Thinking of the Past
In an idle hour I thought of former days;
And former friends seemed to be standing in the room.
And then I wondered 'Where are they now?'
Like fallen leaves they have tumbled to the Nether Springs.
Han Yu swallowed his sulphur pills,
Yet a single illness carried him straight to the grave.
Yüan Chen smelled autumn stone
But before he was old, his strength crumbled away.
Master Tu possessed the 'Secret of Health':
All day long he fasted from meat and spice.
The Lord Ts'ui, trusting a strong drug,
Through the whole winter wore his summer coat.
Yet some by illness and some by sudden death ...
All vanished ere their middle years were passed.
Only I, who have never dieted myself
Have thus protracted a tedious span of age,
I who in young days
Yielded lightly to every lust and greed;
Whose palate craved only for the richest meat
And knew nothing of bismuth or calomel.
When hunger came, I gulped steaming food;
When thirst came, I drank from the frozen stream.
With verse I served the spirits of my Five Guts;
With wine I watered the three Vital Spots.
Day by day joining the broken clod
I have lived till now almost sound and whole.
There is no gap in my two rows of teeth;
Limbs and body still serve me well.
Already I have opened the seventh book of years;
Yet I eat my fill and sleep quietly;
I drink, while I may, the wine that lies in my cup,
And all else commit to Heaven's care.
Related quotes
Factrory Food
Factory Made Food.
A perfect microwave dinner for one
sunrays drink from the wine bottle
The dinner is tasteless,
and the rest of the wine is warm
as a cat licks its paw and has no worry
about the morrow.
Who invented tuna fish with mashed potatoes?
It must be someone without a mother,
or if he had one, she must have been
a busy executive and time poor.
At the orphanage they eat left over of dinners
they never had, forever made into a stew
children do not care; yester-days loaf.
He sits in his mansion, count his money and
think of other variety of frozen food he can
invented preferable something that looks
looks like vomit.
He is a vegetarian and hate mankind for
liking meat…he hates greedy little children too
even his own, serves them burger made of
fat full of sugar and salt.
Knows he will follow them to the grave and
be the longest living man on earth.
Who the hell drank my wine?
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In The Cup
There is grief in the cup!
I saw a proud mother set wine on the board;
The eyes of her son sparkled bright as she poured
The ruddy stream into the glass in his hand.
The cup was of silver; the lady was grand
In her satins and laces; her proud heart was glad
In the love of her fair, noble son; but, oh! sad,
Oh! so sad ere a year had passed by,
And the soft light had gone from her beautiful eye.
For the boy that she loved, with a love strong as death,
In the chill hours of morn with a drunkard's foul breath
And a drunkard's fierce oath, reeled and staggered his way
To his home, a dark blot on the face of the day.
There is shame in the cup!
The tempter said, 'Drink,' and a fair maiden quaffed
Till her cheeks glowed the hue of the dangerous draught.
The voice of the tempter spoke low in her ear
Words that once would have started the quick, angry tear,
But wine blunts the conscience, and wine dulls the brain,
She listened and smiled, and he whispered again.
He lifted the goblet: 'Once more,' he said, 'drink,'
And the soul of the maiden was lost in the brink.
There is death in the cup!
A man in God's image, strong, noble, and grand,
With talents that crowned him a prince of the land,
Sipped the ruddy red wine!-sipped it lightly at first,
Until from its chains broke the demon of thirst.
And thirst became master, and man became slave,
And he ended his life in the drunkard's poor grave.
Wealth, fame, talents, beauty, and life swallowed up,
Grief, shame, death, destruction, are all in the cup.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Winter Days Why Do You Came!
Snowy winter days once again came!
Ah Winter days
how did you came?
Haven't you met through your road crying summer days?
Haven't you met through your ways crying Autumn days?
Ah snowy winter days
Haven't you met your friends
Through your road
while you were coming here
Ah sweet summer days
They left us in vain
They Saw our pain
Even the sun above cried for children's ache
First time through my life time
I knew even the sun above has a heart.
