136 Syllables at Rocky Mountain Dharma Center
Tail turned to red sunset on a juniper crown a lone magpie cawks.
Mad at Oryoki in the shrine-room -- Thistles blossomed late afternoon.
Put on my shirt and took it off in the sun walking the path to lunch.
A dandelion seed floats above the marsh grass with the mosquitos.
At 4 A.M. the two middleaged men sleeping together holding hands.
In the half-light of dawn a few birds warble under the Pleiades.
Sky reddens behind fir trees, larks twitter, sparrows cheep cheep cheep
cheep cheep.
poem by Allen Ginsberg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
The Katydids
Sometimes I keep
From going to sleep,
To hear the katydids 'cheep-cheep!'
And think they say
Their prayers that way;
But _katydids_ don't have to _pray_!
I listen when
They cheep again
And so, I think, they're _singing_ then!
But, no; I'm wrong,--
The sound's too long
And all-alike to be a song!
I think, 'Well, there!
I do declare,
If it is neither song nor prayer,
It's _talk_--and quite
Too vain and light
For me to listen to all night!'
And so, I smile,
And think,--'Now I'll
Not listen for a little while!'--
Then, sweet and clear,
Next '_cheep_' I hear
'S a _kiss_.... Good morning, Mommy dear!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sparrows smattering,
dawn's yawn spawns cheep chattering,
shadows scattering.
haiku by Jonathan Robin (29 June 2006)
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Pidgin English
Theres a young girl with her old man whos too sick to mention
Shell be turning twenty seven as she draws her widows pension
But he couldnt catch a common cold he couldnt get arrested
Too terrified to answer back
Too tired to have resisted
Many hands make light work
Shorthand makes life easy
When hes out on night work
Make sure no one sees me
It all ends up in a slanging match with body talk and bruises
A change is better than a rest
Silly beggars cant be choosers
One of a thousand pities you cant categorize
There are ten commandments of love
When will you realise
There are ten commandments of love
I believe, I trust, I promise, I wish loves just a throwaway kiss
In this pidgin english
If youre so wise use your lips and your eyes
Take it to the bridge she sighs
You go cheep cheep cheep between bulleyes and bluster
Stiff as your poker face
Keener than mustard
From your own back yard to the land of exotica
From the truth society to neurotic erotica
Silence is golden
Money talks diamonds and ermine
Theres a word in spanish
Italian and german
In sign language, morse code, semaphore and gibberish
Have you forgotten how to say it
In your pidgin english?
(chorus)
Ps I love you
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Not to be cheep
A man takes it granted that a woman,
Whose mate in his view seems low someway,
Could be approachable, and thus reaches.
To prove that she’s not cheep, she’ll spit.
02.10.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tumme humme jo hai khas
Na jaane tumme-hum me,
Kya khas hai
Jo batayee nahi banti,
Chipayee nahi chipti.
Bahut rooka raab ko
Par,
Cheep cheep kar
Tumme voh dikhta hi raha.
Bahut tooka khud ko
Par,
Ruk ruk kar,
Tum par voh lootta hi raha.
Kaie baar soocha tumko
Seene se nikal
Jamee par khada kareen
Par,
Jamee ne jagah nahi di
Aur
Seene ne raasta.
Tumhe seene me kaid kar,
Hum jamee par raasta khojte rahe.
Tum kabhi thee?
Tum nahi thee,
Kabhi nahi,
Aaj bhi nahi ho,
Aur kal ki ummeed kya Karen
Shayad kal toh
Hota hi hai nahi…
Par,
Phir bhi tumhari rah par
Palke bicha,
Yeh soochte hai…
Na jaane tumme hum me,
Kya khas hai
Jo batayee nahi banti,
Chipayee nahi chipti.
poem by Anjali Kakati
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Woman’s resoluteness
Guilt, qualm, shame, stigma or repercussion:
None of them will weigh with a woman as much
As her feelings that she is not that cheep
And that let him not snatch her that easy,
When she refuses to yield corporally
Even to the man of his choice outside.
20.12.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Creation is the will
Why did you beget your kids?
Was it to meet the world’s need?
How cheep your produce is and.
How crowded the world is, affect you not..
My writing is my children.
13.07.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Winter in the Country
Sweet life! how lovely to be here
And feel the soft sea-laden breeze
Strike my flushed face, the spruce's fair
Free limbs to see, the lesser trees'
Bare hands to touch, the sparrow's cheep
To heed, and watch his nimble flight
Above the short brown grass asleep.
