A Homeless Man's Departure
After the Rebellion of 755, all was silent wasteland,
gardens and cottages turned to grass and thorns.
My village had over a hundred households,
but the chaotic world scattered them east and west.
No information about the survivors;
the dead are dust and mud.
I, a humble soldier, was defeated in battle.
I ran back home to look for old roads
and walked a long time through the empty lanes.
The sun was thin, the air tragic and dismal.
I met only foxes and raccoons,
their hair on end as they snarled in rage.
Who remains in my neighborhood?
One or two old widows.
A returning bird loves its old branches,
how could I give up this poor nest?
In spring I carry my hoe all alone,
yet still water the land at sunset.
The county governor's clerk heard I'd returned
and summoned me to practice the war-drum.
This military service won't take me from my state.
I look around and have no one to worry about.
It's just me alone and the journey is short,
but I will end up lost if I travel too far.
Since my village has been washed away,
near or far makes no difference.
I will forever feel pain for my long-sick mother.
I abandoned her in this valley five years ago.
She gave birth to me, yet I could not help her.
We cry sour sobs till our lives end.
In my life I have no family to say farewell to,
so how can I be called a human being?
Related quotes
Homecoming Of A Wanderer (To Bhupen Hazarika)
He returned home through the same village roads,
Some morning declaring his fight against time and its tides,
through which he had gone.
Declaring miles and miles of road shorter than his dreams through which he had gone..
Declaring himself anonymous and wanderer and leaving promises of returning winner.
through which he had gone,,,
He returned.
On his return, the village road saw the same villager and he returned on the same wheels of his dreams
And those dreams were still full of life.
On his return but he was no longer an anonymous, he earned a name which could travel boundaries of land, river, ocean and time as well..
And when he returned he was no longer a wanderer for everywhere he went he left a mark of the river of his village where he belonged and now he owned a home in thousands heart
On his return he was no longer a wanderer
He returned through the same village roads
but not without gifts of eternity..
gifts from the zenith of human limits,,
gifts of pride and honour,,
gifts of travelling the roads of life,,
larger than travelled by any one ever,,,
he returned for he had left with promises of returning to his mother.
For sunset is nowhere more peaceful than the laps of her..
Dedicated to the wanderer,
Gladness....
when you sit
alone on a chair beside your window
facing a long road of this village
thoughts come
and form a chain
link upon link
and seemingly
it takes you to more roads and windows
and doors and
valleys
you hear the echoes of its sound
you see
the beauty of a chain of daisies
on a stretching acres of grass
despite the long journey
surprisingly
you feel the magnificence of wander
you name the world
you tell it
you are lost deeply lost
nevertheless
it is the excitement of all these
that makes you
face
the anonymity
of gladness
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
a village in Iberia
A Village in Iberia
Drove to the village where I was born, hadn’t been there
for forty years, the lane was muddy and houses deserted;
this village had been abandoned long time ago; what was
I thinking of coming here? A tree had grown right through
our cottage, roof smashed now walls were tumbling down.
Puny human dwellings, here today and gone in less than
Ten decades, the tree seemed to say. What a nostalgic fool
I’m, this idea of returning, rebuild the old house and live
here in happy retirement.
This was no longer a village but a graveyard, houses were
tombstones of a past that had nothing to offer but poverty,
glassless window resembled crosses of a defunct faith.
I sat on a stone smoking a cigarette the aroma of wafted
through the drab silence, from behind a broken wall a dog
came, young, and it looked eerily like Stella the dog I loved
all those years ago, don’t tell me she has waited for five
dog generations, to return from the wasteland of eternity
just for me?
“I’ll call you Stella”, I said and stroked the dog’s head.
She knitted her brows together as to say, “What else? ”
I opened the right hand car door, Stella jumped in like she
had done this a thousand time before, drove off and didn’t
look back once, the only memory I need of my childhood,
was alive and snoozing in the seat beside me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Village
A Village in Iberia
Drove to the village where I was born, hadn’t been there
for forty years, the lane was muddy and houses deserted;
this village had been abandoned long time ago; what was
I thinking of coming here? A tree had grown right through
our cottage, roof smashed now walls were tumbling down.
