Anomalous
What hath a mind
If it hath not a choice
What hath a man
If he hath not a voice
What is a man
If the voice the man hath
Is that of another
On a surrogate path
Rather I say
Inimitably give
Make each moment yours
Expectations, outlive
Bring no shame upon
How you sound or appear
Speak loud, proud,
Conscious, and clear
You're not born with a voice
It forms over time
Just speak for yourself
You'll turn out sublime
poem by Brandon McConnell
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Related quotes
Mothers Day2007
She hath my heart, she is my mum.
She hath my heart, she is my only, she is my one.
She hath my heart, though rough winds may blow.
She hath my heart, still her love will flow, her love will always show.
She hath my heart, I thank my lucky stars.
She hath my heart and i have hers.
She hath my heart, i long for her presence.
She hath my heart, her name is essence.
She hath my heart and forever she will.
Lifetimes will come and go, i will love her still
She hath my heart, this fact i cant conceal
Our bond is like sentiment you just cant kill
She hath my heart in times of sorrow.
She hath my heart, yesterday, today and tomorrow.
She hath my heart, my voice will sing.
She hath my heart, she makes the bell in my heart ring.
She hath my heart, in times of trouble.
She wont stumble no i will not let her crumble.
She hath my heart in each and every way
And my love for her grows with each day
She hath my heart for we were once one.
She hath my heart, the heart of the boy inside the man
I hath her heart, the heart we once shared.
Though separated in body the hearts still paired.
She hath my heart i need her near.
She hath my heart my mama dear
She hath my heart and she already knows
In a world of thorny bushes she stands out like rose
She hath my heart for she is always by my side
When the sun sets she is my light, she is my guide.
poem by Soul Child
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Love's Phases
Love hath the wings of the butterfly,
Oh, clasp him but gently,
Pausing and dipping and fluttering by
Inconsequently.
Stir not his poise with the breath of a sigh;
Love hath the wings of the butterfly.
Love hath the wings of the eagle bold,
Cling to him strongly--
What if the look of the world be cold,
And life go wrongly?
Rest on his pinions, for broad is their fold;
Love hath the wings of the eagle bold.
Love hath the voice of the nightingale,
Hearken his trilling--
List to his song when the moonlight is pale,--
Passionate, thrilling.
Cherish the lay, ere the lilt of it fail;
Love hath the voice of the nightingale.
Love hath the voice of the storm at night,
Wildly defiant.
Hear him and yield up your soul to his might,
Tenderly pliant.
None shall regret him who heed him aright;
Love hath the voice of the storm at night.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Who Hath The Courage?
Who hath courage? Not the hero
Leading in the strife,
To receive a nation's plaudits,
For his waste of life.
Who, then, is it that hath courage?
He alone who dares
Act up to his own convictions,
And the right declares.
Who hath courage? Not the tyrant
Boasting of his skill,
To enslave and bind his fellow
At his simple will.
Who, then, is it that hath courage?
He that doth proclaim,
Unto all their right to freedom,
Every man the same.
Who hath courage? Not the sober,
Or untempted one,
Who hath never had his stomach
Eaten out by rum.
Who, then, is it that hath courage?
He who though he may
Have been using poison freely,
Throws the cup away.
Who hath courage? Not the daring,
Reckless pugilist,
Who for wager smites a brother,
With uplifted fist.
Who, then, is it that hath courage?
He that won't resent
Every little insult given
With a base intent.
poem by Benjamin Cutler Clark
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He That Hath Ears
'He that hath an ear, let him hear what the Spirit saith unto the churches.'-
St. John the Divine.
The Spirit says unto the churches,
'Ere ever the churches began
I lived in the centre of Being-
The life of the Purpose and Plan;
I flowed from the mind of the Maker
Through nature to man.
'I sleep in the glow of the jewel,
I wake in the sap of the tree,
I stir in the beast of the forest,
I reason in man, and am free
To turn on the path of Ascension
To the god yet to be.
'I was, and I am, and I will be;
I live in each church and each faith,
But yield to no bond and no fetter,
I animate all with my breath;
I speak through the voice of the living,
And I speak after death.'
The Spirit says unto the churches
'The dead are not gone, they are near;
And my voice, when I will it, speaks through them,
Speaks through them in messages clear.
And he that hath ears, in the silence
May listen and hear.'
The Spirit says unto the churches,
'So many the feet that have trod
The road leading up into knowledge,
The steep narrow path has grown broad;
And the curtain held down by old dogmas
Is lifted by God.'
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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A state of depression
Speak out my dear
Why hath thou in a state of depression?
