The Beggar's Soliloquy
I
Now, this, to my notion, is pleasant cheer,
To lie all alone on a ragged heath,
Where your nose isn't sniffing for bones or beer,
But a peat-fire smells like a garden beneath.
The cottagers bustle about the door,
And the girl at the window ties her strings.
She's a dish for a man who's a mind to be poor;
Lord! women are such expensive things.
II
We don't marry beggars, says she: why, no:
It seems that to make 'em is what you do;
And as I can cook, and scour, and sew,
I needn't pay half my victuals for you.
A man for himself should be able to scratch,
But tickling's a luxury:- love, indeed!
Love burns as long as the lucifer match,
Wedlock's the candle! Now, that's my creed.
III
The church-bells sound water-like over the wheat;
And up the long path troop pair after pair.
The man's well-brushed, and the woman looks neat:
It's man and woman everywhere!
Unless, like me, you lie here flat,
With a donkey for friend, you must have a wife:
She pulls out your hair, but she brushes your hat.
Appearances make the best half of life.
IV
You nice little madam! you know you're nice.
I remember hearing a parson say
You're a plateful of vanity pepper'd with vice;
You chap at the gate thinks t' other way.
On his waistcoat you read both his head and his heart:
There's a whole week's wages there figured in gold!
Yes! when you turn round you may well give a start:
It's fun to a fellow who's getting old.
V
Now, that's a good craft, weaving waistcoats and flowers,
And selling of ribbons, and scenting of lard:
It gives you a house to get in from the showers,
And food when your appetite jockeys you hard.
You live a respectable man; but I ask
If it's worth the trouble? You use your tools,
And spend your time, and what's your task?
Why, to make a slide for a couple of fools.
VI
You can't match the colour o' these heath mounds,
Nor better that peat-fire's agreeable smell.
I'm clothed-like with natural sights and sounds;
To myself I'm in tune: I hope you're as well.
You jolly old cot! though you don't own coal:
It's a generous pot that's boiled with peat.
Let the Lord Mayor o' London roast oxen whole:
His smoke, at least, don't smell so sweet.
VII
I'm not a low Radical, hating the laws,
Who'd the aristocracy rebuke.
I talk o' the Lord Mayor o' London because
I once was on intimate terms with his cook.
I served him a turn, and got pensioned on scraps,
And, Lord, Sir! didn't I envy his place,
Till Death knock'd him down with the softest of taps,
And I knew what was meant by a tallowy face!
VIII
On the contrary, I'm Conservative quite;
There's beggars in Scripture 'mongst Gentiles and Jews:
It's nonsense, trying to set things right,
For if people will give, why, who'll refuse?
That stopping old custom wakes my spleen:
The poor and the rich both in giving agree:
Your tight-fisted shopman's the Radical mean:
There's nothing in common 'twixt him and me.
IX
He says I'm no use! but I won't reply.
You're lucky not being of use to him!
On week-days he's playing at Spider and Fly,
And on Sundays he sings about Cherubim!
Nailing shillings to counters is his chief work:
He nods now and then at the name on his door:
But judge of us two, at a bow and a smirk,
I think I'm his match: and I'm honest-that's more.
X
No use! well, I mayn't be. You ring a pig's snout,
And then call the animal glutton! Now, he,
Mr. Shopman, he's nought but a pipe and a spout
Who won't let the goods o' this world pass free.
This blazing blue weather all round the brown crop,
He can't enjoy! all but cash he hates.
He's only a snail that crawls under his shop;
Though he has got the ear o' the magistrates.
XI
Now, giving and taking's a proper exchange,
Like question and answer: you're both content.
But buying and selling seems always strange;
You're hostile, and that's the thing that's meant.
It's man against man-you're almost brutes;
There's here no thanks, and there's there no pride.
If Charity's Christian, don't blame my pursuits,
I carry a touchstone by which you're tried.
XII
- 'Take it,' says she, 'it's all I've got':
I remember a girl in London streets:
She stood by a coffee-stall, nice and hot,
My belly was like a lamb that bleats.
Says I to myself, as her shilling I seized,
You haven't a character here, my dear!
But for making a rascal like me so pleased,
I'll give you one, in a better sphere!
XIII
And that's where it is-she made me feel
I was a rascal: but people who scorn,
And tell a poor patch-breech he isn't genteel,
Why, they make him kick up-and he treads on a corn.
It isn't liking, it's curst ill-luck,
Drives half of us into the begging-trade:
If for taking to water you praise a duck,
For taking to beer why a man upbraid?
XIV
The sermon's over: they're out of the porch,
And it's time for me to move a leg;
But in general people who come from church,
And have called themselves sinners, hate chaps to beg.
