Forewarn me
forewarn me, impending doom.
forewarn me, eternal gloom.
forewarn me, end is near.
forewarn me, I do not care.
forewarn me, choices I make.
forewarn me, chances I take.
forewarn me, my heart may break.
forewarn me, for goodness sake.
forewarn me, better days yet to come.
forewarn me, pills on my tongue.
forewarn me, will be alright.
forewarn me, wish me good night.
forewarn me, talking in my head.
forewarn me, can not return from the dead.
forewarn me, people will be cruel.
forewarn me, not always the rule.
forewarn me, life is not how you see it today.
forewarn me, the answer is not to give it away.
forewarn me, the time it will take to turn it around.
forewarn me, feeling lost, one day feeling found.
forewarn me, hard lessons learned, take it in stride.
forewarn me, not so easy, yet not alone in the fight.
forewarn me, life can be amazing, leaving you wanting more.
forewarn me, fate can open a door.
forewarn me, can be my own worst enemy.
forewarn me, hang in there when wanting to flee.
forewarn me, can not see what's ahead.
forewarn me, keeping from being mislead.
forewarn me, voices will calm, I'll get back on track.
forewarn me, time wasted, can never get back.
forewarn me, get up, keep going, one step at a time.
forewarn me, if life was so easy everyone would get in that line.
poem by Gary Kedron
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Related quotes
Equine Laureate
What if horses had the pulpit on Sunday morn
Would there be as many people staying home
Or would our Churches be filled to the rafters
To meditate with a horse that is free to roam
What messages would an old horse say to us
Maybe of much love and sayings that forewarn
Maybe just some rules that we could all live by
What if horses had the pulpit on Sunday morn
poem by John McCornack
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A Trustworthy Guardian
A lighthouse
stands lofty,
tall and straight,
erect in its stark
simplicity.
Its light
beams out
across the waves,
rotating,
warning all
who come too near
that the
face of death,
here, rears its ugly head.
With breakers crashing
onto the rocks
around its base,
and the spray lifting
forty feet or more,
one feels the force
of the water
as it plunges
back again
into the surging foam.
This beacon
is a constant
emission,
a guiding light
to all who venture
out upon the sea
in all kinds
of vessels.
Its light
pierces the darkness,
unrelenting in its
gyration,
sending a signal
to forewarn.
A vigilant
and trustworthy guardian,
and an assuagement,
for all those
mariners
who are
ocean bound.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Study in Red
Red - and blue
And oh so true
Hot - jazz - flash
And gold-toned sax
Relaxed and breaking through.
Red - and gray
City day and night
Passed through - righteously
To passing few who
Come in bright.
Red - and black
Man in red velvet jacket
Smooth and sharp and
Laugh - dark - hello
For come and go.
Red - and white
Lady in black
Jacket - so right
And new and playing
Bright white and black
With who can do it
Righteous and true.
Red - and gold
All love is sold
And time enfolds
Dreams of morning horn
To forewarn a passing few.
Of hot - jazz - flash
And midnight past
Believing in no true
Sound but Red
And blue.
poem by Christine Natale
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Pleasant Places, Beautiful Borders
God grants me joy to love the Lord, He taught my heart to sing
For each new blessing and reward that only God could bring...
From Adam's line, each child was born and I was made aware
That God is able to forewarn each time I kneel in prayer...
For who am I and whose am I? God called me out by name...
No more a child that's prone to cry with sins to cause me shame.
My God, to me, is ever near, His Spirit guides my path,
Such that I walk devoid of fear, such that I'm prone to laugh...
Consider what the Lord has done that I should feel so blessed,
His light, to me, outshines the sun, His love has proved the best...
I marvel at the grace bestowed on someone such as I...
My very life to God is owed... His love for me won't die...
How can that be? What can I say? He fills me to the brim.
I think of God by night and day. I'll always think of Him...
What pleasant places He has spared, as if just mine alone...
Beautiful borders He has shared, this land is mine to own...
What can I do, but take His hand? He leads me tenderly,
Grants wisdom I can understand, because it's meant for me...
No wonder that I praise the Lord and teach new songs as well,
For love like His can't be ignored by hearts that long to tell.
(June 2011)
poem by Denis Martindale
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Where Are The Thunder and Lightning?
The farmers of Karnataka in India
are staging agitations and protests
standing waist deep in the Kabini river
against the verdict of the Supreme Court
for releasing some cusecs of water
from the marvellous Brindavan Dam,
to quench the thirst of the farmers
in the nearby Tanjore belt in Tamil Nadu.
The South West Monsoon Winds are sterile
belying the hopes of the farmers
of the both the States.
The rain-god is sleeping somewhere!
What can the poor do
if lightning bolt strike
the women working in paddy fields
and the boys selling snacks on the beach,
and those taking shelter under the tall trees
when thunder and lightning forewarn the rains?
The gods are snoring in the granite chambers
with the mafia of Sand, Gold, Sandalwood and Coal.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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An Elegy on a Lap-dog
1 Shock's fate I mourn; poor Shock is now no more,
2 Ye Muses mourn, ye chamber-maids deplore.
3 Unhappy Shock! yet more unhappy fair,
4 Doom'd to survive thy joy and only care!
5 Thy wretched fingers now no more shall deck,
6 And tie the fav'rite ribbon round his neck;
7 No more thy hand shall smooth his glossy hair,
8 And comb the wavings of his pendent ear.
9 Yet cease thy flowing grief, forsaken maid;
10 All mortal pleasures in a moment fade:
11 Our surest hope is in an hour destroy'd,
12 And love, best gift of heav'n, not long enjoy'd.
13 Methinks I see her frantic with despair,
14 Her streaming eyes, wrung hands, and flowing hair
15 Her Mechlen pinners rent the floor bestrow,
16 And her torn fan gives real signs of woe.
17 Hence Superstition, that tormenting guest,
18 That haunts with fancied fears the coward breast;
19 No dread events upon his fate attend,
20 Stream eyes no more, no more thy tresses rend.
21 Tho' certain omens oft forewarn a state,
22 And dying lions show the monarch's fate;
23 Why should such fears bid Celia's sorrow rise?
24 For when a lap-dog falls no lover dies.
25 Cease, Celia, cease; restrain thy flowing tears,
26 Some warmer passion will dispel thy cares.
27 In man you'll find a more substantial bliss,
28 More grateful toying, and a sweeter kiss.
29 He's dead. Oh lay him gently in the ground!
30 And may his tomb be by this verse renown'd.
31 Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is laid;
32 Who fawn'd like man, but ne'er like man betray'd.
911
Our hearts cleaved that horrific day.