Speak out my dear
I stand here waiting for thy confession
Depression is not a sign of weakness
Neither an indication of madness
I stand here not to judge you
Simply to take heed to what is true
Depression is not a crime
It only calls for love through time
Depression is a silent voice
Rooted deep inside to stop a crying noise
Speak out my dear
Why hath thou in a state of depression?
Speak out my dear
I stand here waiting for thy confession
What have you lost along the way?
Retrace your steps, I say
Who have you lost?
Take heart, everything in life must rust
What is it you want?
Grant me a permit in your hunt
But first of all let me be blunt
Condemn yourself not for your mistakes
That is what it takes for you to be awake
Life is meant to be messy and greasy
The road is not meant to be easy
Speak out my dear
Why hath thou in a state of depression?
Speak out my dear
I stand here as a friend
My compassionate heart is yours to lend
Merely to give you inspiration
And redeem you of your depression
Thus, speak out my dear!
Why hath thou in a state of depression?
Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi
www.sylviachidi.com
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Silence
Silence
There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave—under the deep, deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hush’d—no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox or wild hyæna calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan—
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.
poem by Thomas Hood
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Phillis I
My Phillis hath the morning sun
At first to look upon her;
And Phillis hath morn-waking birds
Her risings still to honour.
My Phillis hath prime-feather'd flowers,
That smile when she treads on them;
And Phillis hath a gallant flock,
That leaps since she doth own them.
But Phillis hath too hard a heart,
Alas that she should have it!
It yields no mercy to desert,
Nor grace to those that crave it.
poem by Thomas Lodge
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Phillis 01
MY Phillis hath the morning sun
At first to look upon her;
And Phillis hath morn-waking birds
Her risings still to honour.
My Phillis hath prime-feather'd flowers,
That smile when she treads on them;
And Phillis hath a gallant flock,
That leaps since she doth own them.
But Phillis hath too hard a heart,
Alas that she should have it!
It yields no mercy to desert,
Nor grace to those that crave it.
poem by Thomas Lodge
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The Fault of It
Some may have blamed us that we cease to speak
Of things we spoke of in our verses early,
Saying: a lovely voice is such as such;
Saying: that lady's eyes were sad last week,
Wherein the world's whole joy is born and dies;
Saying: she hath this way or that, this much
Of grace, this way or that, this much
Of grace, this little misericorde;
Ask us no further word;
If we were proud, then proud to be so wise
Ask us no more of all the things ye heard;
We may not speak of them, they touch us nearly.
poem by Ezra Pound
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The Voice of the Swamp Oak
Who hath lain him underneath
A lone oak by a lonely stream;
He hath heard an utterance breathe
Sadder than all else may seen.
Up in its dusk boughs out-tressing,
Like the hair of a giant’s head,
Mournful things beyond our guessing
Day and night are uttered.
Even when the waveless air
May only stir the lightest leaf,
A lowly voice keeps moaning there
Wordless oracles of grief.
But when nightly blasts are roaming,
Lowly is that voice no more;
From the streaming branches coming
Elfin shrieks are heard to pour.
While between the blast on-passing,
And the blast that comes as oft,
Mid those boughs, dark intermassing,
One long low wail pines aloft.
Till the listener surely deems
That some weird spirit of the air
Hath made those boughs the lute of themes
Wilder, darker than despair.
Darker than a woe whose morrow
Must be travelling to an end—
Wilder than the wildest sorrow
That in death hath still a friend;
Some lonely spirit that hath dwelt
For ages in one lonely tree—
Some weary spirit that hath felt
The burthen of eternity.
poem by Charles Harpur
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The Meeting Of The Stars
The stars of the world have joined to-day.
‘Mid the host on high none are found like these.
The Pleiads desire such unity,
For no breath can come between them.
The star of the east hath come to the west;
He hath found the sun among the daughters thereof.
He hath set up a bower of thick branches;
He hath made of them a tent for the sun.
Translated by Nina Salaman
poem by Yehudah HaLevi
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Lines In A Letter To His Lady Cousin, Honor Driden, Who Had Given Him A Silver Inkstand, With A Set Of Writing Materials, 1655
For since 'twas mine, the white hath lost its hue,
To show 'twas ne'er it self but whilst in you,
The virgin wax hath blushed it self to red
Since it with me hath lost its maidenhead.
You, fairest nymph, are wax: O, may you be
As well in softness as in purity!
Till fate and your own happy choice reveal
Whom you shall so far bless to make your seal.
poem by John Dryden
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Harps We Love
The harp we love hath a royal burst!
Its strings are mighty forest trees;
And branches, swaying to and fro,
Are fingers sounding symphonies.