I'll wager they'll all of 'em dine to-day!
I was easy half a minute ago.
If that isn't pig that's baking away,
May I perish!-we're never contented-heigho!
poem by George Meredith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bring our smile in our family
Let us have a a good respect for one to another
We can't be a hero without You, my dear Lord
Lord, let us put this heart on You
With share to others
With the unspoken of True Love
But with the act of love
Dear Lord.... You open our eyes
The winner of all battle are
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The winner of all games
are not the people who have a lot of money
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when people insulted them
when people humiliated them
when people can give to others even though they are poor
Dear Lord.... I am honest to you
It's difficult to be a winner
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I try to give without ask them to return
I pray for them Lord
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Lord, i believe You will make us smile
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Lord... by saying these words
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Amen..
Inasmuch As Ye Did It Not . . .
If Jesus came to London,
Came to London to-day,
He would not go to the West End,
He would come down our way;
He'd talk with the children dancing
To the organ out in the street,
And say he was their big Brother,
And give them something to eat.
He wouldn't go to the mansions
Where the charitable live;
He'd come to the tenement houses
Where we ain't got nothing to give.
He'd come so kind and so homely,
And treat us to beer and bread,
And tell us how we ought to behave;
And we'd try to mind what He said.
In the warm bright West End churches
They sing and preach and pray,
They call us 'Beloved brethren,'
But they do not act that way.
And when He came to the church door
He'd call out loud and free,
You stop that preaching and praying
And show what you've done for Me.'
Then they'd say, 'O Lord, we have given
To the poor both blankets and tracts,
And we've tried to make them sober,
And we've tried to teach them facts.
But they will sneak round to the drink-shop,
And pawn the blankets for beer,
And we find them very ungrateful,
But still we persevere.'
Then He would say, 'I told you
The time I was here before,
That you were all of you brothers,
All you that I suffered for.
I won't go into your churches,
I'll stop in the sun outside.
You bring out the men your brothers,
The men for whom I died!'
Out of our beastly lodgings,
From arches and doorways about,
They'd have to do as He told them,
They'd have to call us out.
Millions and millions and millions,
Thick and crawling like flies,
We should creep out to the sunshine
And not be afraid of His eyes.
He'd see what God's image looks like
When men have dealt with the same,
Wrinkled with work that is never done,
Swollen and dirty with shame.
He'd see on the children's forehead
The branded gutter-sign
That marks the girls to be harlots,
That dooms the boys to be swine.
Then He'd say, 'What's the good of churches
When these have nowhere to sleep?
And how can I hear you praying
When they are cursing so deep?
I gave My Blood and My Body
That they might have bread and wine,
And you have taken your share and theirs
Of these good gifts of mine!'
Then some of the rich would be sorry,
And all would be very scared,
And they'd say, 'But we never knew, Lord!'
And He'd say, 'You never cared!'
And some would be sick and shameful
Because they'd know that they knew,
And the best would say, 'We were wrong, Lord.
Now tell us what to do!'
I think He'd be sitting, likely,
For someone 'ud bring Him a chair,
With a common kid cuddled up on His knee
And the common sun on His hair;
And they'd be standing before Him,
And He'd say, 'You know that you knew.
Why haven't you worked for your brothers
The same as I worked for you?
'For since you're all of you brothers
It's clear as God's blessed sun
That each must work for the others,
Not thousands work for one.
And the ones that have lived bone-idle
If they want Me to hear them pray,
Let them go and work for their livings
The only honest way!
'I've got nothing new to tell you,
You know what I always said -
But you've built their bones into churches
And stolen their wine and bread;
You with My Name on your foreheads,
Liar, and traitor, and knave,
You have lived by the death of your brothers,
These whom I died to save!'
I wish He would come and say it;
Perhaps they'd believe it then,
And work like men for their livings
And let us work like men.
Brothers? They don't believe it,
The lie on their lips is red.
They'll never believe till He comes again,
Or till we rise from the dead!
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Reflection Of A Shiny Object (*)
Make as much money as I can…
That's my ideology.
Let the blood drip through
These dead fingers…
My money is as dirty
As my mind…
I don't care about love
Much less making it…
I don't know how to love myself…
Much less how to love someone else.
I live for the green…
I'm so lost…
This is all I got…
How can anyone love this?
How can anyone love what I've become?
I underestimate myself…
But no!
I can do so much with money…
I can travel around…
The people around me,
Will envy me…
And not actually travel with me…
But I'll make them envy me…
You don't understand!
I have nothing left!
Best things in life are free…?
Ha! No such thing!