The early morning sun shined bright.
No clues were noticed-giveaways
that could forewarn the urbanites.
It began like any Tuesday.
A workday for most New Yorkers.
People bustling to the subways
on their way to their employers.
Still early, not all arrived where
their designated work stations
are situated. Poor souls! unaware
of their imminent destruction.
Suddenly, at eight forty two
A living bomb with mal-vigor
Intentionally, in plain view
Crashed through the north twin tower.
All screaming, jumping casualties,
Burning, smoking, funeral pyre.
When suddenly at nine O three
a second struck the south tower.
Both monoliths are now aflame.
Confusion reined both high and low.
Towering infernos became
A cataclysmic horrid show.
Meanwhile, firemen tried in vain
To rescue those inside the traps,
Doomed victims of the deadly planes.
My God! The south tower collapsed!
All the humanity within
The conflagration expired
In an instant: Men and women
Buried under concrete and fire.
Standing alone and mortally
Wounded, amidst ash and rubble
Like a saint at the stake, bravely
Awaits the inescapable.
“Commit their bodies to the ground;
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust.” An instant grave mound:
The north tower collapses.
Never! Will our lives be the same.
Witnessing the loss of our brethren:
Over twenty nine hundred claimed
That day: September eleven.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Sestina - Safe Hands
I enfold her as if I hold in my hands
A diaphanous shawl woven loosely
From silken skeins of hope and fear. I feel
Strongly, she’s so much part of me. Obliviously
She wriggles free. I glance at my daughter
Her mum, and marvel at inheritance.
I wrap all this stuff of inheritance
Into trust, quietly hoping the safe hands
Of my kindly, compassionate daughter
Will suffice. Experience tells me loosely
Held reigns are best. The child plays obliviously.
I watch. She echoes in me. Trembling I feel
The pain inevitably she will feel.
I fear quietly; knowing her inheritance;
The curse of memory. Now obliviously
She recalls careless conversation. Hands
On to me stray words, understood loosely
With looks I try to forewarn my daughter
But the treacherous trait has skipped. My daughter
Down to earth, sensible, is born not to feel
Hurts that haunt, doubts that linger loosely.
If only we could choose the inheritance
We bequeath. But it is out of our hands,
We make love, create life obliviously.
I say nothing, pretend obliviously
Disguise fears I dare not share. My daughter
Who loves her, is all she needs. Holding hands
We walk through bustling, crowded streets. I feel
Her tiny linked fingers. The inheritance
Of knowing held gently within mine, loosely.
The web of my life was woven loosely
I held fast to no-one. Obliviously
This child makes me unearth an inheritance
Painstakingly hid. Bonded by my daughter
To my granddaughter tenderly I feel
Burning passions branded into our hands.
Envoi
I held her loosely, I let my daughter
Feel, obliviously unaware of my
Inheritance, she unbinds my hands
poem by Janet Budd
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A third sense
There are many unfortunates who lack skill
They have enough power to perform but lack will
They are favored less because of sans intelligence
We do see them away from us and sitting across fence
It is God gift to have gifted with common sense
We do behave abnormally and commit nonsense
It is all pardonable and taken it as out of ignorance
It has different angle with variety of clever fragrance
These are fortunate people with blessings from the God
They are never afraid of anybody not even of divine rod
They have easy access and are considered full of wisdom
No one dares to challenge their action and questions seldom
Even animals have deep sense of gratitude and respect
They may not explicitly express or exhibit any pact
It is deep sense of submission that comes to fore
It is clear and shining example never witness before
How do we get then indication something in advance?
Do we consider miraculous escape as mere chance?
Can we term it as telepathy or working of third sense?
Is it possible to have occurred in anybody’s presence?
It may be coincidence or mere chance that takes shape
Person is saved from possible fall out or trap
Some signal is caught by him not to go for certain things
It might prove mishap either on road, air or in rings
We may be compelled to forgo certain action as precaution
You may have in depth feeling to go slow with caution
These are the indications we receive as divine signals
It may help you some times from disaster and annual
Try to follow the inner dictates as divine spirit
It is nothing but simple blessings with its limit
It may forewarn you in advance not to go for it
You may remain cool despite having generated lot of heat
We tend to ignore it on many counts
It may look stupid and doesn’t sound
No substance of any worth is found
We may prefer long route and go round
If it is destined to take place then no one can escape
Even if you try for good things you may not be able to shape
It is definitely the emergence of third sense that prevents
We are saved from embarrassing position without any comments
Help to self and help to others too
It may be guiding force which may come true
Try to understand and decode the code
See to it that it may not take you to heavenly abode
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Thou That Know'st for Whom I Mourn
THOU that know'st for whom I mourn,
And why these tears appear,
That keep'st account till he return
Of all his dust left here ;
As easily Thou might'st prevent,
As now produce, these tears,
And add unto that day he went
A fair supply of years.
But 'twas my sin that forc'd Thy hand
To cull this primrose out,
That by Thy early choice forewarn'd
My soul might look about.
O what a vanity is man !
How like the eye's quick wink
His cottage fails ; whose narrow span
Begins even at the brink !
