Who has fully realized that history is not contained in thick books but lives in our very blood?
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Following Orders As Soldiers.
Some follow orders well,
Others question authority
Everyone is someone's child
And sad it is
When their lives are snuffed.
Perhaps the War is noble
Could well be, that it is just
And pitiful are the answer
When consulting history books
Death is a constant
Remembrance a must
Difficult it is to judge when
The Victor writes the history books
© Calac.
poem by Chris Lane
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History Books
We read the history books
The death and destruction
That happened time
And time again
But remembering is futile,
Without total and complete consensus
War will happen again
The memories of the Elders
While we sit on the lap of danger
We are listening in awe
and disbelief
It could never happen here
Ten thousand dead!
The headlines blare
In some alternate universe
Separate from our cushioned existence
Their lives are marked by tragedy
Ours by the tragedy we have escaped
Our army is only numbers
Theirs dear departed souls
Their stories are separated by a barrier
Faceless, courageous people
Risk their lives each day
While we sit
And read the history books
poem by Hannah Rachnid
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We found nothing grand in the history of the Jews nor in the morals inculcated in the Pentateuch. I know of no other books that so fully teach the subjection and degradation of woman.
quote by Elizabeth Cady Stanton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All About History
History is the past
What do we need it for?
Time runs out real fast
Who cares what happened before? !
Princes who were wed
Forget what your teacher said
No need to fill your head
With people who are dead
Why do we need to know
Let them rest in peace
They died and we will so
From books their lives release
i wrote this one in a history exam (i didnt have anything else to do)
The ugly human face
Wailing with tears and
Helplessly in commotion,
All of you’re telling to write
The history of hatred, enmity, killings,
The history of human ugly face.
My pen is dried up,
Tell me in which medium,
And language should I write.
Where to begin and
Where to end
Such history of human ugly face.
Oh! Betrayer
You’re telling me to wipe out from the history
Of such human ugly face,
That shattered and shook human conscience,
That haunts the face of those innocent people,
Killed and hurt; widows and orphans.
That hums: that reminds.
Telling me just to close my eyes.
But I’m not blind.
Telling me not to speak,
But I’m not dumb.
Telling me not to write the truth,
But I cannot write anything but the truth.
How can I deceive the history where I belong?
Human memory is short,
Tears would dry up,
The blood would be washed away with time
But the silent words, written in the heart of each human ugly face
Imbedded forever and immortal.
Let me dip the pen in the smeared blood,
The blood of all religions, caste, creed and colour, poor and rich,
The thick blood of those innocent persons.
poem by Dr.bhagya Chandra Rajkumar
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He keeps his beef between the two buns,
Away from the hungry eyes of nuns,
Hamburger is his pride,
He's fully satisfied,
His blood is thick, but his heart still runs.
quote by by Marius Alexandru (4 April 2021)
Submitted by anonym
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Cobblestones
The coffin, set up as coffins always are, near the grave, contained the father. The sentence, set up as sentences always are, on the page, contained the words. The meat package, set up as meat packages always are, with cellophane covering, contained the chops. The synagogue, set up as synagogues always are, for people, contained the rabbi. The classroom, set up as classrooms always are, for chairs, contained the professor. The coffin, set up as coffins always are, beside the grave, contained the mother. The word, set up as words always are, beyond hearing, contained the syllables. The prose, set up as prose always is, in census-rectangles, contained the phenomena. The nation, set up as nations always are, in questionnaire rooms, contained the sworn. The can, set up as cans always are, with ornate paper covers, contained the chicken o’noodle soup, with the circular noodles. Abacus, guitar, and quipu, set up as abacus, guitar and quipu always are, hieratically on notional strings, contained tobacco’s troubadours. The coffin, set up as coffins always are, next to the grave, contained the sister. The elegy, set up as elegies always are, dishonestly, contained the family. The steak, set up as steaks always are, artificially reddened, contained the fat. The rectangular venetian blinds, set up as rectangular venetian blinds always are, in the windowframe, contained the slats. The DNA, set up as DNA always is, in double helixes, contained the and. The word people, set up as the word people always is, in writing, contained the o.
poem by Aaron Fogel
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What kind of god?
What would we want with a god of no mystery
A god so simply contained
Within the limits of human history?
Why would we want
A god we could handle
What good would that be?
If we were able
We'd simply manipulate this god
To serve the greater needs of 'me'.