The good has a high price tag on it…
You buy it…
And then…
And then it becomes yours…
All mine!
Yeah, all mine.
Mine…
Mine…
Am I sounding like a two year old?
No…
I need to get my share!
You never know what can happen…
There's nothing else inside…
Empty…
Why?
Why do I feel so empty?
So angry?
They just would never get me...
Never…
They seem like good people though…
Oh, but they probably didn't have it as bad as me…
I have a reason to be this way!
They don't know what it's like to be me!
Because they're not me!
We have nothing in common!
Nothing!
Well…
We look pretty similar…
Have the same emotions…
But no!
We're very different!
Different stories!
If only I could have all the money in the world…
I would make people bow in front of me…
Kiss my feet…
Since there's no god…
I can play god…
They'll fall for it…
They always do…
Ha! I'm so clever!
I can barely contain myself!
…
You know…I just don't give a f***!
I don't give a f*** about children!
I don't give a f*** about women!
I don't give a f*** about f***ing trees!
Trees…chop them up and make me some money!
Ha! I'm so clever!
I hate those savages…
Those hippy a**holes…
They don't know how good it is to have power…
That's why they don't want it…
Yeah…that's exactly why they don't want it…
They just like listening to rock and roll…
Touching each other's hair with those dirty hands…
They're so stupid…
Seriously…I don't know how they can live with themselves…
You know? For being so stupid…
And dirty...
With their dancing…
And singing…
What the f***, right?
Grow the f*** up!
Get a nice car, nice house…
Travel all over the world…
Never look like a loser…
Never!
So embarrassing to be poor…
Damn…I'd rather die before being poor…
But how do they look so happy without money?
They're just stupid…
Yeah…that's why…
They don't get it…
Just don't get it…
Their nature, spiritual talk…
So boring!
They do create some crazy sh*t though…
But no…they're so stupid…
I don't even get that crazy stupid art…
Idiots…
They're idiots…
Yeah…
Hum…
Yeah…
And f***ing women…
I make them my wh*res…
Yeah…women are such wh*res…
Dumb little wh*res…
Yeah…
Yeah…
Ah…whatever…
What the f*** am I doing talking to a f***ing mirror?
poem by Erica Borges
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Martin’s Puzzle
I
There she goes up the street with her book in her hand,
And her Good morning, Martin! Ay, lass, how d'ye do?
Very well, thank you, Martin!-I can't understand!
I might just as well never have cobbled a shoe!
I can't understand it. She talks like a song;
Her voice takes your ear like the ring of a glass;
She seems to give gladness while limping along,
Yet sinner ne'er suffer'd like that little lass.
II
First, a fool of a boy ran her down with a cart.
Then, her fool of a father-a blacksmith by trade -
Why the deuce does he tell us it half broke his heart?
His heart!-where's the leg of the poor little maid!
Well, that's not enough; they must push her downstairs,
To make her go crooked: but why count the list?
If it's right to suppose that our human affairs
Are all order'd by heaven-there, bang goes my fist!
III
For if angels can look on such sights-never mind!
When you're next to blaspheming, it's best to be mum.
The parson declares that her woes weren't designed;
But, then, with the parson it's all kingdom-come.
Lose a leg, save a soul-a convenient text;
I call it Tea doctrine, not savouring of God.
When poor little Molly wants 'chastening,' why, next
The Archangel Michael might taste of the rod.
IV
But, to see the poor darling go limping for miles
To read books to sick people!-and just of an age
When girls learn the meaning of ribands and smiles!
Makes me feel like a squirrel that turns in a cage.
The more I push thinking the more I revolve:
I never get farther:- and as to her face,
It starts up when near on my puzzle I solve,
And says, 'This crush'd body seems such a sad case.'
V
Not that she's for complaining: she reads to earn pence;
And from those who can't pay, simple thanks are enough.
Does she leave lamentation for chaps without sense?
Howsoever, she's made up of wonderful stuff.
Ay, the soul in her body must be a stout cord;
She sings little hymns at the close of the day,
Though she has but three fingers to lift to the Lord,
And only one leg to kneel down with to pray.
VI
What I ask is, Why persecute such a poor dear,
If there's Law above all? Answer that if you can!
Irreligious I'm not; but I look on this sphere
As a place where a man should just think like a man.
It isn't fair dealing! But, contrariwise,
Do bullets in battle the wicked select?
Why, then it's all chance-work! And yet, in her eyes,
She holds a fixed something by which I am checked.
VII
Yonder riband of sunshine aslope on the wall,
If you eye it a minute 'll have the same look:
So kind! and so merciful! God of us all!
It's the very same lesson we get from the Book.
Then, is Life but a trial? Is that what is meant?
