Lament of a Wash-basin
LAMENT OF A WASH-BASIN
Very sorry my friends,
If by my lament,
Your tender hearts, I hurt,
When thus out I blurt.
But no other way have I,
To gain your sympathy o'er my cry,
Than in black and white to mention
And draw your kind attention.
All of you I beseech,
To yonder bin to reach
And, my dears-there to empty
Your tiffin-boxes, of left-overs sundry.
Of my gurgling throat, I'm sure,
It'll no more be wrote to cure,
For, I hope, you'll ne'er again so choke
And then, with a rod try to poke!
Thank you so much, my dears,
For so patiently lending your ears,
To the lament of a poor sink,
In this emanating stink!
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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Related quotes
My Little Doll
I once had a sweet little doll, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world;
Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears,
And her hair was so charmingly curled.
But I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day;
And I cried for more than a week, dears,
But I never could find where she lay.
I found my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day:
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,
For her paint is all washed away,
And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears
And her hair not the least bit curled:
Yet for old sakes' sake she is still, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world.
From The Water-Babies.
Eversley, 1862.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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Those Who Betray And Lament
At THIS hour of the day.
And with time allowed,
Over the years to slip away.
Someone sits not to forget or forgive,
Those who intentionally took steps to offend,
With a doing of it they went ahead to inflict.
And at THIS hour of the day,
It would not matter who said what to have what's been done...
Wished away,
To acknowledge what took place.
Since what took place can not be erased,
From the mind of the one this misdeed continues to sit...
Long after it was considered someone's fun!
And at THIS hour of the day...
Wishing for a way to turn back the clock,
To prevent what should not have happened...
To have it stopped and blocked from a doing,
Is not on the mind of the one who is visited with memories...
At THIS hour of the day,
When one witnesses images from a distance...
A payback paid to those who betray and lament.
Those who betray and lament...
Grieve.
Those who betray and lament...
Can't sleep.
Those who betray and lament,
Become haunted.
Unwanted.
Those who betray and lament...
Grieve.
Those who betray and lament...
Can't sleep.
Those who betray and lament,
Become haunted.
Unwanted.
And have nobody near them to hear their pleas!
Those who betray and lament...
Grieve.
Those who betray and lament...
Can't sleep.
Those who betray and lament,
Become haunted.
Unwanted.
And have nobody near them to hear their pleas!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Lament
Lament is a hollow song
we sing to ourselves
about misgivings in our past.
A song of our wayward life
of when we were young.
Lament is the hurtful baggage
that we carry around
to torment us in silent times
when we sit alone.
We sing it to ourselves
hoping it could be undone.
Once a word is spoken,
it can never be withdrawn.
Once a hurt is caused,
no bandage can repair.
We can only lament on it later
in our silent moments
when we sit alone.
26 November 2009
poem by David Harris
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In Our Symposium
He....., a gentleman generous and broad-minded
Who we can't stand without saying 'Yes'.
Sometimes, he may be sensitive.
But for us, he's like a sky positive.
Ow! dears, how splendid our Sayagyi(teacher) is!
She....., a lady luminous and patient
Who we bow with paying respect.
Sometimes, she may be lazy.
But for us, she's like a sea steady.
Ow! dears, what our lovely Sayamagyi(teacher) !
There....., a place fantastic and miraculous
Where our hearts and brains are ably absorbed.
Sometimes, it may have problems.
But for us, it's like a paradise of freedom.
Ow! dears, what our breathtaking symposium!
We....., guys kind-hearted and dutiful
Who also have legacy of confidence wonderful.
Sometimes, we may build up over friendship together.
But generally, we're just like brothers and sisters.
Ow! dears, be proud of being symposiast forever!
poem by Aung Si Myanmar
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I Refuse to Lament
I have things to lament.
You have things to lament.
I refuse to lament.
But, you stay glued to sentiments,
With contented reasons meant.
I have things to lament.
You have things to lament.
I refuse to lament.
But, you stay glued to sentiments,
With contented reasons meant.
Growing old,
You lament.
As if you're sold,
To lament.