While unfortunately human beings didn't have!
Ah chilly winter days how could you come here?
Haven't you met through your road mourning Autumn days.
They were broken when they left
As i know you are friends.
If you ever met them there
They would tell you about our aches.
How pain we've passed through
They saw and they felt
They went home crying all alone
Ah snowy cold winter days how could you come here?
While our world is bared it's clothes
And humanIty is bared of pity as well as the mercy
Poverty huged the cold and has wrapped our world
Ah, how much pain can we bear yet!
Ah, poor souls are in pain till the vein!
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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Last Days of Summer
Whatever the way the summer days end,
In the type of summer is how it has been,
Whether a good one or bad one,
The last days of summer,
Can be sad or happy endings,
As each season ends,
With another one beginning,
The summer could have been,
Miserable yet,
Sun scorching us everyday,
And sunlight shining on all our faces,
It is how it is,
Out there where all is seen,
In,
Summer days of fun,
Summer days of love,
Summer days of seeing,
Summer days of been,
Out and about where summer is,
And when summer came and went?
With a mundane feeling that it left?
Was the last days of summer,
And the begining of another,
Autumn as we know it,
Fall in other places,
Where the ending of one season shows,
By the decaying of it,
When Autumn Fall shows,
Where we will wrap up and snuggle,
With warm cuppas drinks,
With a book,
Or,
Catch up on watching films,
Yet,
Still,
Musing over the summer days,
Of sunshine memories,
Now,
Warm hats and gloves,
With rustle leaves,
That rustle beneath,
Our feet as we walk,
Through the park,
And see,
The summer leaves turn,
To autumn shades,
Taking in,
The last days of summer,
Reflecting,
And remember,
The falls of Autumn's,
Is the signs of summer,
That has ended,
And minglings with,
All that falls,
From the summer ending,
To autumn beginnings,
Is the,
Decaying,
Of summer,
To regrow itself,
For next season's of summer,
When it begins again,
Yet,
In between,
There's,
Autumn,
Winter,
Spring,
Till,
Again,
Last days of summer,
And all in bloom again.
poem by Ellen Ni Bheachain
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Where Do I Go From Here
BY PARKER MCGEE
Autumn days lyin' on a bed of leaves
Watching clouds up through the trees
You said our love was more than time
But it's colder now
The trees are bare and the nights are long
Can't get warm since you've been gone
I can't stop singin' sad songs
Where do I go from here
Tell me where do I go from here
You said you'd take me through the years
So where do I go from here
Lover's plans like fallen leaves on windy days
Flutter past and they fly away
I thought I knew you oh so well
And I need you now
I need to feel you in the night
I need your smile so warm and bright
I wish my mind could let you go
Where do I go from here
Tell me where do I go from here
You said you'd take me through the years
So where do I go from here
Where do I go from here
Tell me where do I go from here
You said you'd take me through the years
So where do I go from here
You said that you'd take me through the years
So where do I go from here
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For Molly, Concerning God
Is God the one who eats the meat
off the bones of dead people?
-Molly Miranda Jong-Fast, age 3 1/2
God is the one,
Molly,
whether we call him
Him,
or Her,
treeform or spewing
volcano,
Vesuvius or vulva,
penis-rock,
or reindeer-on-cave-wall,
God is the one
who eats
our meat,
Molly,
& we yield
our meat
up willingly.
Meat is our
element,
meat is our
lesson.
When our bodies fill
with each other,
when our blood swells
in our organs
aching for another,
body of meat,
heart of meat,
soul of meat,
we are only doing
what God wants
us to—
meat joining meat
to become insubstantial air,
meat fusing
with meat
to make
a small wonder
like you.