Puny human dwellings, here today and gone in less than
Ten decades, the tree seemed to say. What a nostalgic fool
I’m, this idea of returning, rebuild the old house and live
here in happy retirement.
This was no longer a village but a graveyard, houses were
tombstones of a past that had nothing to offer but poverty,
glassless window resembled crosses of a defunct faith.
I sat on a stone smoking a cigarette the aroma of wafted
through the drab silence, from behind a broken wall a dog
came, young, and it looked eerily like Stella the dog I loved
all those years ago, don’t tell me she has waited for five
dog generations, to return from the wasteland of eternity
just for me?
“I’ll call you Stella”, I said and stroked the dog’s head.
She knitted her brows together as to say, “What else? ”
I opened the right hand car door, Stella jumped in like she
had done this a thousand time before, drove off and didn’t
look back once, the only memory I needed of my childhood,
was alive and snoozing in the seat beside me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Karma
He looked down over the valley,
Over the verdant green and trees,
And suddenly felt so humbled
That he sighed, and fell to his knees,
He'd only been out a single day
With the world before him spread,
So still he could hear those prison gates
As they'd clanged behind, in his head.
He'd finished his twenty seven years
He'd paid society's due,
Locked in a cell of eight by ten
For the things that he'd had to do,
He'd shown no mercy to Annabel,
No more to the Widow Peak,
He'd drowned them, just as he meant to do
When they'd met, in less than a week.
He thrilled at the thought of their staring eyes
As he held them down in the bath,
Watching their lives leach out of them,
Just as he'd done with Kath,
There'd been so many, he'd not confessed
But been convicted for two,
The other ten would have got him life
Without reprieve, if they knew.
He went to live in the valley
Rented a cottage under the trees,
Owned by a man called Anderson
Who'd visited him for years,
He'd said he knew of a valley where
He could start his life again,
He'd said, ‘Now here is your second chance,
Back in the world of men! '
He wandered round in the cottage
Took in the bathroom at a glance,
Took in the nice deep marble tub
With a smirk and a rub of his hands,
The village was just a walk away
But he'd give it a day or two,
Then check for a widow or single girl
At the store, as he wandered through.
He spent the night reminiscing
Thinking of all those staring eyes,
Of Kristen Poole, that silly young fool
That he'd fed with outrageous lies,
Her mouth had flapped like a goldfish
As she fought in a bleak despair,
But nearly a foot of water lay
Between her face and the air.
And who was that girl, that Marigold,
That he'd met in the Shop ‘n Save?
He'd thought that her name was Sanderson,
She didn't know how to behave,
She'd said her brother looked out for her
Would interfere with her fun,
But once in a bath of water,
It would only be fun for one.
He lay and stared at the ceiling as
He felt quite suddenly cold,
The name of his mentor Anderson
Came creeping back to his soul,
He heard the rushing of water
Off in the distance, up on the heights,
And made his way to the village
Lying in darkness, deep in the night,
The cottages all were empty
So was the chapel, totally bare,
The door of the shop was open
Nothing but garbage left in there,
He turned and ran up the village street
But the thunder was hard at his heels,
When a wall of water, ten feet high
Rushed over the verdant fields.
They'd opened the sluices at the dam
To flood the Valley at night,
To turn it into a reservoir
For a city that lay nearby,
The villagers had been gone for a month
But they stood and they watched the tide,
Flooding their tiny cottages
While Anderson laughed, and cried!
11 November 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Welsh Marches
High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam
Islanded in Severn stream;
The bridges from the steepled crest
Cross the water east and west.
The flag of morn in conqueror's state
Enters at the English gate:
The vanquished eve, as night prevails,
Bleeds upon the road to Wales.
Ages since the vanquished bled
Round my mother's marriage-bed;
There the ravens feasted far
About the open house of war:
When Severn down to Buildwas ran
Coloured with the death of man,
Couched upon her brother's grave
That Saxon got me on the slave.
The sound of fight is silent long
That began the ancient wrong;
Long the voice of tears is still
That wept of old the endless ill.
In my heart it has not died,
The war that sleeps on Severn side;
They cease not fighting, east and west,
On the marches of my breat.