Nine months thy hands are fashioning us,
And many years—alas !—
Ere we can lisp, or ought discuss
Concerning Thee, must pass ;
Yet have I known Thy slightest things,
A feather, or a shell,
A stick, or rod, which some chance brings
The best of us excel ;
Yea, I have known these shreds outlast
A fair-compacted frame,
And for one twenty we have past
Almost outlive our name.
Thus hast Thou plac'd in man's outside
Death to the common eye,
That heaven within him might abide,
And close eternity ;
Hence youth, and folly, man's first shame,
Are put unto the slaughter,
And serious thoughts begin to tame
The wise man's madness, laughter.
Dull, wretched worms ! that would not keep
Within our first fair bed,
But out of Paradise must creep
For ev'ry foot to tread !
Yet had our pilgrimage been free,
And smooth without a thorn,
Pleasures had foil'd eternity,
And tares had chok'd the corn.
Thus by the cross salvation runs ;
Affliction is a mother
Whose painful throes yield many sons,
Each fairer than the other.
A silent tear can pierce Thy throne,
When loud joys want a wing ;
And sweeter airs stream from a groan,
Than any arted string.
Thus, Lord, I see my gain is great,
My loss but little to it ;
Yet something more I must entreat,
And only Thou canst do it.
O let me—like him—know my end !
And be as glad to find it :
And whatsoe'er Thou shalt commend,
Still let Thy servant mind it !
Then make my soul white as his own,
My faith as pure and steady,
And deck me, Lord, with the same crown
Thou hast crown'd him already !
poem by Henry Vaughan
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A pen can
How poet can be useful to world family on large scale
He is floating in sea like big creature and called whale
The giant creature has long sea lines but to surface for fresh intake of air
The condition for poet too remains same to prove his class as fair
Lot many ideas emerge and assume the shape of poems
Hi sown soul melts to take true form as root stems
It may try to scale popularity height with class of gems
Some may be appreciated with distinct class and framed
It is life time work and has to find the way to reach all over
It must be backed by real enthusiasm with protective cover
It should never happen that poets are starving for the want of encouragement
There should be left no room for excuses or arguments
Many poets die of hunger and face poverty beyond imagination line
They are unable to meet two ends and can’t properly dine
It is greatest tragedy never heard of but it stands fine
The poet has his own taste of creations and serves as wine
He may have his own fantasy and world to live in
He may try to be part of glove as always has been
He has the obligation to remain fully alive to the situation
He has the purpose in life for constant flow with continuation
The world can’t be won over by wars alone
It can’t be wiped out by devastating force like cyclone
World has witnessed humanity crime during world war
What we are today is pursued and constantly asked for?
Limited assault or surprise attack may yield some quick result
The humanity may suffer and face the unbearable insult
How to assuage the feeling of wounded and instill the confidence?
It is not one time exception that can be termed as simple incidence
World needs exemplary and stable and durable order
No goal should remain of tall order or shorter
It has to have reality in it and to be realized by all
It must be responded by all sections as emergency call
The poet can sharpen the writings with infusion of his skill
It may have killer’s instinct but no malign intent to kill
It may have long impact with far reaching consequences
The powerful states can see through reasons in its presence
It is pen that is mightier than any other lethal weapon
It can forewarn of any struggle that may be called upon
World has witnessed many bloody wars and revolutions
It has still not found satisfactory answers or solutions
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The Angel In The House. Book II. Canto IV.
Preludes.
I Honour and Desert
O queen, awake to thy renown,
Require what 'tis our wealth to give,
And comprehend and wear the crown
Of thy despised prerogative!
I, who in manhood's name at length
With glad songs come to abdicate
The gross regality of strength,
Must yet in this thy praise abate,
That, through thine erring humbleness
And disregard of thy degree,
Mainly, has man been so much less
Than fits his fellowship with thee.
High thoughts had shaped the foolish brow,
The coward had grasp'd the hero's sword,
The vilest had been great, hadst thou,
Just to thyself, been worth's reward.
But lofty honours undersold
Seller and buyer both disgrace;
And favours that make folly bold
Banish the light from virtue's face.
II Love and Honour
What man with baseness so content,
Or sick with false conceit of right,
As not to know that the element
And inmost warmth of love's delight
Is honour? Who'd not rather kiss
A duchess than a milkmaid, prank
The two in equal grace, which is
Precedent Nature's obvious rank?
Much rather, then, a woman deck'd
With saintly honours, chaste and good,
Whose thoughts celestial things affect,
Whose eyes express her heavenly mood!
Those lesser vaunts are dimm'd or lost
Which plume her name or paint her lip,
Extinct in the deep-glowing boast
Of her angelic fellowship.
III Valour misdirected
‘I'll hunt for dangers North and South,
‘To prove my love, which sloth maligns!’
What seems to say her rosy mouth?
‘I'm not convinced by proofs but signs.’
Love In Idleness.
I
What should I do? In such a wife
Fortune had lavish'd all her store,
And nothing now seem'd left for life
But to deserve her more and more.
To this I vow'd my life's whole scope;
And Love said, ‘I forewarn you now,
‘The Maiden will fulfil your hope
‘Only as you fulfil your vow.’
II
A promised service, (task for days),
Was done this morning while she slept,
With that full heart which thinks no praise
Of vows which are not more than kept;
But loftier work did love impose,
And studious hours. Alas, for these,
While she from all my thoughts arose
Like Venus from the restless seas!
III
I conn'd a scheme, with mind elate:
My Uncle's land would fall to me,
My skill was much in school debate,
My friends were strong in Salisbury;
A place in Parliament once gain'd,
Thro' saps first labour'd out of sight,
Far loftier peaks were then attain'd
With easy leaps from height to height;
And that o'erwhelming honour paid,
Or recognised, at least, in life,
Which this most sweet and noble Maid
Should yield to him who call'd her Wife.
IV
I fix'd this rule: in Sarum Close
To make two visits every week,
The first to-day; and, save on those,
I nought would do, think, read, or speak,
Which did not help my settled will
To earn the Statesman's proud applause.