Love glorious in his friendly might,
Music that every heart could bless,
And thoughts of life serene, divine,
Beyond my power to express,
Crowd round this lifted heart of mine!
But oh! to leave this paradise
For the city's dirty basement room,
Where, beauty hidden from the eyes,
A table, bed, bureau, and broom
In corner set, two crippled chairs
All covered up with dust and grim
With hideousness and scars of years,
And gaslight burning weird and dim,
Will welcome me . . . And yet, and yet
This very wind, the winter birds
The glory of the soft sunset,
Come there to me in words.
poem by Claude McKay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Still They Are Virtuous
Modest women encounter
Emotional love with men
But, however, are afraid of
Physical intimacy.
Women who are liberal
With many men physically
Are not interested for
Emotional attachments.
In both the categories,
They don’t want to go cheep and
Are so particular that
They bear their own husbands’ seeds.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tale of City Morn
The city sleeps til dawn’s spawned fly-by-night
Across a sky which echoes sparrows’ cheep.
Life, like a clock rewound, from slumber deep
Emerges to encourage future flight.
On time tight schedules trigger traffic light,
Frame complex contexts within which men reap
Care or joy, employ their talents, sweep
In rewards, vexed disappointment’s plight.
Things simple seem through black and white:
Yesterday, now bottom of the heap,
Mirrors distortions of tomorrow’s keep, -
Our flair's aware of changing air in sight.
Restructured daily, life’s mosaic shows
New threads f[l]ed into future’s spreadsheet flows.
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A gift of rotten fruit
A week later in her second visit,
When she blushed of her interest
In me, I boomed with wings,
Having taken her as a reserved asset,
And taken me as a thunder.
Today, in her appointed tryst,
She shattered my whims at a stroke,
From the very embrace of her,
Betraying her professionalism.
A cheep prostitute, her acts revealed
She was sent back, not to call back.
18.05.2005, pakd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Food and hunger go wasted
Cheep is she, who I can get.
But to get access, my pride forbids.
The other is worthy to befriend.
But to get her, her pride forbids.
The withered fruits lie unpicked.
The hanging fruits are untouched.
The fruits are in decay.
My hunger is in dismay.
6.11.2000, pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ghost Raddled
'Come, surly fellow, come! A song!'
What, madmen? Sing to you?
Choose from the clouded tales of wrong
And terror I bring to you.
Of a night so torn with cries,
Honest men sleeping
Start awake with glaring eyes,
Bone-chilled, flesh creeping.
Of spirits in the web hung room
Up above the stable,
Groans, knockings in the gloom,
The dancing table.
Of demons in the dry well
That cheep and mutter,
Clanging of an unseen bell,
Blood choking the gutter.
Of lust frightful, past belief,
Lurking unforgotten,
Unrestrainable endless grief
From breasts long rotten.
A song? What laughter or what song
Can this house remember?
Do flowers and butterflies belong
To a blind December?
poem by Robert Graves
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Owl Against Robin
Frowning, the owl in the oak complained him
Sore, that the song of the robin restrained him
Wrongly of slumber, rudely of rest.
"From the north, from the east, from the south and the west,
Woodland, wheat-field, corn-field, clover,
Over and over and over and over,
Five o'clock, ten o'clock, twelve, or seven,
Nothing but robin-songs heard under heaven:
How can we sleep?
`Peep!' you whistle, and `cheep! cheep! cheep!'
Oh, peep, if you will, and buy, if 'tis cheap,
And have done; for an owl must sleep.
Are ye singing for fame, and who shall be first?
Each day's the same, yet the last is worst,
And the summer is cursed with the silly outburst
Of idiot red-breasts peeping and cheeping
By day, when all honest birds ought to be sleeping.
Lord, what a din! And so out of all reason.
Have ye not heard that each thing hath its season?
Night is to work in, night is for play-time;
Good heavens, not day-time!
A vulgar flaunt is the flaring day,
The impudent, hot, unsparing day,
That leaves not a stain nor a secret untold, --
Day the reporter, -- the gossip of old, --
Deformity's tease, -- man's common scold --
Poh! Shut the eyes, let the sense go numb
When day down the eastern way has come.
'Tis clear as the moon (by the argument drawn
From Design) that the world should retire at dawn.
Day kills. The leaf and the laborer breathe
Death in the sun, the cities seethe,
The mortal black marshes bubble with heat
And puff up pestilence; nothing is sweet
Has to do with the sun: even virtue will taint
(Philosophers say) and manhood grow faint
In the lands where the villainous sun has sway
Through the livelong drag of the dreadful day.