The harp we love hath a solemn sound!
And rocks amongst the shallow seas
Are strings from which the rolling waves
Draw forth their stirring harmonies.
The harp we love hath a low sweet voice!
Its strings are in the bosom deep,
And Love will press those hidden chords
When all the baser passions sleep.
poem by Henry Kendall
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Sir Richard's Song
(A. D. 1066)
I followed my Duke ere I was a lover,
To take from England fief and fee;
But now this game is the other way over--
But now England hath taken me!
I had my horse, my shield and banner,
And a boy's heart, so whole and free;
But now I sing in another manner--
But now England hath taken me!
As for my Father in his tower,
Asking news of my ship at sea,
He will remember his own hour--
Tell him England hath taken me!
As for my Mother in her bower,
That rules my Father so cunningly,
She will remember a maiden's power--
Tell her England hath taken me!
As for my Brother in Rouen City,
A nimble and naughty' page is he,
But he will come to suffer and pity--
Tell him England hath taken me!
As for my little Sister waiting
In the pleasant orchards of Normandie,
Tell her youth is the time for mating--
Tell her England hath taken me!
As for my comrades in camp and highway
That lift their eyebrows scornfully,
Tell them their way is not my way--
Tell them England hath taken me!
Kings and Princes and Barons famed,
Knights and Captains in your degree;
Hear me a little before I am blamed--
Seeing England hath taken me!
Howso great man's strength be reckoned,
There are two things he cannot flee.
Love is the first, and Death is the second-
And Love in England hath taken me!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Recital Of My Heart's Glory
I am bereft of sentiment worthy of mine own wondrous emotion
As my verity, at long last, hath given cause for soul's devotion;
As though predestined, reality meets with my heart's fanciful intuition,
My oft-imagined, life-long somniation hath come to wonderful fruition!
Once, as a child I did glimpse same, yet 'twas fleeting, and I, not prime;
Now, as a man, I bear witness to this grace again-this beauty, sublime!
For every man or monad thought inviolable, there exists impuissance-
Mine hath the form of a dichotomy, as she exudes with pleasance!
Nary doth a moment fleet whence thought is not consumed with such-
Periodically, I must cause remind, lest I should think it all, too much!
All this, yet still, an adjoining hath not been, for years, score-
To muse, whensoever same comes again-all, and evermore!
Hath there ever been such an eminent, empyrean, story?
Lo, there hath been-and it is surely the recital of my heart's glory!
Maurice Harris,1 December 2009
poem by Maurice Harris
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Three Pictures Continued
The first, a woman, nobly limbed and fair,
Standeth at sunset by a famed far sea.
Red are her lips as Love's own kisses were,
Yet speak they never though they smile on me.
An old knight, next, and arméd cap--à--pie,
Watcheth the slaughtered clay that was his heir.
The winding--sheet is not more white than he,
Hath sat since dawn and hath not shed a tear.
The third a tortured bull about to die
In the arena. No proud infidel
E'er laid his dripping spears more scornfully
In Spanish dust; for he too, ere he fell,
Hath slain a man. Ah Christ! That murderous eye
Burneth athirst like the red pit of Hell.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Theoretikos
THIS mighty empire hath but feet of clay:
Of all its ancient chivalry and might
Our little island is forsaken quite:
Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay,
And from its hills that voice hath passed away
Which spake of Freedom: O come out of it,
Come out of it, my Soul, thou art not fit
For this vile traffic-house, where day by day
Wisdom and reverence are sold at mart,
And the rude people rage with ignorant cries
Against an heritage of centuries.
It mars my calm: wherefore in dreams of Art
And loftiest culture I would stand apart,
Neither for God, nor for his enemies.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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The King Of Sweden
THE Voice of song from distant lands shall call
To that great King; shall hail the crowned Youth
Who, taking counsel of unbending Truth,
By one example hath set forth to all
How they with dignity may stand; or fall,
If fall they must. Now, whither doth it tend?
And what to him and his shall be the end?
That thought is one which neither can appal
Nor cheer him; for the illustrious Swede hath done
The thing which ought to be; is raised 'above'
All consequences: work he hath begun
Of fortitude, and piety, and love,
Which all his glorious ancestors approve:
The heroes bless him, him their rightful son.
poem by William Wordsworth
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He who hath gold hath fear, and he who hath none has sorrow.
Man hath still either toys or care: But hath no root, nor to one place is tied, but ever restless and irregular, about this earth doth run and ride. He knows he hath a home, but scarce knows where; He says it is so far, that he has quite forgot how to go there.
quote by Henry Vaughan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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