I should like these few words to be read over the grave when my body is placed in the earth; for though it is possible I may be present and conscious of what is going on, I shall not be able to communicate.
quote by Edward Carpenter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Being Conscious Of Things
I know that the earth is round.
I’m not conscious of it
When I walk down the earth.
I know I shall be dead.
I’m not conscious of it
When I plan for tomorrow.
I know God is present.
Must I be conscious of Him
While I enjoy myself?
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Beauty is holistic
Be clean; you are conscious of skin.
Do yoga; you are conscious of body.
Do prnayama; you are conscious of energy.
Do meditation; you are conscious of mind.
Being conscious of it is strengthening of it.
Then which woman can resist you?
12.08.2001, Pkd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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There's no question that photographs communicate more instantly and powerfully than words do, but if you want to communicate a complex concept clearly, you need words, too.
quote by Galen Rowell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Truly, Truly, This Is The End
They say deaths an open door
Into another room
Within the city of the dead
(Our New Kingdom)
They say we walk like dreams
Sharing the same breath
Seeing through the same eyes
(A collective spirit)
As we pray (As we pray)
On his grave (On his grave)
Or words fall and decay (And decay)
As we pray (As we pray)
On his grave (On his grave)
Or words fall and decay (And decay)
They say the Earth it gives no peace
Nor does it take away
We all survive the grave
(Unfortunate eternal)
They say that in times past
A king walked in the sky
Until dethroned by man
(Tribe of Judas)
As we pray (As we pray)
On his grave (On his grave)
Or words fall and decay (And decay)
As we pray (As we pray)
On his grave (On his grave)
Or words fall and decay (And decay)
Truly, truly, this is the end
Truly, truly, this is the end
Truly, truly, this is the end
Truly, truly, this is the end
It's not the same
I'm plagued with pain and I can't let go
It's not the same
I'm plagued with pain and I can't let go
It's not the same
I'm plagued with pain and I can't let go
It's not the same
I'm plagued with pain and I can't let go
This is the end
song performed by by Zao
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It Is Not
Conscious of structure.
Conscious of order, law and discipline.
Conscious of those to whom is given respect.
Conscious of tradition and ideals...
And the effect this has on one's mindset.
Conscious of a faith that goes much deeper,
Than the faking of an acceptance of rituals.
Conscious of life,
And the limits of it lived.
Conscious are those,
Who are aware that this life...
Is much more than it is perceived,
It is!
Since it is not what we have been led to believe.
And a consciousness of those conscious of this,
Is what has been received.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Letter body
Everything is there in th letter
And the letter has no letter.
Your body is a letter
You have to read and float
And go further and further.
Are you feeling comfortable?
Have you ever enjoyed your sleep?
You are not at rest
And not seen your body yet
The most valuable gift given to you.
You have not kept the body
In good condition
And the body is taking your care
Read the body read the letter of the body
And go with the body to understand the letter
And make yourself ready to get the nector.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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To me, living in the present means being aware of your conscious choice to focus on the past, present or future - it is not necessarily having to focus on the present.
quote by Bo Bennett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Perishing But Renewed
Though by illness my life is rent, I am mindful it's only a tent,
I speak of this body of mine, my temporal body for this time,
Though my outward body perish, my life in God I can cherish,
As inward I'm renewed by God, for life above this earthly sod.
My body may fail on the earth, but, my life is in my New Birth,
Now a member of God's Family, I received promises eternally,
Knowing on earth we all may die, real life starts above the sky,
In a place, prepared by Christ, where we begin our Eternal Life.
Our bodies are temporal friend, for this earthly life has its end,
An end indeed we all will see, and then there will be an eternity,
The end won't be the same for all, as we are under Adam's fall,
And some at their last breath, will see not eternal life but death.
However, in Christ I have hope, when in times it's hard to cope,
As this present cancer impedes, my present life with its needs,
My Lord God is always there, helping with each need and care,
Helping me trust in Him not me, as He prepares me for eternity.
For me there's only eternal gain, but my life He too can sustain,
Extending my life, as a mortal man, if that is within God's Plan,
So He would allow my present life, to continue on with my wife,
That we may both depart together, to live with our Lord forever.
(Copyright ©09/2012)
Words
we open the doors to worlds unknown
when we sit and read.
words help us to travel
this earth far and wide
even makes us soar high into the sky.
words can tell us of the past
the present, and even the future.
if we only look
inside a book.
words to make a contract
words to make a vow
all these words
we can use right now.
words tell your feelings, your thoughts, desires, passions
likes, dislikes, fears, joys
but most of all, love can express the love you have within.
for a mother, father, sister, brother
for a man or a woman.
your chest becomes overwhelmed
with the feeling that you have inside.
a love that you can not hide.
a love so strong that it consumes your soul
a beautiful wonder to behold.
for it rises higher than the highest mountain
and deeper than the deepest sea.
when you say those special words
'you belong to me'.
words sharpen the mind to all that is done
like the rising of the sun.
if we could not see or hear words,
it would be like living in darkness.
and never learning to appreciate
what we was given.
so these words i write today
expresses what i want to say.
without words we could not live
and that my friend
would be a down right sin.
poem by Louis Rams
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The First Poem
The first poem I ever read
is the first words I ever said.