The wonder of you
is that you push
our questions
along into
the future—
so that I know
again
the wonder of meat
through you,
the wonder of meat
turning to philosophy,
the wonder of meat
transubstantiated
into poetry,
the wonder of
sky-blue meat
in your roundest eyes,
the wonder of
dawn-colored meat
in your cheeks & palms,
the wonder of meat
becoming
air.
You
are my theorem,
my proof,
my meaty metaphysics,
my little questioner,
my small Socrates
of the nursery-schoolyard.
To think that
such wonder
can come from meat!
Well then,
if God is hungry—
let Him eat,
let Her eat.
poem by Erica Jong
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Wine by the Fire on a Cold Winter Night
Wine by the fire on a cold winter night a Gelid concordant. The snows of winter has fallen; and the
Winds are decrescent
Wildlife are
Indefatigable
In
Winter-land
Wine by the fire on a cold winter night. Monumental snows are glaciated; and the
Valleys below are elongated
In an alabaster,
Powdery
Splendor.
Engaging winter, where polar bears are denning
And accumbented in a long
Winter sleep. Winter's prelusory; for the translucent amber,
Gild, of autumn to a dulcify
In their joining. As we dine epicurean, in the comforts of clover;
And bonivant on tasty
Wines.
Wine by the fire on a cold winter night as we
Amorously commingle as one in A fervent that's
Second to None And the taste of
Wine by the fire on a cold winter
Night.
poem by Jr. J. Thomas
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A Good Old Man
"Children, you will soon lay me in the ground. Then you are to be cheerful, and drink some of this wine; for I have lived a joyful life before God all my days." (Life of Ernst Maurice Arndt. London. 1879. P. 38.)
The old man sate beside the fire,
His years fourscore and two,
His locks were thin and wintry-white,
But his eyes were bright and blue.
His children's children round him stood,
His face with joy did shine;
And he called for a glass, and placed on board
A pint of the ruby wine.
And he said, "Now list to me, brave boys:
I've lived a life, thank God!
Full of bright hours and happy days,
And soon beneath the sod
"Your hands must lay my head. This glass
I fill with thanks to Him
Who made my cup through fourscore years
With joy to overbrim.
"There might be clouds; but they have passed;
For this I surely knew,
Behind the clouds there dwelt a sun
And a dome of glorious blue.
"There might be frets; but not with me
Might fret and murmur dwell;
For God, I knew, was judge of all,
And still he judgeth well.
"Then fill the sparkling glass, brave boys,
And quaff the wine with me
His gift whence flows to men all light
And love and liberty!
"And keep a stout heart in your breast,
And trust in God, brave boys;
And march right forward without fear,
And evermore rejoice.
"And when you lay my head, brave boys,
Beneath the cool green sod,
Remember how I walked in strength
And joy before my God."
poem by John Stuart Blackie from Littell's Living Age, vol. 144
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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You’ll Live Long!
If ’tis God’s wish, you will live long,
With kith and kin, hearty and hale,
And God won’t illness to prolong,
But end your life’s tornadoes, gale!
With love and care that surround you,
You will recover indeed soon;
May be, God wants you to much do;
Your illness will turn earthly boon!
Keep your courage, power of will;
One’s span of life is in God’s Hands;
Keep your spirits cheerful until,
The grace of God upon you lands.
The strength of prayers can work much;
Man’s body cannot live on own;
God’s blessings have miraculous touch;
You are never on earth alone.
So, cheer up man in ways you can;
None can predict his earthly span;
God’s love for every creature made,
Will stay forever and not fade.
Have trust in Almighty God then;
All things will brighten up with time;
Decreed are all things by heaven,
In ways of God and in His clime.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 1-12-2010
poem by John Celes
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Tears
Mourn that which will not come again,
The joy, the strength of early years.
Bow down thy head, and let thy tears
Water the grave where hope lies slain.
For tears are like a summer rain,
To murmur in a mourner's ears,
To soften all the field of fears,
To moisten valleys parched with pain.