And now, forthwith, to mend my skill
In ethics, politics, and laws,
The Statesman's learning! Flush'd with power
And pride of freshly-form'd resolve,
I read Helvetius half-an-hour;
But, halting in attempts to solve
Why, more than all things else that be,
A lady's grace hath force to move
That sensitive appetency
Of intellectual good, call'd love,
Took Blackstone down, only to draw
My swift-deriving thoughts ere long
To love, which is the source of law,
And, like a king, can do no wrong;
Then open'd Hyde, where loyal hearts,
With faith unpropp'd by precedent,
Began to play rebellious parts.
O, mighty stir that little meant!
How dull the crude, plough'd fields of fact
To me who trod the Elysian grove!
How idle all heroic act
By the least suffering of love!
I could not read; so took my pen,
And thus commenced, in form of notes,
A Lecture for the Salisbury men,
With due regard to Tory votes:
‘A road's a road, though worn to ruts;
‘They speed who travel straight therein;
‘But he who tacks and tries short cuts
‘Gets fools' praise and a broken shin—’
And here I stopp'd in sheer despair;
But, what to-day was thus begun,
I vow'd, up starting from my chair,
To-morrow should indeed be done;
So loosed my chafing thoughts from school,
To play with fancy as they chose,
And then, according to my rule,
I dress'd, and came to Sarum Close.
V
Ah, that sweet laugh! Diviner sense
Did Nature, forming her, inspire
To omit the grosser elements,
And make her all of air and fire!
VII
To-morrow, Cowes Regatta fell:
The Dean would like his girls to go,
If I went too. ‘Most gladly.’ Well,
I did but break a foolish vow!
Unless Love's toil has love for prize,
(And then he's Hercules), above
All other contrarieties
Is labour contrary to love.
No fault of Love's, but nature's laws!
And Love, in idleness, lies quick;
For as the worm whose powers make pause,
And swoon, through alteration sick,
The soul, its wingless state dissolved,
Awaits its nuptial life complete,
All indolently self-convolved,
Cocoon'd in silken fancies sweet.
poem by Coventry Patmore
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The Shepherd's Week : Wednesday; or, The Dumps
Sparabella.
The wailings of a maiden I recite,
A maiden fair, that Sparabella hight.
Such strains ne'er warble in the linnet's throat,
Nor the gay goldfinch chants so sweet a note,
No magpie chatter'd, nor the painted jay,
No ox was heard to low, nor ass to bray.
No rustling breezes play'd the leaves among,
While thus her madrigal the damsel sung.
A while, O D'Urfey, lend an ear or twain,
Nor, though in homely guise, my verse disdain:
Whether thou seek'st new kingdoms in the sun,
Whether thy muse does at Newmarket run,
Or does with gossips at a feast regale,
And heighten her conceits with sack and ale,
Or else at wakes with Joan and Hodge rejoice,
Where D'Urfey's lyrics swell in every voice;
Yet suffer me, thou bard of wondrous meed,
Amid thy bays to weave this rural weed.
Now the sun drove adown the western road,
And oxen laid at rest forget the goad,
The clown fatigu'd trudg'd homeward with his spade,
Across the meadows stretch'd the lengthen'd shade:
When Sparabella, pensive and forlorn,
Alike with yearning love and labour worn,
Lean'd on her rake, and straight with doleful guise
Did this said plaint in moanful notes devise.
Come night as dark as pitch, surround my head,
From Sparabella Bumkinet is fled;
The ribbon that his valorous cudgel won,
Last Sunday happier Clumsillis put on,
Sure if he'd eyes, (but love, they say, has none)
I whilom by that ribbon had been known.
Ah, well-a-day! I'm shent with baneful aid,
'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.'
Shall heavy Clumsillis with me compare?
View this, ye lovers, and like me despair.
Her blubber'd lip by smutty pipes is worn,
And in her breath tobacco whiffs are born;
The cleanly cheese-press she could never turn,
Her awkward fist did ne'er employ the churn;
If e'er she brew'd, the drink would straight go sour,
Before it ever felt the thunder's power:
No huswifry the dowdy creature knew,
To sum up all, her tongue confess'd the shrew.
'My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid,
'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.'
I've often seen my visage in yon lake,
Nor are my features of the homeliest make.
Though Clumsillis may boast a whiter dye,
Yet the black sloe turns in my rolling eye;
And fairest blossoms drop with every blast,
But the brown beauty will like the hollies last.
Her wan complexion's like the wither'd leek,
While Catherine pears adorn my ruddy cheek.
Yet she, alas! the witless lout hath won,
And by her gain poor Sparabella's undone!
Let hares and hounds in coupling straps unite,
The clocking hen make friendship with the kite,
Let the fox simply wear the nuptial noose,
And join in wedlock with the wadling goose;
For love hath brought a stranger thing to pass,
The fairest shepherd weds the foulest lass.
'My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid,
'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.'
Ah! didst thou know what proffers I withstood,
When late I met the squire in yonder wood!
To me he sped, regardless of his game,
While all my cheek was glowing red with shame;
My lip he kiss'd, and prais'd my healthful look,
Then from his purse of silk a guinea took,
Into my hand he forc'd the tempting gold,
While I with modest struggling broke his hold.
He swore that Dick in livery stripp'd with lace,
Should wed me soon, to keep me from disgrace;
But I nor footman priz'd, nor golden fee,
For what is lace or gold compar'd to thee?
'My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid,
'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.'
Now plain I ken whence love his rise begun,
Sure he was born some bloody butcher's son,
Bred up in shambles where our younglings slain,
Erst taught him mischief and to sport with pain.
The father only silly sheep annoys,
The son the sillier shepherdess destroys.
Does son or father greater mischief do?
The sire is cruel, so the son is too.
'My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid,
'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.'