The words I love you
written by this beauty's tongue
turned a heart rosy red from a somber blue
and made me burn for my heart was wrung.
The first poem I ever read
is the first poem I ever said.
On her poetic lips love words refined
and shaped a sonnet on her flesh defined
On those lips I read a poet's song
And knew it was there my lips belonged.
The first poem I ever read
is the first words I ever said.
I love you, I love you
What does it mean?
These words said, to start anew
something pure and something serene.
The first words I ever read
is the first words I ever said.
Those first words she whispered into my ear
And in my heart, her poem stood near
Those are the most beautiful words one ever said
I love you, I love you, will live till its dead.
The first poem I ever read
is the first words I ever said.
I read her lips, I love you, I love you..
now to sleep I go in love's sweet bed.
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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A Lesson In Living
What words expel the conscious
leaving the mind to wander aimless
Where history haunts like a ghost
Forever watched by the days past
Then to the future that great unknown
The words and phrases of a mortal fear
Hold present in each taken breath
What awaits, what awaits
Anticipation burns beneath the skin
A fiery torment of a busy mind
The levels of observation and judgment
Overwhelm a tired soul
Love a word of just four letters
Becomes a saviour to behold
A creation of countless misunderstandings
Bore into the world into the conscious
A daily never ending cascade of thought
Each one becoming a lesson in living
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Composing Poem
Composing poem is not a game to play
Composing poem has no loss no profit.
No body has got complete control over words
No body has a thought even how to use words
From start to end.
The man who is composing poem act as a middleman
Between the creator and the creation
And the middleman has no right to say about
The original picture and theme.
No body is there to guess what is there
In the mind of the compositor
At times the compositor himself could not say
What he is composing and for whom.
Words thoughts and pictures present
As pretenders and the compositor is the
Only scapegoat.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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History?
Has history taught us nothing
but tales and ancient lies?
All wrapped up in stories
not told us by the wise?
Told by the vicars who consecrated death
Told by the rulers
with power in their breath.
Passed on in written words
in books the masses read,
never questioned, never disputed
in the minds they lead.
Slanted stories still present
right to our present day.
Foes of peace seen as heroes
in ungodly ways
and as we live the history writers
will pen each blazing act
as benificent for these difficult times,
more fiction than true fact.
So those who follow in our steps
will read our history book
and what they read will be fantasy
with a different look.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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To Read And Read Again
TO READ AND READ AGAIN
To read and to read again
And to be left empty
By the abundance of words
Whose meanings multiplication
Erases all sense
Of their coherence
And our understanding.
To read and read again
As if in this pretence of learning
Salvation will come
To read and read again
And be forever dumb.
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The body to communicate
Don’t dress to show your wealth.
Don’t dress with much costume.
Don’t sink in jewelry.
Your body must communicate.
Don’t write to show your skills.
Don’t write extensively.
Don’t invent frequent rhymes.
Your message must communicate.
26.11.2011
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Read My Lips
verbal silence. read my lips.
if you see them.
read the words. read it here.
these words. read them like
flowers in the garden.
these words speak a little.
tips of the iceberg. They are less
compared to the color of my eyes
the warmth of my fingers
the suppressed beatings of my heart.
these words that you read.
if only you can see my lips.
if only you can see my face.
and body, naked on the flowing sheet of
pure paper. IF only you know
what silence means, how emptiness
eats it, if only you know how inferior
verbs and adjectives are
compared to the caresses of the hands
and the tenderness of the fingers,
touch.
read the lines silently.
these words do not shape my lips.
they come to your eyes.
in the silence of your understanding.
never shall they speak
about me. they only talk about
the hands that write sometimes
without any meaning at all.
infinitives are not infinite.
neither do verbs know what is it to be still.
and adjectives talk only about the surface.
deep under, the noise begins.
and silence of the verbs move to another side.
now, the mountains of ideas collapse
and bury the casualties of silence.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The One Conscious
A conscious mind,
Showing up late and half dressed...
Will go much further.
Than the unconscious one,
Fully dressed...
In a tuxedo,
Not appearing to be there at all.
Even though physically present!
Both are scrutinized...
But the one conscious,
Is far more entertaining!
And eventually forgiven.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Body language is a very powerful tool. We had body language before we had speech, and apparently, 80% of what you understand in a conversation is read through the body, not the words.
quote by Deborah Bull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Of The Body And Soul...
upon a fusion, you live immersed
conscious about a self within a self
(as in soul bathed in a body,
body trapped by the roaming soul)
sometimes you sigh
this body is so beautiful and my soul has wasted it,
if i (soul) were just enough,
a transfer should have been made a long time ago
liberating this body and letting it find its own definition of joy
the soul is selfish, having entered it has no key for the exit
these two have been too irreconcilable
everyday is an argument, every night a disillusion
fate, bad luck, inseparability, the absurdity of having to live
on immiscible arrangements
water and oil, sky and earth
the days are running, there is nothing detachable.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Tall Claims
You become a chair.
A dream sits in you
for a graphic detail of
pelvis. A trophy?
Was it undecorous to present
a cadaver walking on the earth?
A serial killer wants a plaque
on his grave after the verdict.
Saber-rattling has started,
unplucking the lovers of game.
A peltate shield in hushed silence
covers the undressing.
The prisoner of words tempers with
a mask to become a bruise.
poem by Satish Verma
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