This is all you have. This is not a dry run. This is your life. If you want to fritter it away with your fears, then you will fritter it away, but you won't get it back later.
quote by Laura Schlessinger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Someone who can write aphorisms should not fritter away his time in essays.
quote by Karl Kraus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When you raise prices, you've got to make sure you get it to the bottom line. You can fritter it away because of the way you're running the business, with maybe not a totally disciplined approach.
quote by Jim Cantalupo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Disappointment in Old Age
The days drag by. I fritter
Them away. Old and bitter,
I call my fellow humans apes
And live on a diet of sour grapes.
But what did I expect? Did I think
I'd earn my living with pen and ink?
That everything would be handed to me on a plate?
I'm wiser now but it's too late.
I realise I've missed the boat,
And now my enemies can gloat
While I'm searching for what I'll never find,
That elusive treasure, peace of mind.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Equinox
As I stand before you the picture gets clearer;
Clear as the dermis of the sun perching aloft
The hands of clock would fritter away
Your incinerating flame would freeze
And scrape my skin into films
Light will cease out, darkness will cave in
The shadows will envelope territories
But would hang a bloated ball
It would absorb your entity
As I shall waste my own.
Parallel equity, omnipresence.
If I quit your world
Would you be renowned?
Would I live my own?
poem by Norman Santos
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An Elegy for My Father
It was a boring Saturday afternoon when my father died,
I'd been listening to Buddy Holly on the radio and wasting my time,
Mucking about with a stanza or two and looking for a rhyme,
It was a boring Saturday afternoon the day my father died.
My mother had dementia and couldn't understand
That my father was dying and leaving her behind,
She thought he'd gone on a journey and she didn't really mind,
But she wanted him to come back to her and she didn't understand.
What really appals me is that no-one makes a noise,
Things happen that shake your heart but nobody beats a drum,
We do not even notice when the Angels of Darkness come,
And what really appals me is that no-one makes a noise.
Camus says 'each of us is born condemned to die' -
And I guess it certainly seems that way,
You fritter away your time on another boring day,
Measuring your life out with Buddy Holly tunes
Or pints of beer or even coffee spoons,
But I'm sick of all the philosophy and I want to cry.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Time
Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.
Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain.
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.
So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.
Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say.
song performed by by Pink Floyd from Dark Side Of The Moon (1972)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The boss is away
When the cat is away,
The mice rejoice and play.
Freedom to relax and to sleep,
Only play, no work please.
Free to gossip, free to loiter,
Tell everyone it’s time to fritter.
No urgency, no hurry, no tension,
Everything must wait,
As long as you want to.
Personal work, personal problems,
Are more important folks.
So while the boss is away,
No checks, no supervision,
We are our own bosses.
Work at will or have a holiday,
Tea, coffee, merriment all day.
Let the workaholics slog and say,
Hard work, sincerity, honesty.
When the boss comes let’s see,
Whether to work or shirk,
Today is the day to rejoice,
Tomorrow will be a different day,
So be it.
poem by Ramesh Adwant
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The Ground Thrush
I'm a business man; and I can't spare time
For this fluting and fussing and frilling.
The song of my cousin may be sublime,
But I never have found it filling.
So I run and I dig and I dig and I run,
And I'm at it soon as the day's begun,
And I never knock off till the light is done
Over the garden and lawn and tilling.
I'm a business man on my business bent,
And I've never an hour of leisure.
I have little regard for sentiment,
And I fritter no time in pleasure.
But I dig and I run and I run and I dig;
And you never see me at my ease on a twig,
Prinking and posing in holiday rig
Or trilling a tuneful measure.
I'm a business man, and I've much to do;
So the day's work must be speeded.
For time is fleeting and worms are few-
I've never had all I needed.
So I run and I dig and I dig and I run
From sun to shadow, from shadow to sun,
I'm a business man, and the world I shun;
So I live and I die unheeded.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Spring Comes To Murray Hill
I sit in an office at 244 Madison Avenue
And say to myself You have a responsible job havenue?
Why then do you fritter away your time on this doggerel?
If you have a sore throat you can cure it by using a good goggeral,
If you have a sore foot you can get it fixed by a chiropodist,
And you can get your original sin removed by St. John the Bopodist,
Why then should this flocculent lassitude be incurable?
Kansas City, Kansas, proves that even Kansas City needn't always be
Missourible.
Up up my soul! This inaction is abominable.
Perhaps it is the result of disturbances abdominable.
The pilgrims settled Massachusetts in 1620 when they landed on a stone
hummock.
Maybe if they were here now they would settle my stomach.
Oh, if I only had the wings of a bird
Instead of being confined on Madison Avenue I could soar in a jiffy to
Second or Third.
poem by Ogden Nash
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Holiday For The Forgotten
Here, have some of my holiday,
Reveling in the blares of soliloquy
And watching the stars shift their bones
Waiting for the first signs of dawn
And laying awake in your bedroom
Until the sunspots would fritter away
Again, back into the Mobius Strip
Of impassable holidays.
