeter browning
Lets see what he can do
Hell point at your mouth
Say that hell blow your brains out
Dont you mess with me
Carrying a gun
Carrying a gun
Carrying a gun
Dont you mess with me
Carrying a gun
Carrying a gun
Carrying a gun
Dont mess with me
Ooohhh, carrying a gun
Get over there
Move slowly
Ill put a hole in your face
If you even breathe a word
Tell the lady to lie down
I want, ah, you to be sure to see this
I wouldnt want you to miss a second
Watch your wife
Carrying a gun
Shooting with a gun
Dirty animal
Carrying a gun
Carrying a gun
Watch you face
Carrying a gun
Carrying a gun
Carrying a gun
The animal dies with fear in his eyes
With a gun
Dont touch him, dont touch him
Stay away from him, hes got a gun
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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With Sdiment From The Mountains
The top of the mountain (1375)
Snake River Dry screw
And beyond the more
Dry skin remains a
The big snake
Both the same
One without water.
Win a free snake
The yellow smoke
On
That is the hallmark rebel
Now I'm standing over the mountains
Of mountain
City
Village is disturbed
With such a small person
Great hopes are
Of mountain
Lowland and Bhast
And I think
That Adam
I do not think
Lay of the mountain car
How small and how younger people
Butterfly plays me
poem by Mohamad Reza Dorraninegad
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When a woman removes her garment, she also removes the respect that is hers.
Arrivals push the existing.
Discovery outdates the old theories.
Invention removes old practices.
Knowledge removes superstitions.
Experience amends opinions.
I rewrite my thoughts repeatedly.
20.01.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The pendant
You admired one that somebody
had made
and bought a small pair of pliers,
some silver wire,
clasps, hooks, bits,
different kinds of crystals,
semi-precious stones,
even blue tanzanite stones,
sirkovsky crystals, some pearls
and I saw you bore small holes
and bit-by-bit strung it together.
I watched you with your eyes focused
while you worked
with the pleasure of making something
really beautiful
to hang on your slender neck
between magnificent breasts.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Matchstick
Billowing black smoke, tinged with yellow.
Fiery crimson on a skeleton ridge set aglow.
Showers of flames explode, as the eucalypti fuel
This raging infernio - this catalyst that changes its world.
It removes the old, and replaces it with new.
A new world where things grow anew.
It removes the past's misfortunes and errors
Gives a new tomorrow, a chance for a new millennia.
So big, so vast. Those who would put it out, can't come near
For nothing is quite as dangerous as fear.
Even if they do, it would take an ocean, to quell this beast.
To extinguish such a fire manually, tis an impossible feat.
So powerful, so invincible, yet from small doth this thing grow.
It all starts with just a little match, yet behold.
Finite and weak. So underestimated and ignored.
A matchstick. We don't even think about it, it's so small,
Yet it possesses the power to change things like never before.
It can change the world to something we never saw.
True, many matches burn out. Some never even catch fire.
But ever so often, just now and then. Every once in a while:
A little matchstick sets of an unstoppable fire.
Just a twig, with a little phosphorus. A little nothing.
But give it a little strike, and it becomes a big something.
To start a bushfire, tis all you'll ever need:
A little matchstick.
poem by Joses Tirtabudi
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Sonnet - Small Things Matter Much
A dropp of water bears semblance to sea;
A whiff of air has make-up same as rest;
A pebble speaks a mountainous story;
A dew-dropp shows the landscape’s beauty best.
A tiny-tot has all the parents' trait;
A prayer small can wonders work like saint;
A word of kindness sows love, removes hate;
A mansion ain't as good as cottage quaint!
A single Rose has smell like a garland;
A blade of grass looks like the meadow great;
A musician faulty can spoil a band;
A mistake small can spell unhappy fate.
Small things matter just like a life-time's work;
Yet, failures small should not a man's mind irk.
poem by John Celes
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Depressed by a Book of Bad Poetry, I Walk Toward an Unused Pasture and Invite the Insects to Join Me
Relieved, I let the book fall behind a stone.
I climb a slight rise of grass.
I do not want to disturb the ants
Who are walking single file up the fence post,
Carrying small white petals,
Casting shadows so frail that I can see through them.
I close my eyes for a moment and listen.
The old grasshoppers
Are tired, they leap heavily now,
Their thighs are burdened.
I want to hear them, they have clear sounds to make.
Then lovely, far off, a dark cricket begins
In the maple trees.
poem by James Arlington Wright
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Death
Death overcomes me
It removes all my pain
As I sit asunder and
Watch them remove me
I watch the people
Cleanse my body
If only they could,
My soul
All the wrong I've
Done, I've now come to understand
All the good I
Did will never
Be enough
I should have done
What I could
Before death
Came to me
But I prefer
It this way
As death removes me
I can no longer sin...
20080126©
poem by scarlette Phoenix
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The Air is a Root
The air is a root.
The stones are filled with tenderness. bravo.
bravo. the stones are filled with air.
the stones are watery branches.
on the stones replacing the mouth
grows the skeleton of a leaf. bravo.
A stone voice face to face and foot to foot
with a stone glance.
the stones are tormented like flesh
the stones are clouds for their second
nature dances to them on their third nose.
bravo. bravo.
when the stones scratch themselves, nails grow
on the roots. bravo. bravo.
the stones woke to eat the exact
hour
Holy Mountain
From this small mountain
folded valleys glide
to shining waters.
Flowing like quicksilver,
dark rivers run free
to the sun-drenched sea.
This is my holy mountain.
I seek your gentle voice
where the small birds rest
on thin branches.
See how their breath
arouses the storm?
Fluttering wings
can make shudder the world,
to passion stir vast
twisting winds.
Though I am small
and dying,
make of me
a pillar of fire,
and I’ll descend from these heights
to flood the dark valleys
with your living light.
poem by Steven Federle
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