Farewell, ye woods, ye meads, ye streams that flow:
A sudden death shall rid me of my woe.
This penknife keen my windpipe shall divide,.
What, shall I fall as squeaking pigs have died!
No - to some tree this carcase I'll suspend.
But worrying curs find such untimely end!
I'll speed me to the pond, where the high stool
On the long plank hangs o'er the muddy pool,
That stool, the dread of every scolding quean,
Yet, sure a lover should not die so mean!
There plac'd aloft, I'll rave and rail by fits,
Though all the parish say I've lost my wits;
And thence, if courage holds, myself I'll throw,
And quench my passion in the lake below.
'Ye lasses, cease your burthen, cease to moan,
And, by my case forewarn'd, go mind your own.'
The sun was set; the night came on apace,
And falling dews bewet around the place,
The bat takes airy rounds on leathern wings,
And the hoarse owl his woful dirges sings;
The prudent maiden deems it now too late,
And till to-morrow comes defers her fate.
Life Mean To Me Is
Life mean to me is
Full of surprised that is good or bad surprised
It can be tough or easy
Choices it should be what you think
It should be what you want not anyone else
I don't listen or care
I know you will make right one
We all have time when we mistake that
We wish we haven't and take back, but
You can't because it happen when you make adecision unless
You able to fix it
Life mean to me is
Going complaining, but I can overcome it
Everything be ok
I'm losing everyone that I care and love
I feel they give up on me
I be alright again like now
I feel horrible at time
It opens my eyes and makes me think
I need to stop complaining about problems that is gone over and over
I need stop acting like I'm now
I don't care what people think of me
I have done it bad so I'm changing my way
I'm going be ok
Every day is not getting easy
I'm not going let it stop me
I am letting it turn out this way all because of you
I lost most important thing and is you
You are one who turn my life upside down
I was fool for falling over you in first place
I take it on people and I didn't mean too
I know it now than late is good
I'm starting over
It's going to take time
This summer I learned a lot about life and people
I got part of me need to grow up
Right now it in my hand
Time to reach for goal
What life means to me is
Start doing it right
I need to improve myself
I don't want to be like this anymore
Is hard enough already
Don't be hard on yourself
Enjoy life while you have chance
Take a break and have fun
You can't undo what happen already
No matter how much you wish for it
You need to start fresh and over again
Life mean to me is
poem by Christina Phan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Good Life
Seven days of work
Getting no break
Gotta take a day off to unwind
It gives me time to get away
A little time to ease my mind, my mind tonight
Forget about your worries
Save your problems for tomorrow
Tonight just try to have a good time
Let the DJ make it easy
Let the music help you do it
Tell me don't you wanna live the good life
The Good Life
Good friends, no stresses
The Good Life
Laid back, relaxed in
The Good Life
Good love, no messes
The Good Life
Wanna live in the Good Life
Dancing with a glass of champagne
Or maybe Chardonay, keep me feeling good all night
See so many happy people on the floor
Leave your problems at the door, the door
Forget about your worries
Save your problems for tomorrow
Tonight just try to have a good time
Let the DJ make it easy
Let the music help you do it
Tell me don't you wanna live the good life
The Good Life
Good friends, no stresses
The Good Life
Laid back, relaxed in
The Good Life
Good love, no messes
The Good Life
Wanna live in the Good Life
The Good Life
Good friends, no stresses
The Good Life
Laid back, relaxed in
The Good Life
Good love, no messes
The Good Life
Wanna live in the Good Life
We'll dance the night away
Inside it feels so good I wanna stay
Althought I hate I have to go
And face another day
I'm gonna get my groove on and party, party
Forget about your worries
Save your problems for tomorrow
Tonight just try to have a good time
Let the DJ make it easy
Let the music help you do it
Tell me don't you wanna live the good life
[Faith](Flex)
The Good Life
Don't you wanna live in
The Good Life
Laid back, relaxed in
The Good Life
Good friends, good lovin'
The Good Life
Oh I wanna live the good life
(Yeah, exactly)
The Good Life
(Ha, ha)
Tell me do you wanna live
(You know what I mean)
The Good Life
(Shout to Bad Boy and shout to my man Puff Daddy)
Laying back, just relaxin'
(Alright, Faith Evans, Todd, all of that)
The Good Life...
(Funk Flex 60 minutes of Funk, now we gonna do it So So Def style)
song performed by by Faith Evans
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jenny
Lazy laughing languid Jenny,
Fond of a kiss and fond of a guinea,
Whose head upon my knee to-night
Rests for a while, as if grown light
With all our dances and the sound
To which the wild tunes spun you round:
Fair Jenny mine, the thoughtless queen
Of kisses which the blush between
Could hardly make much daintier;
Whose eyes are as blue skies, whose hair
Is countless gold incomparable:
Fresh flower, scarce touched with signs that tell
Of Love's exuberant hotbed:—Nay,
Poor flower left torn since yesterday
Until to-morrow leave you bare;
Poor handful of bright spring-water
Flung in the whirlpool's shrieking face;
Poor shameful Jenny, full of grace
Thus with your head upon my knee;—
Whose person or whose purse may be
The lodestar of your reverie?
This room of yours, my Jenny, looks
A change from mine so full of books,
Whose serried ranks hold fast, forsooth,
So many captive hours of youth,—
The hours they thieve from day and night
To make one's cherished work come right,
And leave it wrong for all their theft,
Even as to-night my work was left:
Until I vowed that since my brain
And eyes of dancing seemed so fain,
My feet should have some dancing too:—
And thus it was I met with you.
Well, I suppose 'twas hard to part,
For here I am. And now, sweetheart,
You seem too tired to get to bed.
It was a careless life I led
When rooms like this were scarce so strange
Not long ago. What breeds the change,—
The many aims or the few years?
Because to-night it all appears
Something I do not know again.
The cloud's not danced out of my brain—
The cloud that made it turn and swim
While hour by hour the books grew dim.