Come take a seat in my banquet
A hollow table for eight people
With sutured lips and eyes,
A superfluity of feast and revelry
In a plethora of emptiness,
That would keep us bloated
All through the gaudy merriment
Of the dilettante eve.
Succor in the warmth of an empty hearth
And be accustomed to the comport
Of the bleak echoes of silence
And let us open the presents
That we wrapped for ourselves
And the unanticipated letters
Of coveting unfettered friends,
Inebriate with the pangs of jealousy.
Evocatively, inexorably,
A surfeit of effervescent air
Can suffocate the trampled ones
Whose names were not inscribed
In the jaunty arms of carousals
But we, we will breath our own air
With the cinders of schmaltz flair
Cordially inviting in the holiday of the forgotten.
poem by Norman Santos
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Killing Love (Stream XX)
Love like gentle petals unfurls,
A tender plant killed by harsh words.
A flower that needs much nurturing
For then it will blossom, grow.
But we, we two,
Having this great gift
Did fritter it away.
Spend thrifts we were,
Misers to its needs.
Gave it no bread.
Fed it no water.
Let the weeds of indifference grow
Choking it with strangling vines.
So that it died in the desert of our neglect.
Killed it stone dead with unkind thoughts
Withered it with cold looks
That chilled and froze the heart.
Turned caresses to sharp words
And used our tongues as swords.
The passion that once burned
Tuned to hot anger.
Destroyed and consumed it.
Now it lies between us ashes.
And we both desolate,
Go our separate ways.
poem by Paul Brookes
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Is man really courageous?
Is man really courageous?
He who says so
Must be lunatic.
Man fears life,
He fears death,
He fears disease,
He fears failure
And sometimes his success also,
He fears the truth,
He fears honesty,
He fears God
But on his terms,
And above all
He fears himself.
So why should he be called
A courageous?
poem by Mohammad Akmal Nazir
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To a Friend
ADAM, because on the mind's roads
Your mouth is always in a hurry,
Because you know odes
And ways to make a curry,
Because you fall in love with words
And whistle beauty forth to kiss them,
And blow the tails from China birds
Whilst I continually miss them,
Because you top my angry best
At billiards, fugues or pulling corks out,
And whisk a fritter from its nest
Before there's time to hand the forks out,
Because you saw the Romans wink,
Because your senses dance to metre,
Because, no matter what I drink,
You'll hold at least another litre,
Because you've got a gipsy's eye
That melts the rage of catamountains,
And metaphors that pass me by
Burst from your lips in lovely fountains,
Because you've bitten the harsh foods
Of life, grabbed every dish that passes,
And walked amongst the multitudes
Without the curse of looking-glasses,
Because I burn the selfsame flame
No falls of dirty earth may smother,
Oh, in your Abbey of Thélème,
Enlist me as a serving-brother!
poem by Kenneth Slessor
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Prod, God And All
Standing before me, the mountain
Tall, black, strong and impregnable
Challenging my nerve and gumption
Ready to laugh if I turn tail
But I must cross it, that’s my will
My life; need dire and my future
Between being skeptic and hopeful
At the task uphill, I fritter
The lull is painful and I stare
At all directions for some aid
Not sure, who’s there really to care
I prayed God; looked for a sign; odd
Someone’s there at the altitude
Real or my pipe dream’s contour
Knew not! But he gave me a prod
To scale the hill with new vigour
I sweat and pant in my clamber
Of and on looking at that man
Waving my hands with an ardour
That I’m going to reach him soon
Tedious; yet faith as my boon
I trog, trek to reach the apex
But to my surprise I saw none
To share my win; accept my thanks
It’s now just silence and blankness
I bask there in the sky blues and
Caressing soothing winds; it’s bliss
A winner’s euphoric proud stand
I started looking up and down
Found a man at the foot of the hills
Waved him with a smile to come on
Now I am his prod, God and all
poem by Sathya Narayana
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Thank God It Is Christmas
Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an off hand way
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way
Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today
And then the one day you find ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun
And you run and you run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking
And racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in the relative way, but you're older
And shorter of breath and one day closer to death
Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desparation in the English way
The time is gone the song is over, thought I'd something more to say
Home, home again
I like to be there when UI can
When I come in cold and tired
It's good to warm my bones beside the fire
Far away across the field
The tolling of the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees
To hear the softly spoken magic spells.
song performed by by Queen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fish With Fritter Patties
Please don't say I'm uninvited.
I came to leave some peace.
And you want to play deceiver.
Please don't say I'm uninvited.
I came to leave some peace.
And you want to play deceiver.
I don't want to lay more battles down to fight.
I rather you fry some fish...
And we can sit to reminisce,
Tonight.
Let's forgive and turn things wrong and make them right.
Discuss like adults with results that's eye to eye.
With a meal you cook to hook me.
To get me whipped for whoopee.
Let's forgive and turn things wrong and make them right.
You know I'm satisfied when you hear me sigh!