But, where then
- filled with an empty faith in ourselves -
Would we stand?
With only our egos
Above the clouds
And our heads in the sand.
What god
- of all we suppose -
Could possibly be,
Enough god
To fulfill the deep desire
Of insatiable humanity?
Only one the need fits
Beyond our ability
To own and fully know,
Tis the same that
We shall never master
Nor control.
This kind of god
Mysteriously in others we can see,
The kind of God
With a captial 'G'.
'Those who have not been told shall see, those who have not heard shall ponder it.'
- Isaiah.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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Written In Red!
Pages of history of man kind
Are written red,
Those who thought their blood,
As blue as sky or as blue as deep ocean,
Wrote the pages in Red and every page is full of bloodshed!
Hungry people weep for even glass of water,
And even for that they had blood to shed,
Innocent plants or innocent grass die,
When two elephants fight for supremacy!
They never care how many innocent may die!
Great heroes are made on the number of men they despatch to hell,
Saying patriots have heaven in their fight!
They are heroes like matadors at the cost of blood of an innocent bull!
Otherwise they are as you and me except that cruelty,
Men the made several men to shed blood, in the name of woman,
May it be sita, may it be Padmini
Or may be Helen of Troy,
All men were treated like toys
By a that a few mad boys,
To have their woman back,
Or defend their action,
All religions have their history written in red,
May it be books that are from God,
Stained with red, God signed it with blood,
Put the rubber stamp of quality with bone and flesh,
Every nation is having its own fountain of blood shed!
power hungry need only to shed crocodile tears,
Or just present awards and reward,
Those who safeguard
and died to save them!
May it be Ashoka, may it be Idi Ameen
or may be Churchil, or may be Gandhi,
Or may Lincoln or Changez Khan
Only they were famous due blood shed!
May it be history of continent or that sub continent
Only a story written in blood, On human skin and with bones as pens!
May it be any ' -ism ' or may
Politics in spain or Britain,
Equally dangerous are these..
Power or woman,
Ambition or nation,
Whether terrorist or counter terrorist venture
Police or politician,
Every history of massive wealth,
Or a piece of land
Religion or culture, blood is That red ink with pages of history is written only in red!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Food For The Body
Food is of geese, blood and guts,
Under this river of blood and ancestry.
Friendly relationships come forth when adjusted
By the food granted by the authors of books
And the very changers of uniform.
Ichor, a fluid of the Gods, runs through it all,
The body of drugs and violence,
To shatter and obey, to be munched and abstained,
Like lionesses.
Food is critical, it needs a message
So that you abide by the rules of music and wizardry.
Food is of the wizards and witches, fully able
To delight and appal and be rejected.
poem by Naveed Akram
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But it will be said that the husband provides for the wife, or in other words, he feeds, clothes and shelters her! I wish I had the power to make every one before me fully realize the degradation contained in that idea.
quote by Ernestine Rose
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My History Teacher
My ice cold blood
[you're not a warm-blooded creature]
Your ice cold stare
Is my HISTORY TEACHER
I sewed my heart up one little stich at a time
One shotty job done, it is true, but I
couldn't do it by myself, you coulda done the rest
But you went and ripped it right outta my chest
My ice cold blood
[you're not a warm-blooded creature]
Your ice cold stare
Is my HISTORY TEACHER
I wasn't even finished
I needed more thread
I got distracted by the
'Good' ideas you put in my head
My ice cold blood
[you're not a warm-blooded creature]
Your ice cold stare
Is my HISTORY TEACHER
You remind me of my delicate past
You remind me I'm good for nothing
You tell me that you love me[lies]
And remind me I wont be anything
My ice cold blood
[you're not a warm-blooded creature]
Your ice cold stare
Is my HISTORY TEACHER
You make me remeber what I've done
Because you make me remember I have no friends
You make me remeber It's all my fault
For making my happiness end
My ice cold blood
[you're not a warm-blooded creature]
Your ice cold stare
Is my HISTORY TEACHER
My ice cold blood
[you're not a warm-blooded creature]
Your ice cold stare
Is my HISTORY TEACHER
poem by Gabriella Franco
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Three Kinds of People
The books of my history
Begins with comedy
And end with tragedy
“Son”, do you know this
Spontaneous?
If you don’t know
Don’t mind
Your father will tell you.