Why, Jenny, as I watch you there,—
For all your wealth of loosened hair,
Your silk ungirdled and unlac'd
And warm sweets open to the waist,
All golden in the lamplight's gleam,—
You know not what a book you seem,
Half-read by lightning in a dream!
How should you know, my Jenny? Nay,
And I should be ashamed to say:—
Poor beauty, so well worth a kiss!
But while my thought runs on like this
With wasteful whims more than enough,
I wonder what you're thinking of.
If of myself you think at all,
What is the thought?—conjectural
On sorry matters best unsolved?—
Or inly is each grace revolved
To fit me with a lure?—or (sad
To think!) perhaps you're merely glad
That I'm not drunk or ruffianly
And let you rest upon my knee.
For sometimes, were the truth confess'd,
You're thankful for a little rest,—
Glad from the crush to rest within,
From the heart-sickness and the din
Where envy's voice at virtue's pitch
Mocks you because your gown is rich;
And from the pale girl's dumb rebuke,
Whose ill-clad grace and toil-worn look
Proclaim the strength that keeps her weak,
And other nights than yours bespeak;
And from the wise unchildish elf,
To schoolmate lesser than himself
Pointing you out, what thing you are:—
Yes, from the daily jeer and jar,
From shame and shame's outbraving too,
Is rest not sometimes sweet to you?—
But most from the hatefulness of man,
Who spares not to end what he began,
Whose acts are ill and his speech ill,
Who, having used you at his will,
Thrusts you aside, as when I dine
I serve the dishes and the wine.
Well, handsome Jenny mine, sit up:
I've filled our glasses, let us sup,
And do not let me think of you,
Lest shame of yours suffice for two.
What, still so tired? Well, well then, keep
Your head there, so you do not sleep;
But that the weariness may pass
And leave you merry, take this glass.
Ah! lazy lily hand, more bless'd
If ne'er in rings it had been dress'd
Nor ever by a glove conceal'd!
Behold the lilies of the field,
They toil not neither do they spin;
(So doth the ancient text begin,—
Not of such rest as one of these
Can share.) Another rest and ease
Along each summer-sated path
From its new lord the garden hath,
Than that whose spring in blessings ran
Which praised the bounteous husbandman,
Ere yet, in days of hankering breath,
The lilies sickened unto death.
What, Jenny, are your lilies dead?
Aye, and the snow-white leaves are spread
Like winter on the garden-bed.
But you had roses left in May,—
They were not gone too. Jenny, nay,
But must your roses die, and those
Their purfled buds that should unclose?
Even so; the leaves are curled apart,
Still red as from the broken heart,
And here's the naked stem of thorns.
Nay, nay, mere words. Here nothing warns
As yet of winter. Sickness here
Or want alone could waken fear,—
Nothing but passion wrings a tear.
Except when there may rise unsought
Haply at times a passing thought
Of the old days which seem to be
Much older than any history
That is written in any book;
When she would lie in fields and look
Along the ground through the blown grass
And wonder where the city was,
Far out of sight, whose broil and bale
They told her then for a child's tale.
Jenny, you know the city now.
A child can tell the tale there, how
Some things which are not yet enroll'd
In market-lists are bought and sold
Even till the early Sunday light,
When Saturday night is market-night
Everywhere, be it dry or wet,
And market-night in the Haymarket.
Our learned London children know,
Poor Jenny, all your pride and woe;
Have seen your lifted silken skirt
Advertise dainties through the dirt;
Have seen your coach-wheels splash rebuke
On virtue; and have learned your look
When, wealth and health slipped past, you stare
Along the streets alone, and there,
Round the long park, across the bridge,
The cold lamps at the pavement's edge
Wind on together and apart,
A fiery serpent for your heart.
Let the thoughts pass, an empty cloud!
Suppose I were to think aloud,—
What if to her all this were said?
Why, as a volume seldom read
Being opened halfway shuts again,
So might the pages of her brain
Be parted at such words, and thence
Close back upon the dusty sense.
For is there hue or shape defin'd
In Jenny's desecrated mind,
Where all contagious currents meet,
A Lethe of the middle street?
Nay, it reflects not any face,
Nor sound is in its sluggish pace,
But as they coil those eddies clot,
And night and day remember not.
Why, Jenny, you're asleep at last!—
Asleep, poor Jenny, hard and fast,—
So young and soft and tired; so fair,
With chin thus nestled in your hair,
Mouth quiet, eyelids almost blue
As if some sky of dreams shone through!
Just as another woman sleeps!
Enough to throw one's thoughts in heaps
Of doubt and horror,—what to say
Or think,—this awful secret sway,
The potter's power over the clay!
Of the same lump (it has been said)
For honour and dishonour made,
Two sister vessels. Here is one.
My cousin Nell is fond of fun,
And fond of dress, and change, and praise,
So mere a woman in her ways:
And if her sweet eyes rich in youth
Are like her lips that tell the truth,
My cousin Nell is fond of love.
And she's the girl I'm proudest of.
Who does not prize her, guard her well?
The love of change, in cousin Nell,
Shall find the best and hold it dear:
The unconquered mirth turn quieter
Not through her own, through others' woe:
The conscious pride of beauty glow
Beside another's pride in her,
One little part of all they share.
For Love himself shall ripen these
In a kind soil to just increase
Through years of fertilizing peace.
Of the same lump (as it is said)
For honour and dishonour made,
Two sister vessels. Here is one.
It makes a goblin of the sun.
So pure,—so fall'n! How dare to think
Of the first common kindred link?
Yet, Jenny, till the world shall burn
It seems that all things take their turn;
And who shall say but this fair tree
May need, in changes that may be,
Your children's children's charity?
Scorned then, no doubt, as you are scorn'd!
Shall no man hold his pride forewarn'd
Till in the end, the Day of Days,
At Judgment, one of his own race,
As frail and lost as you, shall rise,—
His daughter, with his mother's eyes?