Inviting mold,
To convince to start a pointless argument.
Growing old,
You lament.
As if you're sold,
To lament.
Inviting mold,
To convince to start a pointless argument.
I have things to lament.
You have things to lament.
I refuse to lament.
But, you stay glued to sentiments,
With contented reasons meant.
Growing old,
You lament.
As if you're sold,
To lament.
Inviting mold,
To convince to start a pointless argument.
I refuse to lament.
But, you stay glued to sentiments,
With contented reasons meant.
I have things to lament.
You have things to lament.
Why shoiuld we be here lamenting,
When lamenting makes no sense.
I have things to lament.
You have things to lament.
Why shoiuld we be here lamenting,
When lamenting makes no sense.
I have things to lament.
You have things to lament.
Why shoiuld we be here lamenting,
When lamenting makes no sense.
I refuse to lament.
I refuse to lament.
I refuse the consenting when to me it makes no sense.
I refuse to lament.
I refuse to lament.
I refuse the consenting when to me it makes no sense.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Angst...
Lament
knows better
Joy dances with
Bliss but as soon
as Grief arrives
Joy cries and Lament
as usual sits down
reflects
writes and knows
the exit towards
Enlightenment.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Pibroch Dhu For Jim Hogg
The piper plays his sad lament
Alone upon the bleak hillside.
A bitter hymn of discontent
recalling those who bravely died.
A living breathing testament
to regimented homicide.
The piper plays his sad lament
alone upon the bleak hillside.
This world is not as it was meant
The ten commandments are defied
as warfare rages far and wide.
As in the past and the present.
The piper plays his sad lament.
poem by Ivor .e Hogg
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You lament not the dead, but lament the trouble of making a grave; the way of the ghost is longer than the grave.
Distill My Soul
The sylphs of mountain high give voice to solar winds.
The sirens of the sea - The sailors death she sings.
Lament, lament now that the shadow of the sun has cast faith and indistinct upon the hope of salvation.
Can you hear them still?
Faint murmurs?
Nothing to salvage is there left drifting in the sway.
Be still my head
Distill my soul
Take me half
And make me whole.
A multitude of madness
Generations lost to sadness
Bleeding
Begging for a better life.
They would lock me away for seeing all I have seen
They would praise me for the things I could have been.
poem by David Lacey
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Sensations Invented
It is so clear,
What is here!
What is near,
And appears.
Regardless of those,
Who choose to listen...
With opened ears.
It is apparent,
As the feeling in one's fingertips.
Even if some are numb to these senses...
The implementation done,
Has been imprinted.
Without effective lament.
Sensations invented,
Are meant to be left as sentiments.
Emotions within to mend with a willingness...
Are absent of attention.
At least hints intended,
Are not given to them.
It is so clear,
What is here!
What is near,
And reappears.
Regardless of those,
Who choose to listen...
With opened ears.
It is apparent,
As the feeling in one's fingertips.
Even if some are numb to these senses...
The implementation done,
Has been imprinted.
Without effective lament.
And we,
The people...
Receive beliefs under steeples.
Although through a peephole we peek.
To behold as told!
With full comrepension,
We desperately seek.
Prisoners of limited knowledge told.
To live with wishes to fulfill.
But then to become victims,
To that which we do not know!
It is so clear,
What is here!
What is near,
And appears.
Regardless of those,
Who choose to listen...
With opened ears.
Dismissing an acceptance,
That could be generated but disappears.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Numbered Poem
2. the mantle is heavy in white.
3. the white cup is not fuming.
4. the lover does not come tonight.
5. an empty vase keeps a shallow
6. conversation with the black clock.
7. there is no flower to brighten
8. the night without a tryst.
9. it is the black clock that ticks
10. time.It is this lament. A cup
11. without tea. A vase without
12. a rose, a daffodil, a white lily.
13. the black clock ticks. There
14. is no hint that it will stop.