Here the truceless armies yet
Trample, rolled in blood and sweat;
They kill and kill and never die;
And I think that each is I.
None will part us, none undo
The knot that makes one flesh of two,
Sick with hatred, sick with pain,
Strangling-- When shall we be slain?
When shall I be dead and rid
Of the wrong my father did?
How long, how long, till spade and hearse
Puts to sleep my mother's curse?
poem by Alfred Edward Housman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Moorland Night
My face is against the grass - the moorland grass is wet -
My eyes are shut against the grass, against my lips there are the little blades,
Over my head the curlews call, And now there is the night wind in my hair;
My heart is against the grass and the sweet earth, - it has gone still, at last;
It does not want to beat any more,
And why should it beat?
This is the end of the journey.
The Thing is found.
This is the end of all the roads -
Over the grass there is the night-dew
And the wind that drives up from the sea along the moorland road,
I hear a curlew start out from the heath
And fly off calling through the dusk,
The wild, long, rippling call -:
The Thing is found and I am quiet with the earth;
Perhaps the earth will hold it or the wind, or that bird's cry,
But it is not for long in any life I know. This cannot stay,
Not now, not yet, not in a dying world, with me, for very long;
I leave it here:
And one day the wet grass may give it back -
One day the quiet earth may give it back -
The calling birds may give it back as they go by -
To someone walking on the moor who starves for love and will not know
Who gave it to all these to give away;
Or, if I come and ask for it again
Oh! then, to me.
poem by Charlotte Mary Mew
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Wings Of Time
My faithful companion, Ive lost my way once again
A prisoner of darkness, I let you down my friend
A heart left abandoned takes so long to heal its wounds
Your touch not forgotten, the end of the dream
It comes too soon, in this lonely room
Till I leave this world, always know that
Chorus:
I will surrender my heart to the sky
Oh our love doesnt end here, it lives forever on the wings of time
The road that I travel, dont know which way I should turn
Till I find the answer, know that the fire within me will always burn
Angel of mercy, please, why so much pain?
I cry for forgiveness, Im the destitute man
Who still remains, its so hard to explain
Till I leave this world, always know that
Chorus
Sometimes I feel just like crying
I cant turn my back, all these years Ive been trying
A vision of you keeps reappearing to me
You cant blame yourself, just reach out your hand and believe
(instrumental break)
We sail in dark waters, lord give me some peace of mind
Temptation before me, ahead lies the tower of truth that I must find
To you I will climb
Till I leave this cruel world far behind, always know that
Chorus repeats 2x
song performed by by Toto
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
West End Girls
(....forever)
Sometimes youre better off dead
Theres gun in your hand and its pointing at your head
You think youre mad, too unstable
Kicking in chairs and knocking down tables
In a restaurant in a west end town
Call the police, theres a madman around
Running down underground to a dive bar
In a west end town
In a west end town, a dead end world
The east end boys and west end girls
In a west end town, a dead end world
The east end boys and west end girls
West end girls
Too many shadows, whispering voices
Faces on posters, too many choices
If, when, why, what?
How much have you got?
Have you got it, do you get it, if so, how often?
And which do you choose, a hard or soft option?
(how much do you need? )
In a west end town, a dead end world
The east end boys and west end girls
In a west end town, a dead end world
The east end boys and west end girls
West end girls
West end girls
(how much do you need? )
In a west end town, a dead end world
The east end boys and west end girls
Oooh west end town, a dead end world
East end boys, west end girls
West end girls
Youve got a heart of glass or a heart of stone
Just you wait till I get you home
Weve got no future, weve got no past
Here today, built to last
In every city, in every nation
From lake geneva to the finland station
(how far have you been? )
In a west end town, a dead end world
The east end boys and west end girls
A west end town, a dead end world
East end boys, west end girls
West end girls
West end girls
West end girls
(how far have you been? )
Girls
East end boys
And west end girls
And west end girls
And west end girls
East end boys
The west end girls
The west end boys
And west end girls
The west end girls
The west end boys
The west end girls
song performed by by Pet Shop Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Swan Song
Her hair was as black as a starling's tail,
Her cheeks as pale as a swan,
Her eyes, like two slim moonstones, glowed
And her mouth was the Holy Grail.