And though thy tears will not awake
What lies beneath of young or fair
And sleeps so sound it draws no breath,
Yet, watered thus, the sod may break
In flowers which sweeten all the air,
And fill with life the place of death.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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A Greek Girl
I may not weep, not weep, and he is dead.
A weary, weary weight of tears unshed
Through the long day in my sad heart I bear;
The horrid sun with all unpitying glare
Shines down into the dreary weaving-room,
Where clangs the ceaseless clatter of the loom,
And ceaselessly deft maiden-fingers weave
The fine-wrought web; and I from morn till eve
Work with the rest, and when folk speak to me
I smile hard smiles; while still continually
The silly stream of maiden speech flows on:--
And now at length they talk of him that's gone,
Lightly lamenting that he died so soon--
Ah me! ere yet his life's sun stood at noon.
Some praise his eyes, some deem his body fair,
And some mislike the colour of his hair!
Sweet life, sweet shape, sweet eyes, and sweetest hair,
What form, what hue, save Love's own, did ye wear?
I may not weep, not weep, for very shame.
He loved me not. One summer's eve he came
To these our halls, my father's honoured guest,
And seeing me, saw not. If his lips had prest
My lips, but once, in love; his eyes had sent
One love-glance into mine, I had been content,
And deemed it great joy for one little life;
Nor envied other maids the crown of wife:
The long sure years, the merry children-band--
Alas, alas, I never touched his hand!
And now my love is dead that loved not me.
Thrice-blest, thrice-crowned, of gods thrice-lovèd she--
That other, fairer maid, who tombward brings
Her gold, shorn locks and piled-up offerings
Of fragrant fruits, rich wines, and spices rare,
And cakes with honey sweet, with saffron fair;
And who, unchecked by any thought of shame,
May weep her tears, and call upon his name,
With burning bosom prest to the cold ground,
Knowing, indeed, that all her life is crown'd,
Thrice-crowned, thrice honoured, with that love of his;--
No dearer crown on earth is there, I wis.
While yet the sweet life lived, more light to bear
Was my heart's hunger; when the morn was fair,
And I with other maidens in a line
Passed singing through the city to the shrine,
Oft in the streets or crowded market-place
I caught swift glimpses of the dear-known face;
Or marked a stalwart shoulder in the throng;
Or heard stray speeches as we passed along,
In tones more dear to me than any song.
These, hoarded up with care, and kept apart,
Did serve as meat and drink my hungry heart.
And now for ever has my sweet love gone;
And weary, empty days I must drag on,
Till all the days of all my life be sped,
By no thought cheered, by no hope comforted.
For if indeed we meet among the shades,
How shall he know me from the other maids?--
Me, that had died to save his body pain!
Alas, alas, such idle thoughts are vain!
O cruel, cruel sunlight, get thee gone!
O dear, dim shades of eve, come swiftly on!
That when quick lips, keen eyes, are closed in sleep,
Through the long night till dawn I then may weep.
The Pink Carnation
I may walk until I’m fainting, I may write until I’m blinded,
I might drink until my back teeth are afloat,
But I can’t forget my ruin and the happy days behind it,
When I wore a pink carnation in my coat.
Oh, I thought that time could conquer, and I thought my heart would harden,
But it sends a sudden lump into my throat,
When I think of what I have been, and the cottage and the garden,
When I wore a pink carnation in my coat.
God forgive you, girl, and bless you! Let no line of mine distress you –
I am sorry for the bitter lines I wrote;
But remember, and think kindly, for we met and married blindly,
When I wore a pink carnation in my coat.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Wine Bibber
I would rather drink than eat,
And though I superbly sup,
Food, I feel, can never beat
Delectation of the cup.
Wine it is that crowns the feast;
Fish and fowl and fancy meat
Are of my delight the least:
I would rather drink than eat.
Though no Puritan I be,
And have doubts of Kingdom Come,
With those fellows I agree
Who deplore the Demon Rum.
Gin and brandy I decline,
And I shy at whisky neat;
But give me rare vintage wine,--
Gad! I'd rather drink than eat.