How Jenny's clock ticks on the shelf!
Might not the dial scorn itself
That has such hours to register?
Yet as to me, even so to her
Are golden sun and silver moon,
In daily largesse of earth's boon,
Counted for life-coins to one tune.
And if, as blindfold fates are toss'd,
Through some one man this life be lost,
Shall soul not somehow pay for soul?
Fair shines the gilded aureole
In which our highest painters place
Some living woman's simple face.
And the stilled features thus descried
As Jenny's long throat droops aside,—
The shadows where the cheeks are thin,
And pure wide curve from ear to chin,—
With Raffael's, Leonardo's hand
To show them to men's souls, might stand,
Whole ages long, the whole world through,
For preachings of what God can do.
What has man done here? How atone,
Great God, for this which man has done?
And for the body and soul which by
Man's pitiless doom must now comply
With lifelong hell, what lullaby
Of sweet forgetful second birth
Remains? All dark. No sign on earth
What measure of God's rest endows
The many mansions of his house.
If but a woman's heart might see
Such erring heart unerringly
For once! But that can never be.
Like a rose shut in a book
In which pure women may not look,
For its base pages claim control
To crush the flower within the soul;
Where through each dead rose-leaf that clings,
Pale as transparent Psyche-wings,
To the vile text, are traced such things
As might make lady's cheek indeed
More than a living rose to read;
So nought save foolish foulness may
Watch with hard eyes the sure decay;
And so the life-blood of this rose,
Puddled with shameful knowledge, flows
Through leaves no chaste hand may unclose:
Yet still it keeps such faded show
Of when 'twas gathered long ago,
That the crushed petals' lovely grain,
The sweetness of the sanguine stain,
Seen of a woman's eyes, must make
Her pitiful heart, so prone to ache,
Love roses better for its sake:—
Only that this can never be:—
Even so unto her sex is she.
Yet, Jenny, looking long at you,
The woman almost fades from view.
A cipher of man's changeless sum
Of lust, past, present, and to come,
Is left. A riddle that one shrinks
To challenge from the scornful sphinx.
Like a toad within a stone
Seated while Time crumbles on;
Which sits there since the earth was curs'd
For Man's transgression at the first;
Which, living through all centuries,
Not once has seen the sun arise;
Whose life, to its cold circle charmed,
The earth's whole summers have not warmed;
Which always—whitherso the stone
Be flung—sits there, deaf, blind, alone;—
Aye, and shall not be driven out
Till that which shuts him round about
Break at the very Master's stroke,
And the dust thereof vanish as smoke,
And the seed of Man vanish as dust:—
Even so within this world is Lust.
Come, come, what use in thoughts like this?
Poor little Jenny, good to kiss,—
You'd not believe by what strange roads
Thought travels, when your beauty goads
A man to-night to think of toads!
Jenny, wake up…. Why, there's the dawn!
And there's an early waggon drawn
To market, and some sheep that jog
Bleating before a barking dog;
And the old streets come peering through
Another night that London knew;
And all as ghostlike as the lamps.
So on the wings of day decamps
My last night's frolic. Glooms begin
To shiver off as lights creep in
Past the gauze curtains half drawn-to,
And the lamp's doubled shade grows blue,—
Your lamp, my Jenny, kept alight,
Like a wise virgin's, all one night!
And in the alcove coolly spread
Glimmers with dawn your empty bed;
And yonder your fair face I see
Reflected lying on my knee,
Where teems with first foreshadowings
Your pier-glass scrawled with diamond rings:
And on your bosom all night worn
Yesterday's rose now droops forlorn,
But dies not yet this summer morn.
And now without, as if some word
Had called upon them that they heard,
The London sparrows far and nigh
Clamour together suddenly;
And Jenny's cage-bird grown awake
Here in their song his part must take,
Because here too the day doth break.
And somehow in myself the dawn
Among stirred clouds and veils withdrawn
Strikes greyly on her. Let her sleep.
But will it wake her if I heap
These cushions thus beneath her head
Where my knee was? No,—there's your bed,
My Jenny, while you dream. And there
I lay among your golden hair,
Perhaps the subject of your dreams,
These golden coins.
For still one deems
That Jenny's flattering sleep confers
New magic on the magic purse,—
Grim web, how clogged with shrivelled flies!
Between the threads fine fumes arise
And shape their pictures in the brain.
There roll no streets in glare and rain,
Nor flagrant man-swine whets his tusk;
But delicately sighs in musk
The homage of the dim boudoir;
Or like a palpitating star
Thrilled into song, the opera-night
Breathes faint in the quick pulse of light;
Or at the carriage-window shine
Rich wares for choice; or, free to dine,
Whirls through its hour of health (divine
For her) the concourse of the Park.
And though in the discounted dark
Her functions there and here are one,
Beneath the lamps and in the sun
There reigns at least the acknowledged belle
Apparelled beyond parallel.
Ah Jenny, yes, we know your dreams.
For even the Paphian Venus seems
A goddess o'er the realms of love,
When silver-shrined in shadowy grove:
Aye, or let offerings nicely plac'd
But hide Priapus to the waist,
And whoso looks on him shall see
An eligible deity.
Why, Jenny, waking here alone
May help you to remember one,
Though all the memory's long outworn
Of many a double-pillowed morn.
I think I see you when you wake,
And rub your eyes for me, and shake
My gold, in rising, from your hair,
A Danaë for a moment there.
Jenny, my love rang true! for still
Love at first sight is vague, until
That tinkling makes him audible.
And must I mock you to the last,
Ashamed of my own shame,—aghast
Because some thoughts not born amiss
Rose at a poor fair face like this?
Well, of such thoughts so much I know:
In my life, as in hers, they show,
By a far gleam which I may near,
A dark path I can strive to clear.
Only one kiss. Good-bye, my dear.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Were Not Going Back
Do you remember the good old days?