She'd played in the dirt of the village street
So long ago, so long...
She'd swum in the pools of the mountain stream,
But now, that girl had gone.
While I still rise with the early bird
To tend to my father's fields,
As the only son of an only son
I watched the woman leave.
She cried sweet tears as she said farewell
And vowed to come back, and soon,
But the village streets of a western town
Hold nothing for Ling Xiaodan.
The weeks went by, then the months and years
And I heard of her now and then,
She was dressed in expensive clothes, I heard,
She was driving a shiny car;
She was seen at the Beijing Opera
By a man who worked at the door,
'She glided by like a Queen, ' he said,
'As her dress trailed long on the floor.'
And her wai po, down in the village square
Would brag of her daughter's girl,
'She will snare some man with a million yuan, '
She said, 'not a farmer's son.
Go home to your fields and forget her now,
She's not for an also-ran! '
And laughed, as the tears sprang into my eyes
For the love of Ling Xiaodan.
She came back once to the village street
To her home, as ever we must,
But carefully held her dress up high
To avoid the rubbish and dust,
I stood at the side and she looked at me,
Then turned, looked quickly away,
For Ling Xiaodan and a farmer's son
Had nothing at all to say.
But I saw her once before she left,
Alone by the mountain stream,
Her eyes were sorrowful, in remorse,
Remembering how we'd been.
'I loved you once, as a child, ' she said
'But the world is harsh, and grey...
We do what our fathers want us to,
And my father sent me away.'
I sat by her then, and held her hand,
Stroking her neck, and hair,
And kissed the cheek, so pale and wan,
And I cried in a deep despair.
'You must get on with your life, ' she said,
'Get a wife and a baby son;
I leave tomorrow to see the man
That my father has met in town.'
I heard that she'd wed a businessman,
And cried in the quiet gloom,
My dream had died by the mountain stream,
On that day, in the afternoon.
She worked in a shop her husband owned,
So they said, but I never heard
'Til the body was brought back home again,
That the love of my life was dead.
It seemed that she'd sold her favours there
In the rear of a grimy store,
To any man with the change to spare
While her husband played Mah Jongg.
He'd gambled his fortune, and lost it all
While his wife kept the fool from jail
With what she earned with her hands and hair,
And a mouth like the Holy Grail.
But then, a man who was ill or mad
Put his grimy hands at her throat,
And squeezed the life from the darling neck
That I'd once both loved, and stroked.
They buried her up on the mountainside
By the stream, in sight of her home,
And from where I stand in the paddy fields
I can see her pale white stone.
She'd played in the dirt of the village street
So long ago, so long...
She'd swum in the pools of the mountain stream,
But now, that girl had gone.
I married a woman I barely knew
And she bore me a black-haired girl,
With eyes like two slim moonstones, and...
A mouth like the Holy Grail.
10 March 2006
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
World Teacher
A drum A drum
He comes
There comes the world teacher
Every blade of grass is thrilled
Every dust particle is thrilled
Every direction East West North South
Is happy though in sadness
They are happy
Because he will teach us sanity
They are sad because they know beforehand
That the son of Love and Light
Will once again bleed
He will find life in death
And the world will learn
That a battle is not lost
Until and unless it is lost
poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Blooming Shame
Still fields of scarlet poppies blow
on long abandoned battle fields.
The bones of dead men hid below
will feed their roots increasing yields.
The few survivors are now all dead.
Rejoined the comrades that they knew.
So we remember in their stead.
The many who salute the few.
Now Patch is dead he was the last
veteran who survived the war
A living relic from the past
who lived a hundred years and more.
There�s no one left who can recall
the muddy trenches and the gas.
The pain of seeing comrades fall.
He watched the long years slowly pass.
He never sought publicity.
He was a very private man
but became a celebrity
The last surviving veteran.
Each year the scarlet poppies grow
On Flanders Fields abundantly
The countless dead who lie below
Have earned their place in history.
By foolish useless sacrifice
They gave their lives to end all war
I think they paid to high a price.