Food surfeit is of the beast;
Wine is from the gods a gift.
All from prostitute to priest
Can attest to its uplift.
Green and garnet glows the vine;
Grapes grow plump in happy heat;
Gold and ruby winks the wine . . .
Come! Let's rather drink than eat.
poem by Robert William Service
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Turn Of The Century
Realising a form out of stone.
Set hands moving.
Roan shaped his heart
Thru his working hands.
Work to mold his passion into clay, like the sun.
In his room, his lady
She would dance and sing so completely.
So be still he now cries
I have time, oh let clay transform thee so.
In the deep cold of night
Winter calls, he cries dont deny me!
For his lady, deep her illness.
Time has caught her
And will for all reasons take her.
In the still light of dawn, she dies.
Helpless hands soul revealing.
Like leaves we touch we learn.
We once knew the story.
As winter calls he will starve.
All but to see the stone be life
Now roan, no more tears.
Set to work his strength.
So transformed him
Realising a form out of stone. his work
So absorbed him.
Could she hear him?
Could she see him?
All aglow was his room dazed in this light.
He would touch her
He would hold her.
Laughing as they danced.
Highest colors touching others.
Did her eyes at the turn of the century
Tell me plainly
When we meet, how well love, oh let life so transform me.
Like leaves we touched we danced.
We once knew the story.
As autumn called and we both
Remembered all those many years ago.
Im sure we know.
Was the sign with a touch
As I kiss your fingers.
We walk hands in the sun.
Memories when were young.
Love lingers so.
Was it sun through the haze
That made all your looks
As warm as moonlight?
As a pearl deep in your eyes,
Tears have flown away,
All the same light.
Did her eyes at the turn of the century
Tell me plainly
When we meet how well look
As we smile time will leave me clearly.
Like leaves we touch, we see.
We will know the story.
As autumn calls well both remember
All those many years ago.
song performed by by Yes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Turn Of The Century
Realising a form out of stone.
Set hands moving.
Roan shaped his heart
Thru his working hands.
Work to mold his passion into clay, like the sun.
In his room, his lady
She would dance and sing so completely.
So be still he now cries
I have time, oh let clay transform thee so.
In the deep cold of night
Winter calls, he cries dont deny me!
For his lady, deep her illness.
Time has caught her
And will for all reasons take her.
In the still light of dawn, she dies.
Helpless hands soul revealing.
Like leaves we touch we learn.
We once knew the story.
As winter calls he will starve.
All but to see the stone be life
Now roan, no more tears.
Set to work his strength.
So transformed him
Realising a form out of stone. his work
So absorbed him.
Could she hear him?
Could she see him?
All aglow was his room dazed in this light.
He would touch her
He would hold her.
Laughing as they danced.
Highest colors touching others.
Did her eyes at the turn of the century
Tell me plainly
When we meet, how well love, oh let life so transform me.
Like leaves we touched we danced.
We once knew the story.
As autumn called and we both
Remembered all those many years ago.
Im sure we know.
Was the sign with a touch
As I kiss your fingers.
We walk hands in the sun.
Memories when were young.
Love lingers so.
Was it sun through the haze
That made all your looks
As warm as moonlight?
As a pearl deep in your eyes,
Tears have flown away,
All the same light.
Did her eyes at the turn of the century
Tell me plainly
When we meet how well look
As we smile time will leave me clearly.
Like leaves we touch, we see.
We will know the story.
As autumn calls well both remember
All those many years ago.
song performed by by Yes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Prosperity and poverty
Hunger for food has been met;
Hunger for love has set in.
Hunger for power has been met;
Hunger for ethics has set in.
Hunger for lust has been met;
Hunger for faith has set in.
Thirst for knowledge has been met;
Thirst for innocence has set in.
Thirst for contacts has been met;
Thirst for concerns has set in.
Thirst for comfort has been met;
Thirst for compassion has set in.