What Eden but noon-light stares it tame,
Shadowless, brazen, forsaken of shame?
For the sun tells lies on the landscape, -- now
Reports me the `what', unrelieved with the `how', --
As messengers lie, with the facts alone,
Delivering the word and withholding the tone.
But oh, the sweetness, and oh, the light
Of the high-fastidious night!
Oh, to awake with the wise old stars --
The cultured, the careful, the Chesterfield stars,
That wink at the work-a-day fact of crime
And shine so rich through the ruins of time
That Baalbec is finer than London; oh,
To sit on the bough that zigzags low
By the woodland pool,
And loudly laugh at man, the fool
That vows to the vulgar sun; oh, rare,
To wheel from the wood to the window where
A day-worn sleeper is dreaming of care,
And perch on the sill and straightly stare
Through his visions; rare, to sail
Aslant with the hill and a-curve with the vale, --
To flit down the shadow-shot-with-gleam,
Betwixt hanging leaves and starlit stream,
Hither, thither, to and fro,
Silent, aimless, dayless, slow
(`Aimless? Field-mice?' True, they're slain,
But the night-philosophy hoots at pain,
Grips, eats quick, and drops the bones
In the water beneath the bough, nor moans
At the death life feeds on). Robin, pray
Come away, come away
To the cultus of night. Abandon the day.
Have more to think and have less to say.
And CANNOT you walk now? Bah! don't hop!
Stop!
Look at the owl, scarce seen, scarce heard,
O irritant, iterant, maddening bird!"
poem by Sidney Lanier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Princess: A Medley: O Swallow
O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South,
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.
O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each,
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South,
And dark and true and tender is the North.
O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill,
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves.
O were I thou that she might take me in,
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died.
Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love,
Delaying as the tender ash delays
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?
O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown:
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South,
But in the North long since my nest is made.
O tell her, brief is life but love is long,
And brief the sun of summer in the North,
And brief the moon of beauty in the South.
O Swallow, flying from the golden woods,
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine,
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Loss, with Winter Interleaving - 0235
Winter, sombre starless evening,
with wan moon asleep,
or beyond dark cloud-bank, grieving?
Summer's love lies lost. Swift weaving,
bats sweep low, dread deep
keeps silent vigil, disbelieving.
Springboard brave new world's conceiving
taken in, eyes weep
over one, harm done, deceiving.
Who hope's hay ricks once was [s]heaving,
bitter harvests reap,
happiness fast passed receiving.
Fallow fields yield shield's naive spring,
earn yearning, no birds cheep,
learn life's brief, brief s[w]ing.
Loss, with Winter interleaving,
forfeits light's spark receipt,
misconceptions stark perceiving.
Jack Frost's spite sends bite bereaving,
leaves life crumpled heap,
passes on to other thieving.
(29 April 2012)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
No Boy Knows
There are many things that boys may know--
Why this and that are thus and so,--
Who made the world in the dark and lit
The great sun up to lighten it:
Boys know new things every day--
When they study, or when they play,--
When they idle, or sow and reap--
But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.
Boys who listen--or should, at least,--
May know that the round old earth rolls East;--
And know that the ice and the snow and the rain--
Ever repeating their parts again--
Are all just water the sunbeams first
Sip from the earth in their endless thirst,
And pour again till the low streams leap.--
But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.
A boy may know what a long glad while
It has been to him since the dawn's first smile,
When forth he fared in the realm divine
Of brook-laced woodland and spun-sunshine;--
He may know each call of his truant mates,
And the paths they went,--and the pasture-gates
Of the 'cross-lots home through the dusk so deep.--
But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.
O I have followed me, o'er and o'er,
From the flagrant drowse on the parlor-floor,
To the pleading voice of the mother when
I even doubted I heard it then--
To the sense of a kiss, and a moonlit room,
And dewy odors of locust-bloom--
A sweet white cot--and a cricket's cheep.--
But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hope's Stream 1718
As first cheep chirp unshutters polar night
whose sharp spell claws draped on stage curtained sky,
Hope's stream flows forth to span both dark and light,
what frozen seemed may thaw, joy's tinder dry.
Tomorrow, drawn from dreams, refutes fears, years,
and tears, to shine as beacon, battles won,
no sabotage can compromise screen clears
dissolving threats undoing work well done.
Released from false temptations superficial,
attraction or seductive siren sigh,
which would cause worm from course, flaws prejudicial
betraying spring preparing wings to fly,
life conquers strife, scope steers fears far to sea,
replacing grope by clear transparency.