The world is as it was before.
Men are still killing other men
but now much more efficiently
Each year we fail to learn again
the lessons taught by history.
There are no winners in a war.
There never was nor will there be.
But men will fight for evermore.
It�s human nature seemingly.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ballad Of The Army Carts
Wagons rattling and banging,
horses neighing and snorting,
conscripts marching, each with bow and arrows at his hip,
fathers and mothers, wives and children, running to see them off--
so much dust kicked up you can't see Xian-yang Bridge!
And the families pulling at their clothes, stamping feet in anger,
blocking the way and weeping--
ah, the sound of their wailing rises straight up to assault heaven.
And a passerby asks, 'What's going on?'
The soldier says simply, 'This happens all the time.
From age fifteen some are sent to guard the north,
and even at forty some work the army farms in the west.
When they leave home, the village headman has to wrap their turbans for them;
when they come back, white-haired, they're still guarding the frontier.
The frontier posts run with blood enough to fill an ocean,
and the war-loving Emperor's dreams of conquest have still not ended.
Hasn't he heard that in Han, east of the mountains,
there are two hundred prefectures, thousands and thousands of villages,
growing nothing but thorns?
And even where there is a sturdy wife to handle hoe and plough,
the poor crops grow raggedly in haphazard fields.
It's even worse for the men of Qin; they're such good fighters
they're driven from battle to battle like dogs or chickens.
Even though you were kind enough to ask, good sir,
perhaps I shouldn't express such resentment.
But take this winter, for instance,
they still haven't demobilized the troops of Guanxi,
and the tax collectors are pressing everyone for land-fees--
land-fees!--from where is that money supposed to come?
Truly, it is an evil thing to bear a son these days,
it is much better to have daughters;
at least you can marry a daughter to the neighbor,
but a son is born only to die, his body lost in the wild grass.
Has my lord seen the shores of the Kokonor?
The white bones lie there in drifts, uncollected.
New ghosts complain and old ghosts weep,
under the lowering sky their voices cry out in the rain.'
Rosebank
From the village of Rosebank the hills look so green
A beautiful country as fine as i've seen
A gem of the mountains on the higher ground
Is this quiet little village with hills all around.
In the Green Frog cafe i go back in time
A bard of the old school sat crafting his rhyme
His long hair and long beard seemed whiter than gray
And he sat in the cafe and wrote every day.
In the 'Green Frog' each morning for an hour or two
He sipped his coffee looking out on the view
He took in the beauty it came out in words
The green of the woods and the songs of the birds.
He sat in the cafe this maker of song
And sipped on his coffee and he thought hard and long
And he gazed on those mountains and song to him came
And he died old and poor though he lives on in fame.
And though the bard for long years has now lain with the dead
His verses survive and by many still read
And the mountains of Rosebank that gave him his rhyme
Are still green as ever unfaded by time.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Return To Nature
Suppose I am one who has a big ego I did have big plans once I do recall
But egos are a thing that inspire in us the need for success and are part of human nature after all
And now that my ego is a bit deflated and others I don't feel need to impress
Something perhaps that came with the realization that my life never has been a success.
Still I am one who finds solace in Nature and Nature the only God of which I know
I've always marvelled at her strength and beauty and still my admiration for her only grow
I had a church God when I was years younger but I gave my unseen church God away
And I returned again to Mother Nature and in her bosom I will rest one day.
The free born birds that sing in Nature's garden each species is distinctive by their song
And the fox that hunts for rabbits in the paddocks these creatures all to Nature's World belong
And the wedge tailed eagle soaring in the calm sky a very large and fearless bird of prey
Too is a part of Mother Nature's World and in Nature's bosom this bird's bones too will lay.
The swallows fly to warm climes in Winter and return home to greet the warmth of Spring
And chase insects o'er the valley where they first saw daylight and as they fly one hear them chirp and sing
How they can find their way to a far Country in late Fall and in the Spring find their way home again
Is something for which scientists can offer theories yet somehow seems beyond them to explain.