Some must toil, and some perish, for others below:
The injustice to each spreads a common content;
Ay! I've lost it again, for it can't be quite so.
VIII
She's the victim of fools: that seems nearer the mark.
On earth there are engines and numerous fools.
Why the Lord can permit them, we're still in the dark;
He does, and in some sort of way they're His tools.
It's a roundabout way, with respect let me add,
If Molly goes crippled that we may be taught:
But, perhaps, it's the only way, though it's so bad;
In that case we'll bow down our heads,-as we ought.
IX
But the worst of ME is, that when I bow my head,
I perceive a thought wriggling away in the dust,
And I follow its tracks, quite forgetful, instead
Of humble acceptance: for, question I must!
Here's a creature made carefully-carefully made!
Put together with craft, and then stamped on, and why?
The answer seems nowhere: it's discord that's played.
The sky's a blue dish!-an implacable sky!
X
Stop a moment. I seize an idea from the pit.
They tell us that discord, though discord, alone,
Can be harmony when the notes properly fit:
Am I judging all things from a single false tone?
Is the Universe one immense Organ, that rolls
From devils to angels? I'm blind with the sight.
It pours such a splendour on heaps of poor souls!
I might try at kneeling with Molly to-night.
poem by George Meredith
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A Wonderful Woman
A good talk is so up lifting
Taking one away from drifting
No thinking of if-ing
Just a good talk
One that make you want to walk
But not stalk...
One that take you back in years
Remembering your young tears and fears.
The laughter of childhood...
Damn! a good talk is so good.
Filling your heart with warmth
Putting dreams out of place...
Adding to your world lace...
And not haste.
A good talk and the world stands still...
What a thrill...
taking away ones ills...
Forgetting about ones pills...
Damn! what a good talk will do for you.
Opening up things within...
That you re-live again...
That good talk is with a woman.
A woman you enjoy...
A good talk taking from toy of being a boy.
The things a good woman is capable of...
Without making love.
So I thank the good LORD above...
For speech...
And what a good woman can teach.
All in a good talk...
A conversation without a face...
But on the over side woman.
A woman with grace.
poem by whisperkwane Lamb
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Tinas Wish
(i. turner, t. turner)
Producers: chris lord-aldge, tina turner and roger davies
Album: whats love got to do with it (europe-94)
Previously recorded by ike and tina as tinas prayer
B-side of the I dont wanna fight single
Im talking to the priest
The high priest
And everybody out there in the universe
If what Im saying is wrong
Then tell me the right way to say it
Cause I wanna be made over
Paint me red, paint me green
Give me liberty, wash me clean
Make me over, make me nice
Cause when Im done, lord, I wanna be right
Hey lord
Make me over, I wanna be made over
Hey lord
Make me over, I wanna be made over
Make me smart, make me king
Give a lot, give me steam
I want eternal beauty, spiritual things
Cause when Im done, yes I wanna be a good thing
Hey lord
Make me over, I wanna be made over
Hey lord
Make me over, I wanna be made over
I wanna go places, I wanna do some things
I wanna be a star, I wanna have a big name
But in my heart, let beauty reign
And when Im done, I wanna have fame
Lord make me nice, lord make me good
Give me power, give me love
I wanna be desireable, voluptous, tenderlized
song performed by by Tina Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Don’t Cry For Me Africa
Don’t cry for me Africa
Because I will never let you out of my mind
I hear your voices people of Africa
I hear your cries people of Africa
I see pain in your eyes people of Africa
It is hard to describe what you people of Africa are going through
Poverty strikes you all people of Africa
Don’t cry for me Africa
Because I will keep you in my prayers people of Africa
Power to the people of Africa
People of Africa lift your spirit higher
Lord is the light and truth people of Africa
The Lord sends you a message from his heart to you people of Africa
He said because I love you
I will answer your prayers
I hear your prayers
Don’t cry for me Africa
Because you have a friend that is the Lord
People of Africa continue doing the Lords work
Make a wish people of Africa
The people of Africa are looking at the Lord face to face
Lord here is no paradise
We dream a little dream said the people of Africa to the Lord
The People of Africa Pray that the Lord will give each other strength every day
Don’t cry for me Africa
Save the people of Africa
Strengthened the people of Africa each day
Because I’ll be there in your dreams people of Africa
The people of Africa tells The Lord how much they love him
Don’t cry for me Africa
Lord comes when you are ready people of Africa
Feelings you have for your Lord People of Africa
And I know you will never let it die
Nothing but flowers the people of Africa will plant in the sea shore for the Lord
Don’t cry for me Africa
The people of Africa needs hope to heal there land
The Lord rose up on you people of Africa
Don’t cry for me Africa
My heart will go on
Once I close this door of the ship I will sail across the Atlantic Sea
poem by Aldo Kraas
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The Little Old Woman
There's a Little Old Woman walks in the night,
Singing her love song like a falling keen;
The Little Old Woman is the heart's delight,
With the gold crown under her hood to tell her queen.