Love, ethics, faith lost,
Innocence, concerns and compassion missing,
Despite food, power and lust,
Despite knowledge, comfort and compassion,
The soul will die a slow death
Long before the body succumbs.
The world will not die of poverty
But it will sure die of prosperity.
25.07.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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That Year's Autumn Leaves
Darling, do you remember that year’s autumn leaves?
Perhaps it was your aura, but they were the prettiest and keenest I’ve ever seen
Strolling through the park, hand in hand, the foliage crunched lightly under our feet
Such a simple, yet transcendent, treat
That year’s autumn leaves were red and gold
Thinking of them now strikes a pleasant, if somewhat melancholic, chord
The days you walked with me like the Lord
And you were
That year’s autumn leaves and you
Contentedness shared by us two
Harmonic Convergence bestowed on the lucky few
Peace of mind that I knew
Nat King Cole said it best: “Since you went away the days grow long…”
This is evidenced by many of my poems and songs
Many people, sometimes myself, think I should stop, that it’s wrong
The creative outlet, however, is too strong
That year’s autumn leaves were actually summer daze
I just love the original song, and now this unique turn of phrase
Both recall an almost alien phase
Mr. Mercer, I give you all the praise
That year’s autumn leaves were you
They may not have existed, but it’s a metaphor any romantic would die for
I would
Would you?
That year’s autumn leaves were the best autumn has ever produced
At least until we walk in the park in the fall again…or whenever you choose
poem by Yoni Assis
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Frederik Hegel
I
Dedication
You never came here; but I go
Here often and am met by you.
Each room and road here must renew
The thought of you and your form show
Standing with helpful hand extended,
As when long since in trust and deed
My home you from my foes defended.
…
So often, while I wrote this book,
The light shone from your genial eye;
Then we were one, both you and I
And what in silence being took;
So here and there the book possesses
Your spirit and your heart's fresh faith,
And therefore now your name it blesses.
I love the air, when growing colder
It, clear and high,
The purer sky
Broadens with sense of freedom bolder.
I find in forests joy the keenest
In autumn days
When fancy plays,
And not when they are young and greenest.
I knew a man: in autumn clearness
His even course,-
His heart's fine force
Like autumn sky in soft-hued sheerness.
His memory is, as-when a-swarming
The cold blasts first
Of winter burst-
The gentle flame my room first warming.
When all our outward longings falter,
And summer's mind
Within we find,
Is friendship's feast round autumn's altar.
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Wasps are Carnivores
Wasps are carnivores
Yes they eat meat
Aggressive meat eaters
mean meat eating stinging machines
I am not vegetarian
But I don't have a sting in my tail
Bloody wasps spoil the summer.
I googled to see if they did anything useful
I didn't like what I found
Without them, wine would not exist.
Ok ok I don't hate you quite as much
But is this why you are so smug?
Sometimes after wine I get a sting in my tail!
poem by Stevie Taite
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The Chrysanthemums in the Eastern Garden
The days of my youth left me long ago;
And now in their turn dwindle my years of prime.
With what thoughts of sadness and loneliness
I walk again in this cold, deserted place!
In the midst of the garden long I stand alone;
The sunshine, faint; the wind and dew chill.
The autumn lettuce is tangled and turned to seed;
The fair trees are blighted and withered away.
All that is left are a few chrysanthemum-flowers
That have newly opened beneath the wattled fence.
I had brought wine and meant to fill my cup,
When the sight of these made me stay my hand.
I remember, when I was young,
How easily my mood changed from sad to gay.
If I saw wine, no matter what season,
Before I drank it, my heart was already glad.
But now that age comes,
A moment of joy is harder and harder to get.
And always I fear that when I am quite old
The strongest liquor will leave me comfortless.
Therefore I ask you, late chrysanthemum-flower
At this sad season why do you bloom alone?
Though well I know that it was not for my sake,
Taught by you, for a while I will open my face.