History makes us some amends for the shortness of life.
quote by Philip Skelton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Which Plagues the History Bandits
The History Bandits swinging...
Swinging in History roll.
Up comes one leader,
Ousted or assassinated by another.
The complaints of many
Feeding the avarice of one,
Makes the humdrum into history.
An idealist Wilson, a vengeful Clemenceau or
A prudent Lloyd George...who wishes to know?
The inspiring evil Hitler or politically capitalistic Americans
Or the fearless bloody Communists...
Mould the mounds of history.
A guilty country pleading innocence,
A Rasputinian government brought down by Rasputin
Or a prince who fashioned the legends of the creatures that
Plague the human existence.
What makes History?
Of what use is History?
The questions that plague the History Bandits.
Take up the sword of ink,
Oil the wheels that turn in your head,
And ponder anew on the questions that
Makes you wonder.
Go forth the History Bandits...
Go forth, and claim your rightful path.
poem by Cheryl Jacob
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It Makes You Think
It makes you think
What if one day you weren't found?
If you just didn't wake
If all they could see of you was under a mound
If your soul was God's to take
It makes you think
What if you lost everything you had ever known?
If it all just went away
If suddenly you were all alone
It will happen to you someday
It makes you think
What if you left your family and friends?
If you had no time to say goodbye
If you were not able to make amends
Or apologize for any lies
It makes you think
What if you left everyone you love?
If you went to some place you didn't know
Whether that place was up above
Or if it was down below
It makes you think
Some days you think you have had enough
Because you got some bad news
You want to give up on being tough
But people don't always get to choose
It makes you think
One day you might lose everything
It will all get left behind
You will be stuck with nothing
No one will know what went through your mind
It makes you think
Think about how your decision could affect others
How will they feel?
Do you think things would be better?
Do you think they will ever heal?
It makes you think
poem by Ashley Reese
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Who sins and then makes amends, trusts in God.
History
History is sad.
It makes me mad
that we have learned nothing.
History is the past.
It goes so fast
and still we have learned nothing.
Today's not history
and so it's a mystery
why we repeat the same old nothing?
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Hotspur: O gentlemen, the time of life is short!
To spend that shortness basely were too long,
If life did ride upon a dial's point,
Still ending at the arrival of an hour.
line from Henry IV, Act V, Scene 2, script by William Shakespeare (1597)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Black History Month
In January...
There they are making history.
In February...
There they are making history.
In March...
There they are making history.
In April...
There they are making history.
In May...
There they are making history.
In June...
There they are making history.
In July...
There they are making history.
In August...
There they are making history.
In September...
There they are making history.
In October...
There they are making history.
In November...
There they are making history.
In December...
There they are making history.
But...
It's nice to know
The shortest month of the year
Was chosen to celebrate
The great deeds of African-Americans!
However...
It is those LEAP YEARS,
That really have the blacks jumping for joy!
Note: 'Black History Month' along with other
works of interest can be found in...
*'MindPrints from Untouched Places-VOL I'*
~Now available online at a PC near you~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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History why do we care
History
a famous person dies
History
a war rages
History
a new invention
History
a building opens
History
what happens if something happens to me
is that history?
no....
So why do we care.....
poem by Andrea Thepoet
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Those Pink Orchids Wilting...
there is more to get
than what we just see
on the surface of those
petals
one can deduce what
life is
the wilting for instance,
the shortness of time
that is left for all of us
sometimes
one must suspect that
all these
are but farewell
speeches.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The History of Now
The recording of culture is history;
but our culture is more than that.
It's the world of human action,
and the myths we make of the fact.
The recording of history is culture,
but our history is more than that.
It informs a hidden agenda.
Unconscious of motive we act.
It's the history of now, the history of now.
It's only the present that exists as endowed.
It's the history of now. The moment - KAPOW!
That knocks you right over and muddies your brow.
Through the prism of language, we know what we know.
We carry our baggage and stories of woe.
Victor and vanquished pride cannot budge,
the dead weight of hatred and ancestral grudge.
We fight our good fights with our hand on our heart;
the music is swelling as loved ones depart.
As sheep to the slaughter, the script cannot chart,
a course more ignoble: the propagandist's art.
The recording of history is culture,
but our culture is more than that.
More than the great individuals,
the scholars so love in their tracts.
The recording of culture is history;
but our history is more than that.
Not simple dates or statistics,
the full horror and gore still attracts.
It's the history of now, the history of now.
A strange contradiction that makes sense somehow.
It's the history of now, a mystery and shroud.
The past and the future: best fiction allowed.
poem by David SmithWhite
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Have A Nice Rest Of Your Life
There's not a mean bone in my body
I never could be unkind
I know we're not talking
But there's something on my mind
It ain't rightteous indignation
I don't plan to rant or rave
No need for us to fight and fuss
I just want to say
Have a nice rest of your life without me
I'll be proud to be a part of your history
If it makes you happy, honey
Keep talking bad about me
And have a nice rest of your life without me
I know you're not heartless
Not callous and you're not cruel
And I know you don't mean to
When you treat me like a fool
I beleive that your good nature
Will emerge with someone else
If I can't be beside you
I can be beside myself.
Have a nice rest of your life without me
I'll be proud to be a part of your history
If it makes you happy, honey
Keep talking bad about me
And have a nice rest of your life without me
Without me
Don't forget your pocketbook, honey
Or your toothbrush
Don't forget you toothbrush, dear...