But when the money gets funny,
You're nowhere by my side.
Please don't say I'm uninvited.
I came to leave some peace.
And you want to play deceiver.
Please don't say I'm uninvited.
I came to leave some peace.
And you want to play deceiver.
To have me chase your beaver.
'WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU SAYING? '
Please don't say I'm uninvited.
I brought some fish to fry.
With whoopee booted on my mind!
'You are sick and nasty!
I will fry the fish with fritter patties.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I Will Sing With the Vultures
Perched upon the laggard headboard
Of the hostility in my brambly bed
With faint burns of my cigarettes
I had transformed into a vulturine—
Man in a bleak duty of scavenging
And this is not another incarnation
For my iron eyes divulged that
I had never been the meandering lion
And I do not only fritter to efface
These inveigling hatful of hope
But I had immolated my forlorn self
And give up my struggling to fit
In a caravansary of jocund fiesta-people
And regurgitate the impetus of solitude
Its ephemeral effect had its adverse
Consequence that is stronger
And that is that loneliness
Is but loneliness
And in this puzzle my sole compartment
Is a mausoleum upon my astray bed
Of pyre atop a mythical hill
Where no soul could hear me sing
An elegy with the vultures
And in cacophony I will
Achieve plenitude in veracity
As the brethren sings their anguish
I will bay in a rueful halloo
And wake the cowering frosted tombs
To scrutinize my discordance
From the orchestra
And, perhaps, in this resolve
I still hold firm in insentience
To my weak trampling constitutions
In an entire different veneer
Perhaps, another incarnation
And snivel only to be saved
From another caravansary of fools.
poem by Norman Santos
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Fears For Fears
Death promises nothing for me
And I don't expect nothing from death
Either than pain and sorrows
Fears for fears
Live in me
When I walk late at night on the road
Because I never know what can happen to me
But I believe that God is always on my side
Fears for fears
I will never trust the promises of a lazy man
Fears for fears
I will drink the one
With my food
So that I can give gheers to my God
Fears for fears
I don't fear the thunder or lightning
Fears for fears
The pond is home to all ducks
Because all the ducks lives in the pond
Swimming away
Fears for fears
What more can I give to God
Than myself
Fears for fears
The paths are not clear of the snow
In the winter
In the city where I live
Fears for fears
The harbour is so quiet during the winter
Because no boats are in the harbour during the winter
And everything sleeps away in the harbour
Also the night comes early during the winter months
But summer is different
Because the light shines all day
Fears for fears
Our bodies are made of water
And we need water to survive in this heat
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Lies
I like to search inside for the things that you will hide.
Whats the problem? cant you seem to
Set loose the problems that haunt and taunt you?
I smile while youre afraid.
You run, while your soul pays.
Do you ever see outside your fears?
Thinking about your life.
Thinking about your inner fears.
I like to search inside for the things that you will hide.
Whats the problem? cant you seem to
Open your body and let me touch you?
Do you ever see outside your fears?
Thinking about your life.
Thinking about your inner fears.
I want you to see, master of disguise.
For all the things that hurt you, of all these useless lies.
I want you to feel, feel you on up inside.
Once Id took you in, Id throw you out instead.
I try.
You win.
My life... is ripping your heart out and destroying my pain! go!
Do you ever see outside your fears?
Thinking about your life.
Thinking about your inner fears.
song performed by by Korn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pleas of a Claymore II
Have you ever seen a saber?
Took so much beating
In a plethora of derision
As the hands pounded his convictions
Against the feral adversary
Of his stale conqueror,
Lackadaisical and crestfallen
But still fawning in a lash back
To find the elusive direst
Of his tethering fate,
And his silver blood spilled
And scintillated in stellar
Like the mistral tears of a maiden.
And some people esteemed it
Musing in avarice for the clout
That this claymore possessed
Despite of the scarred visage
Or perhaps, because of the incisions
And they would lather the lacquer
Of his chipped and dying blades
To thaw the poignancy
And bend him down to his knees
Rasping upon the stance
Of defensive resistance.
The surrender of a saber
Would stab his own soul
And the hero inside
And his parched tragedies
Would whittle and fritter away
Into the very zenith of cusps
To become a despondent weapon
In the final incarnation of a claymore
But the hands forget
Or sometimes do not care
What the saber was
And seize him in their cradles
Fervently seeking bloodshed
In favor of their legendary conquest.
Have you ever seen a saber?
Malleable with a sole graze
As the hands guided itself
Down his glacial crassness
Reckoning the beatings
In the crevasses of his edges
Ravening upon the triumphs
That the saber gave them
And in spite of the disease
The saber would plead
To be held once again
And take the brunt and blames.
And when the hero bequeaths
The glory of his subsistence
Coming clean and pristine
While the downtrodden friend
Smother in the draping
Of the chrysalis in his scabbard
The claymore would plead
In profound reiteration
To be held once again;
Have you ever heard the hilt of a saber
Call for euthanasia?
poem by Norman Santos
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