There are three kinds of people
But the history knows only two
The first are foxy foxes
Who do right things and
Great good deeds
They stand at the top of history
The second are mad dogs
Who do wrong things and
Great evil deeds
They stand at the bottom of history
The third are piggy hyenas
Who are neither wise nor foolish?
Who cannot do right or wrong?
The history doesn’t know them
They have no chapter in history book
Can you choose among them for
Your inspiration and if you
Can heed my advice
The foxes are the best stars
To stick to.
poem by David Aoloch Bion
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Right around the end of the fifties, college students and young people in general, began to realize that this music was almost like a history of our country - this music contained the real history of the people of this country.
quote by Jackson Browne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Books are the carriers of civilization. Without books, history is silent, literature dumb, science crippled, thought and speculation at a standstill.
quote by Barbara Tuchman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Test Week
Here comes test week one
There is less time for fun.
Boys are studying hard all day
For them to top in some way.
Some have english first than chemistry
Then physics, maths and history.
They stay up late till twelve 'o' clock
The studying never seems to stop.
For maths, boys practice many sums
And do so well that 'hundred' comes.
Books in the morning, books at night
Books, books, books all the time.
Then comes the end of 'test week one'
Now its time for all the fun.
Nest week inter-house soccer begins
The competitions tough....
....Never know who's going to win!
poem by Varun Pais
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One Blue Buffalo (Sestina)
Snow swirled and blew over the plain
the minutes melted into hours
the frosted buffalo stood still
solid against the breath of time
it faced life and death with scotch
colored eyes, affected by nothing and no one
each winter struggle the buffalo won
illustrated mastery of blue sky and plain—
wicked winds and flying ice could not scotch
survival that desperately depended on each hour
it was the buffalo’s time—the natives’ time
and without hesitation it remained still
history remembers lost time, still
it is accepted by most and accurate to no one
misrepresentations are drawn by this time—
what happened on the buffalo’s plain
or in the blue of each pond, each hour
history changes—reality is scotched
wicked truths, told through fifths of Scotch
through the gaze of the present hold time still,
moments disregard the buffalo to becomes ours,
the blue past of many is unwillingly chained to one—
ancient sunsets over purple and yellow plains
are prisoners of industry, technology, history and time
ancient senses remain unaffected by lavender, sage or thyme
they cannot revive what books have done to scotch
the blue buffalo that dotted the wicked plain
the petrified past is bound to remain still,
years, days, faces, herds, species become one—
books have the inability to retrieve a single hour
or a history that is the buffalo’s, the natives’, ours
when books are replaced by computers, in time,
history will be reborn, all of our days will become one
technology will distort this time, scotch
our truths, a hundred thousand sunsets will remain still
billions of blue lives will paint a picture that’s plain
our truths and a past we’ll never know become scotched
time is irrelevant when lives mesh to singular sights—everything’s still
one blue buffalo stands on a museum wall in the whirl of winter winds, silent against time’s plain
poem by Jane L. Carman
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On Love Half Realized
Even in the dream
Never lay your lashes
For half-realized love.
Half curtailed dreams
Torment the eyes.
Implant not half-recalled memory,
In the terrain of heart, for it pricks
And wheezes restlessly therein,
Rattles agonizingly,
And flashes like lightening in the blood.
Let go away love half-realized
For Love, Fondness,
And Love Madness
Are always unfulfilled, half-realized.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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One Ancestry
One race...one ancestry
One place...one history
The importance of all these -
The start of you and me
Our family is like branches of tree
Some remain in Palompon, Leyte
A place where we can feel and see
Our great ancestor's merits and bravery
Others grow in different lands
Yet, our roots remain as one.
Each of our lives will always be intertwined
The breathe we take
The blood that flows through our veins
Is like a song that will never change.
A tear in my eye
With a heart full of pride
And that I cannot hide.
As I'm so blessed to be a part of history
A history that will be remembered and treasured
Not only today but on the next generation..
All of the information
Gathered from the past
Through your help & coordination we made it at last!
So, thank you for all you do,
I appreciate it and that's true!
poem by Amor Olorvida
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From the pages of History
The blood as I know
Has no colour nor any flavour
Except it's history
That flows through the ages.
Neanderthal or Neolithic men,
Homo sapiens, warriors or peasants...
Nobody knows the chemistry of blood
Except the sharpen swords!
Since my birth I watch
The bloodstained pages of history
Fly over the dark sky......
poem by Braja K Sarkar
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