The World is quieter in Mother Nature's World for man made noise to Nature doesn't belong
On sunlit tree beside the rippling waters the thrush in Spring is singing all day long
And Nature she presides o'er all her Seasons and she has seen so many Seasons come and go
Her flowers of Spring and Summer and her brown leaves of Autumn and her hills of Winter wear white hats of snow.
I do not worship false Gods any longer and I returned to Nature years ago
And though Mother Nature has so much to teach us so little about her I seem to know
Yet I feel happy to walk in her garden and along the bank of her quiet water way
'Twas an act of Nature brought me to this World and I'll return to her bosom one day.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An innocent's marriage
The parents chosen him a bride from a remote village.
Like his next door tailor friend
he thinks the measurements of her bust, waist and hips.
He inquires his mother' Mom! does she loves me forever?
Or she stay with us two to three days and may grumbles
that she wants to go back home.
Mom! if she goes then I too go with her
as I cannot stay alone'.
'Don't worry my son she will stay here forever'
mother is pacifying him.
'Mom! I am not going to sleep with her
and I tell her Jack and Jill rhyme until she goes to sleep
then I 'll come back to you.Really I am scared'.
'Then what's the purpose of bringing her here? '.
mother replied.
'She will help to my poor mom I am sure and in a free time
I'll take her to the park and we can go in the merry-go-round'.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ballad about the soldier
This story is about the soldier, an ordinary guy
who wanted to live, didn't want to die.
He was a good friend, his classmates said,
the things he did were not a regret.
He lived and dreamed, breathed the same air with us,
he was so much naive and it was his plus.
He was the guy of ready sympathy and brave
just and ordinary guy who would never liked to be a slave.
Nobody could deny that he was a bit of a hesitating guy
as he couldn't make his girlfriend a declaration of love,
to tell her that she was his darling dove.
He didn't want to kill or be killed, just hated the war
but he's got an order and had to go for the war
without even knowing what for.
He was told that he would save the land
and military service was a big grand.
He was not explained why should he kill,
he went to the war against his will.
But he was the servant of his country, had to obey the orders
and wear the soldiers straps on his shoulders.
Have you seen the eyes of his mother when they were to part?
She had an embarrassed look when the parting had a start.
Have you seen the eyes of his girlfriend?
They were the eyes of a frightened creature.
She felt as he would never again reach her.
Have you seen the guy's eyes?
They had a look as he was in a hook.
He didn't want to part with his family, friends, beloved,
he wanted to live, love and be loved.
In a foreign strange land he walked
had no time to sleep or talk.
He walked and walked through the stormy winds
through the hard rains without any complaints.
He walked through the mud and blood
as he had to obey the orders and remember
he was not a cub and had no time for a cud.
But... all of a sudden everything around became dark,
his body felt a terrible pang
and it seemed to him as the bell rang.
Then the pain disappeared and he saw a beautiful park
with birds and angels, they sang beautiful song,
Then he heard the voice of a gong.
Yes, he went to another world were everything was pearled.
With the loss of one soldier nothing has changed,
But.... Is it really so? For his mother he was the world
and it was strange that she wouldn't be able to see him,
to hear his voice, and if she had a choice
she would give anything for his knock at the door
and his voice telling: Don't worry, dear mum!
I am in a hurry now, but I'll come back soon before the rising Moon.
The soldier's heart stopped beating far away from home
in the place with unfamiliar name.
Now tell me! Who is to blame that his photo is in the black frame?
He was one in the stream of soldiers,
the stream of broken destinies and lives,
the stream of unappeasable human sorrow
which made in the souls a deep furrow.
The war happened to be a thief
which had stolen lives or made them a big grief.
Life is going on; we live, we love, we work
building new bridges that were destroyed by war
but if we want to build a happy life
we have to remember that soldier who was killed in the war.
We have to understand: war can only ruin and break
for someones crazy sake.
It ruins and kills not only humans bodies
but destroys our wonderful land,
little by little turning it into the sand.
We have to remember that soldier
if we don't want the war to repeat,
we have to remember those losses
if we want our land to be complete.
We don't have to forget those who experienced the war,
they still give a start hearing a thunderstorm
thinking it was another bomb.
We have to realize that even one soldier is a part of the world
and the loss of that soldier means a split
in the integrity of the whole world.