(25 January 2009)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
What is Real to Roundabout Reel - reverse mirror after Rubaiyat of a Robin
Wake! though the West still fitfully counts sheep,
the East's ablaze, there will wise rays rise steep
from far horizon, phasing stars away
phrased out by Robin Jay and sparrow's cheep.
A bird soft sings, one robin is enough,
to sway ten trillion stars as ball of fluff
art scored by millions more - cheep's cheek astounds,
rebounding echoes which their shyness slough.
Earth lends thereto both orbit, ear, at ease
tunes into echo surfing on the breeze,
Life's warmth wells from flat fields and rocky tors,
gold bees abound, they buzz as kittens sneeze.
Eternal silence sleep prevents, world waits
on spider spinning, dawn anticipates,
while we may ask what sense is made of sound
by church and steeple, aisle and green stile gates.
What feelings hound retains for hare he'd chase
and what the hunted for the hound? What pace
finds interest g[r]o[w] when it is mind compound?
What's real to roundabout when rests its case?
How feels the Tao for circling day and night?
what for the centre feels surround, dark, light?
what of the bounce when words once more rebound
describing robin breasting air in flight?
What feels for fractal any given point?
What feels the oil for King who rites anoint?
What feels for tree the Autumn leaf once browned?
Both throne and leaf soon tumble out of joint.
What reads the clearing into red deer's [t]race?
May star count light years till return to base?
How may red blood react to heart's flesh pound
when foreign smokescreen floats round beauty's face?
Stars seek love's meaning, spinning hot and cold
on Cause, Effect foretold as orbits fold
around their half-life cycles and around
on ‘always' as they fight the black hole's hold.
Bird song still seeks its Way upon Time's wave,
stars spin off Mankind's blind, ambitious crave, -
cross star-crossed dream, by mortal sadness bound,
crowned deathbound by a gaping open grave.
Crowned deathbound by a gaping open grave.
cross star-crossed dream, by mortal sadness bound,
stars spin off Mankind's blind, ambitious crave, -
bird song still seeks its Way upon Time's wave.
On ‘always' as they fight the black hole's hold
around their half-life cycles and around
on Cause, Effect foretold as orbits fold,
stars seek love's meaning, spinning hot and cold.
When foreign smokescreen floats round beauty's face?
how may red blood react to heart's flesh pound
may star count light years till return to base?
what reads the clearing into red deer's [t]race?
Both throne and leaf soon tumble out of joint.
What feels for tree the Autumn leaf once browned?
What feels the oil for King who rites anoint?
What feels for fractal any given point?
Describing robin breasting air in flight
what of the bounce when words once more rebound?
What for the centre feels surround, dark, light?
how feels the Tao for circling day and night?
What's real to roundabout when rests its case,
finds interest g[r]o[w] when it is mind compound?
and what the hunted for the hound? What pace
What feelings hound retains for hare he'd chase
By church and steeple, aisle and green stile gates.
while we may ask what sense is made of sound
on spider spinning, dawn anticipates,
eternal silence sleep prevents, world waits.
Gold bees abound, they buzz as kittens sneeze,
Life's warmth wells from flat fields and rocky tors,
tunes into echo surfing on the breeze,
Earth lends thereto both orbit, ear, at ease.
Rebounding echoes which their shyness slough.
art scored by millions more, cheep's cheek astounds,
to sway ten trillion stars as ball of fluff,
a bird soft sings, one robin is enough.
Phrased out by Robin Jay and sparrow's cheep.
from far horizon, phasing stars away
the East's ablaze, there will wise rays rise steep
Wake! though the West still fitfully counts sheep.
(6 May 2008)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An Olive Fire
An olive fire's a lovely thing;
Somehow it makes me think of Spring
As in my grate it over-spills
With dancing flames like daffodils.
They flirt and frolic, twist and twine,
The brassy fire-irons wink and shine. . . .
Leap gold, you flamelets! Laugh and sing:
An olive fire's a lovely thing.
An olive fire's a household shrine:
A crusty loaf, a jug of wine,
An apple and a chunk of cheese -
Oh I could be content with these.
But if my curse of oil is there,
To fry a fresh-caught fish, I swear
I do not envy any king,
As sitting by my hearth I sing:
An olive fire's a lovely thing.
When old and worn, of life I tire,
I'll sit before an olive fire,
And watch the feather ash like snow
As softly as a rose heart glow;
The tawny roots will loose their hoard
Of sunbeams centuries have stored,
And flames like yellow chicken's cheep,
Till in my heart Peace is so deep:
With hands prayer-clasped I sleep . . . and sleep.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!