An empty stomach and a tear-stained face
Do you remember how it used to be?
The walking dead in the factory
I wont talk because
Its not as it was
You dont want the sack
Then dont doff your cap
{we are not going back} dont back pedal down a broken track
{we are not going back} Im alright jack is an easy trap
{we are not going back} no more need for wearing all black
{we are not going back} Im alright jack is an easy trap
Do you remember the dail pain
Of walking arouhnd with a ball and chain?
Do you recall when it was hard buyt fair?
You got your share on a line of a prayer.
Please put in my box
Some money for socks
Dont turn back the clocks
Its not as it was
{we are not going back} dont back pedal down a broken track
{we are not going back} Im alright jack is an easy trap
{we are not going back} no more need for wearing all black
{we are not going back} Im alright jack is an easy trap
song performed by by Housemartins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life Lessons
MMMMMmmmmmm...
I listen, and still I haven't heard
Tell me what is the word
And if I ever heard it would it be clear as water
Oh tears run down your face
Reflects the human race
We're all caught up with winnin' losin time and space
Life's lessons
So you think you know it all
But you're headin' for a fall
Ooh to make it back again
You'll have to crawl and step back
Take a look around
Are your feet still on the ground
Can we find you in the section of lost and found
Never think you got it figured out
'Cause when you do you begin to doubt
It's time for you to open your eyes
Will we look back and see what we've done
Will we be proud or ashamed of what we've become
Will we realize we all share one fate
Or is this another life's lesson... Too late
OOohhh...
Never think you've got it figured out
'Cause when you do you begin to doubt
It's time for you to open your eyes
OOohhh...
Will we look back and see what we've done
Will we be proud or ashamed of what we've become
Will we realize we all share one fate
Is this another life's lesson... Too late
Will we look back and see what we've done
OOohhh...OOohhh...
Will we realize we all share one fate
OOOohhhh life's lessons
OOohhh...OOohhh...OOohhh yeah life's lessons
Ooohh... life's lessons
Will we look back and see what we've done
Will we realize we all share one fate
song performed by by Lynyrd Skynyrd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Turning Back From The Abyss
Watch the contents of the bottle go down the sink.
Oh, how I want a drink.
I must resist, I must resist.
The smell of alcohol in the air.
I can almost taste it there.
Temptation is rife.
I must resist the urge, I must resist.
I open the window,
breath deeply in air
This is the first hour,
of the first day.
Time is my enemy
I have to ignore.
If I watch it go slowly,
I’ll only want a drink more.
Must go for a walk,
so its outs of sight
Oh, day turn to night,
night turn to day.
The streets are too busy
for anyone to notice me.
The road back is harder,
than the one I slipped down
The way is steeper.
Take a little step at a time.
With each new passing day,
Must keep the demons
and nightmares at bay.
I might stumble,
but I dare not slip again.
First rid your life of bottles,
shave everyday,
try to look presentable,
clean your clothes.
Theses are my daily vows.
Step out into the sunlight
Hold your head up high
Your going to make it,
through this day.
Tomorrow is somewhere else,
just think of today.
The minutes stretch like hours
You look at bottles on display
The demon inside you tells you
“Go in and buy one.”
No, you can’t go back
now that you’ve started.
Walk by, ignore what you see.
Take no second glance.
Just keep walking away
Temptation may be rife.
You’ve got to fight the urge.
No one said it would be easy
There was no magic cure.
You’ve got to think future,
make it your goal.
With every step you take,
think of smiling faces, cheering you on.
Family and friends, you thought were all gone.
Remember their faces.
See what they see.
They want you back,
the way you used to be.
Happy and loving and care free.
You owe it to yourself,
to see the whole thing through.
If you want that life again
Walk by the temptations,
every step along the way.
Dispel the demon,
everything he has to say.
You can do it if you want to.
Hand will outstretch
to help you through.
The way back is never easy
Take each day as it comes.
Oh, sure there will be bad ones.
You’ll cry for the bottle,
to ease all the pain.
Don’t reach for it
and drag yourself down again.
Remember if you fall this time.
you may never get another chance.
Take it while you’ve got it.
Go one make your stance.
The choice is yours.
The bottle or a new life.
The bottle, loneliness and empty again.
A new life, job, family and friends.
The choice is yours.
Think carefully my friend.
Make all the nightmares end.
I’m strong now, I’ll walk by.
I want what I lost,
all those years ago.
Straight ahead I look,
no second glance take.
I must climb this road,
no matter how long it takes.
29 Jan 2007
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Veils & Visions
I crash so hard
Fall so low
Just when things look right
That's when you know that I'm alone
I take the chance
To lose it all
Take a look around me
And you'll see where I have stalled
This is the last time that I'm sayin'
And here's the end
Of the night
Of the line
Won't somebody save me?
Here's the time
Time for more
Time for everything and anything
It's alright
It's alright
And we go on and on and on and on again
The rooms on fire
You lock the door
Your new way of thinking will not get
Me off the floor
Take this time
To take a fall
I've given you my best
And now you won't see that at all
This is the last time that I'm sayin'
And here's the end
Of the night
Of the line
Won't somebody save me?
Here's the time
Time for more
Time for everything and anything
It's alright
It's alright
And we go on and on and on and on again
Back beat
Everybody is changing
I'm so stuck and you are amazing
This is my low
You are the reason
Live to be numb
My fall is the season
Inhale the bullshit
Makes my skin itch but it gets me lit
Don't ya wish that the pieces fit
Like when we were kids
You can't bide lost time
Can't bide lost time
You can't bide lost time
Can't bide yours and mine
You can't bide lost time
Can't bide lost time
You can't bide lost time
Can't bide yours and mine
Mine
Here's the end
Of the night
Of the line
Won't somebody save me?
Here's the time
Time for more
Time for everything and anything
It's alright
It's alright
And we go on and on and on and on
On and on and on and on again
song performed by by Zebrahead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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