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I
I am the son of my village, ,
I am born in the dreams of my father
and my childhood is his craft,
and the blossoming of my mother's garden.
So, often in my journey the fragrances of my village soil nourish me,
the messages of my mother hug me
and I draw warmth.....
I am the definition of my dreams, , ,
dreams those are birth less, ,
dreams ageless, ,
dreams those are indifferent to failure and success..
dreams those can decorate each of life's blank page, , ,
I am my best companion, , ,
Though I cannot hold my own hands, ,
I am my only guide, ,
In each of my failure and victory, ,
I have taken guard and declared to them they
aren't important to me more than myself...
I have invited myself to newness and gifted myself a new quest,
I am my best friend, ,
I am my strongest critic
and I am my deepest lover, , ,
drinking my own blood, sweat and tears, , ,
believe me, I have nullified the chances of betrayal....
I am a lover, , ,
though I have never met love...
for love is a statue and so it stays,
I am son of my village
On the palms of infinite I travel from nowhere to nowhere..
I am the song of the sky, , ,
and my pain is deeper than blue, ,
I have been friend of my father, , ,
and lover of my mother.
I am the son of my village..
So often in the journey
the fragrances of village soil nourish me,
and I draw warmth
Andrew Jones
I hate that Andrew Jones; he'll breed
His children up to waste and pillage.
I wish the press-gang or the drum
With its tantara sound would come,
And sweep him from the village!
I said not this, because he loves
Through the long day to swear and tipple;
But for the poor dear sake of one
To whom a foul deed he had done,
A friendless man, a travelling cripple!
For this poor crawling helpless wretch,
Some horseman who was passing by,
A penny on the ground had thrown;
But the poor cripple was alone
And could not stoop--no help was nigh.
Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground
For it had long been droughty weather;
So with his staff the cripple wrought
Among the dust till he had brought
The half-pennies together.
It chanced that Andrew passed that way
Just at the time; and there he found
The cripple in the mid-day heat
Standing alone, and at his feet
He saw the penny on the ground.
He stopped and took the penny up:
And when the cripple nearer drew,
Quoth Andrew, "Under half-a-crown,
What a man finds is all his own,
And so, my Friend, good-day to you."
And 'hence' I said, that Andrew's boys
Will all be trained to waste and pillage;
And wished the press-gang, or the drum
With its tantara sound, would come
And sweep him from the village.
poem by William Wordsworth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Steps Of Mary
She was truly blessed at a very young age
To carry our lord and was told his name.
He will be called Jesus and bring salvation to the world
Stories of his birth will be told to every boy and girl.
They will praise his holy name
And their lives will forever change.
When Joseph found out that his
betrothed was with child, and that it wasn’t his.
He decided a quite divorce he would give.
But an angel came to him that night
And told him that it was the son of god
That she would bear.
And to wipe away all his fears.
His faith and belief so strong in god
And what the angel had said
That he put his worries to bed.
She decided to spend some time with
her cousin, who was also with child
Who she had not seen in quite a while.
As she walked into the house
Elizabeth s child kicked with joy
For this was the saviors little boy.
Long before either of their births
The paths had been set, John would
Lead the way, and followers he would get.
He told of the birth of the messiah to all around
As the people listened without making a sound.
He baptized all with water
As this was the lords words and his order.
As Jesus preached throughout the land
Mary watched with a fearful stand.
For she knew in her heart, that this would be
The beginning of man kinds new start.
She knew that her child would be taken away
And to the lord she did pray.
The lord strengthened her heart and her faith
For what was to come, for he was sent down
By his father “ his begotten son”.
The times that lied ahead
Of her fears she would overcome.
And let gods will be done.
Now! No one knew the heartache and pain
That Mary and Joseph would go thru
To see their earthly son tortured and to be put to death
This was the part that they did regret.
But their faith so strong in god above
That they would give up the child that they loved.
Mother Mary ! You had traveled the road
That god had set for you
And this is something that we all must do.
The difference is that we must travel this road
With blind faith, for in our lives, we can not wait.
Give us the strength that god bestowed upon you
So that in our lives we can follow thru.
poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!