--- Instrumental to fade ---
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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History takes time. History makes memory.
quote by Gertrude Stein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Realization Of A Compromise On Some Pretenses
when he finally realizes
that he never loved her after all those years
he chose silence
for this matter may better be left unsaid
as this of course
hurts like a double-edged
jagged knife
he comes to the conclusion that there is time
that truth must yield
to the common good
to the soundness of affections
to the thought that hurting someone may be unnecessary
considering the shortness of the
span of life
he looks at her and kisses her
fondles her hair
and makes love for another night and another night
he is imagining another face
someone that makes him feel so good
he swallows the guilt
when the morning comes
nothing is visibly wrong
the flowers in the garden still bloom
he finishes his breakfast and drinks the coldest water
the one that freezes everything inside him
but it does not matter anymore
he always thinks that he has only one more day to live
and even if in pretense
he thinks he might as well live it the way love wants it to last
momentarily until the last day comes
until the elegy is finished.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Life Is......
Life
Life is a wonderful thing,
nothing compares to it.
Life allow us to live,
life allows us to die.
Life make us strong,
life makes us feel small.
Life allow us to grow,
life allow us to lie.
Life is a moment in time,
life is a blink of an eye.
Life is a prison without bars,
our actions will take care of that.
Life makes us believe,
life makes us cry.
Life is a dream,
life is an....ice cream?
poem by Juan Carlos Abeti
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The Two Sons!
Without the two sons,
Life is not fun;
So we run,
Behind the two sons.
SON makes you crazy,
With his treats;
SUN makes you crazy,
With his heat.
SON makes you crazy,
As he is rough;
SUN makes you crazy,
As he is tough.
SON makes you crazy,
As he is in sight;
SUN makes you crazy,
As he is in height.
SON makes you crazy,
As he weeps;
SUN makes you crazy,
As he creeps.
SON makes you crazy,
As we have gain;
SUN makes you crazy,
As we have pain.
SON makes you crazy,
As he crys;
SUN makes you crazy,
As he frys.
So without these:
Son and Sun
Life is not fun.
poem by Anju Addanki
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There is no history of mankind, there are only many histories of all kinds of aspects of human life. And one of these is the history of political power. This is elevated into the history of the world.
quote by Karl Popper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There is no history of mankind, there are only many histories of all kinds of aspects of human life. And one of these is the history of political power. This is elevated into the history of the world.
quote by Karl Popper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lull
the structure of
life and our belief system
must be simplified: yes,
there is man
and up there is heaven
and down there
is earth, it is very much like
the Japanese
flower
arrangement, and come to
think of it,
the woman stands up
and registers
and objection: 'where is my
place? '
actually, this makes no
sense,
this poem
it is the lull of time
unused
the rhythm
of aching eyes
and boring existence
the way
to complicate things
like some
pubic hairs....thoughts
entangled
to the traps of the
webs
of the spider-woman
one eye looking
blankly
at the monitor
the other betrays it
with
a non-mindedness
the numbness of
sight
the shortness of time
and the lack
of genuine breath
where it the exit
door from all these
lulls?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Edited Piece
the structure of
life and our belief system
must be simplified:
yes, there is man
and up there is heaven
and down there is earth,
it is very much like
the Japanese flower
arrangement, and come to
think of it,
the woman stands up
and registers
an objection:
'where is my place? '
actually, this makes no
sense, this poem
it is the lull of time unused
the rhythm
of aching eyes
and boring existence
the way
to complicate things
like some pubic hairs
thoughts entangled
to the traps of the
webs of the spider-woman
one eye looking
blankly at the monitor
the other betrays it
with a non-mindedness
the numbness of sight
the shortness of time
and the lack of genuine breath
where is the exit
door from all these lulls?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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You Tell Me Of Your Australian History
You tell me of your Australian history your ancestors were British and Irish pioneers
But your history in this Land is not an old history just two centuries and twenty years
And in time that may seem quite a long span though the combined life spans of three people nothing more
Your ancestors hardly were Aussies they came here from a distant shore.
The first Australians have lived in this Country for longer than most care to know
Their ancestors came here from Asia more than sixty thousand years ago
They are indigenous to this Country all others have links to elsewhere
Yet they still struggle for recognition and that to me seems quite unfair.
Dispossessed by the Northern invaders they never did get back their Land
And that they are now ruled by white people I find that hard to understand
You talk of the history of this Land as if it were only two hundred years old
But then suppose the history of the ancient Dreamtime by white people will never be told.
I was not even born in this Country which makes you more Aussie than I
And though I'm not Nationalistic or Patriotic my heritage I won''t deny
You talk of your pioneering ancestors but why talk of Human history at all
If the history of the first Australians you do not see fit to recall.
You tell me of your pioneering ancestors but one fact you tend to ignore
That they were not born in this Country they came here from a foreign shore
You''d swear by you the Human history of this Land was only two centuries old
But the true history of this great Country by your type will never be told
poem by Francis Duggan
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History is a living horse laughing at a wooden horse. History is a wind blowing where it listeth. History is no sure thing to bet on. History is a box of tricks with a lost key. History is a labyrinth of doors with sliding panels, a book of ciphers with the code in a cave of the Saragossa sea. History says, if it pleases, Excuse me, I beg your pardon, it will never happen again if I can help it.
quote by Carl Sandburg
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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