That big shell knows it all.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An Elegy On The Glory Of Her Sex, Mrs Mary Blaize
Good people all, with one accord
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word,—
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor,—
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please
With manners wondrous winning;
And never followed wicked ways,—
Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumbered in her pew,—
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has followed her,—
When she has walked before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead,—
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament in sorrow sore,
For Kent Street well may say
That had she lived a twelvemonth more,—
She had not died today.
poem by Oliver Goldsmith
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Hair Now Gone Tomorrow
It is neither here not there
But there was a time I had a lot of hair
As it passed, the time I mean
Everywhere my hair was seen
In the tub and in the sink
In the food and in the drink
Till all there was left my dears
Was a little bit above the ears
poem by Kishore Asthana
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The Writer and The Soldier
The Writer and The Soldier
By
Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
The writer writes a sad lament for the love that he lost long
ago,
The soldier mourns the loss of a fellow slain long ago.
The writer has lead and ink on his hands,
The soldier has blood on his.
The writer can wash away the pigments and with them his
memory’s go, but the soldier can only wash the blood on his
skin; he can not wash the blood on his heart nor
The memory’s in his mind,
Burned into his mind with canon fire and the cries of
His falling comrades.
Oh,
When the two meet, they give to each other much needed gifts;
The writer gives the soldier understanding and a few happy
tales to think of when tears try to strike him down,
And the soldier gives the writer a new sad lament to write, and
a new meaning to the word friendship.
Written August 14,2008
poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
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The Flowers Of The Forest
A lone piper plays a sad lament.
Silhouetted against the sky.
Parading on the battlements.
A focal point for every eye.
A single ray of sunlight shone
Through a break in clouds of grey.
As if to grant a benison.
A blessing on the memory
of those who died in freedoms cause.
Remembered for eternity.
The sad lament a tour de force.
Which foreign tourists flock to see.
A tribute to our proud history.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Breffne Caoinc
NOT as a woman of the English weeping over a lord of the
English
Do I weep—
A cry that scarcely stirs the heart!
I lament as it is in my blood to lament—
Castle and stronghold are broken,
And the sovereign of the land beside the lake lies dead
Mahon O'Reilly!
In his day the English were broken:
I weep beside Loch Sheelin and the day is long and grey!
poem by Padraic Colum
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Priest at the Serapeum
My dear old father,
who always loved me the same;
my dear old father I lament
who died the day before yesterday, just before dawn.
Jesus Christ, it is my daily effort
to observe the precepts
of Thy most holy church in all my acts,
in all words, in all thoughts.
And all those who renounce Thee
I shun.-- But now I lament;
I bewail, Christ, for my father
although he was -- a horrible thing to say --
a priest at the accursed Serapeum.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Relief is a joy
To regret is a kind of joy.
To repent is a kind of joy.
To render yourself pitiable
And to lament the loss of yours
Too is a kind of joy.
To long for someone you loved
And pine is also a kind of joy.
They relieve you of the burden.
12.01.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Heaven Welcomes Another Angel
My heart joins with thee, in your sorrow;
I shan't say it will ease in the morrow,
Nor any day soon, if it shall, ever-
Truth be told, it may cease never!
Whence thee lament, surely I lament too;
I feel your pain, as though as one, with you!
I shall provide solace, when solace is wanted;
When all others cower or flee, I remain, undaunted!
Heaven welcomes another Angel into its realm,
Our loss of same, surely now doth overwhelm!
Obligation is owed for what was so precious-
Grieve, yet, celebrate what was left with us;
Yes, a glory hath passed from our sights-
Yet, its memory shall endure, for all our nights!
Maurice Harris,10 March 2010
poem by Maurice Harris
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Be At Peace
I do not wish to have you cry
for though I'm gone I did not die.
I do not wish for you to grieve.
For it was my time, my dears to leave.
I do not wish for anyone
to wonder what they could have done.
For to rue in my absence words not said
does not make sense for I'm not dead.
For I'm the sun, the stars, the moon
and I'm the morning, night and noon.
I'm the butterfly flitting in air.
I'm the babe that has no care.
I'm the music in your ear
that let's you know that I am near.
And so my loved ones be at peace'
Let your memories of me release
every teardropp that you cry,
because my dears I did not die.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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