The Little Old Woman's coming up this way,
Playing on her harp-strings a magic air;
There's this one and that one, they may not stay,
Stealing out in the night after the player.
The Little Old Woman is at the door,
Though 'tis a queen she is, in rags she goes,
Open the door to her, long-waited for!
Oh, Love and Delight you are, the Dear Black Rose.
The Little Old Woman she is begging bread;
She shall never go hungry while the ages pass,
With the love of her lovers she shall be fed
And their hearts lie under her feet in the green grass.
They go from the lit board and the fire of peat
And the dreams and the longing stir in the blood.
Sweet to be poor with her, yea, death is sweet,
For the Dear Rose of Beauty in the beggar's hood.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Juggling Jerry
Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes:
By the old hedge-side we'll halt a stage.
It's nigh my last above the daisies:
My next leaf'll be man's blank page.
Yes, my old girl! and it's no use crying:
Juggler, constable, king, must bow.
One that outjuggles all's been spying
Long to have me, and he has me now.
We've travelled times to this old common:
Often we've hung our pots in the gorse.
We've had a stirring life, old woman!
You, and I, and the old grey horse.
Races, and fairs, and royal occasions,
Found us coming to their call:
Now they'll miss us at our stations:
There's a Juggler outjuggles all!
Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly!
Over the duck-pond the willow shakes.
Easy to think that grieving's folly,
When the hand's firm as driven stakes!
Ay, when we're strong, and braced, and manful,
Life's a sweet fiddle: but we're a batch
Born to become the Great Juggler's han'ful:
Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch.
Here's where the lads of the village cricket:
I was a lad not wide from here:
Couldn't I whip off the bale from the wicket?
Like an old world those days appear!
Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatch'd ale-house--I know them!
They are old friends of my halts, and seem,
Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them:
Juggling don't hinder the heart's esteem.
Juggling's no sin, for we must have victual:
Nature allows us to bait for the fool.
Holding one's own makes us juggle no little;
But, to increase it, hard juggling's the rule.
You that are sneering at my profession,
Haven't you juggled a vast amount?
There's the Prime Minister, in one Session,
Juggles more games than my sins'll count.
I've murdered insects with mock thunder:
Conscience, for that, in men don't quail.
I've made bread from the bump of wonder:
That's my business, and there's my tale.
Fashion and rank all praised the professor:
Ay! and I've had my smile from the Queen:
Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her!
Ain't this a sermon on that scene?
I've studied men from my topsy-turvy
Close, and, I reckon, rather true.
Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy:
Most, a dash between the two.
But it's a woman, old girl, that makes me
Think more kindly of the race:
And it's a woman, old girl, that shakes me
When the Great Juggler I must face.
We two were married, due and legal:
Honest we've lived since we've been one.
Lord! I could then jump like an eagle:
You danced bright as a bit o' the sun.
Birds in a May-bush we were! right merry!
All night we kiss'd, we juggled all day.
Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry!
Now from his old girl he's juggled away.
It's past parsons to console us:
No, nor no doctor fetch for me:
I can die without my bolus;
Two of a trade, lass, never agree!
Parson and Doctor!--don't they love rarely
Fighting the devil in other men's fields!
Stand up yourself and match him fairly:
Then see how the rascal yields!
I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting
Finery while his poor helpmate grubs:
Coin I've stored, and you won't be wanting:
You shan't beg from the troughs and tubs.
Nobly you've stuck to me, though in his kitchen
Many a Marquis would hail you Cook!
Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in,
But your old Jerry you never forsook.
Hand up the chirper! ripe ale winks in it;
Let's have comfort and be at peace.
Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet.
Cheer up! the Lord must have his lease.
May be--for none see in that black hollow--
It's just a place where we're held in pawn,
And, when the Great Juggler makes as to swallow,
It's just the sword-trick--I ain't quite gone!
Yonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty,
Gold-like and warm: it's the prime of May.
Better than mortar, brick and putty
Is God's house on a blowing day.
Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it:
All the old heath-smells! Ain't it strange?
There's the world laughing, as if to conceal it,
But He's by us, juggling the change.
I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying,
Once--it's long gone--when two gulls we beheld,
Which, as the moon got up, were flying
Down a big wave that sparked and swell'd.
Crack, went a gun: one fell: the second
Wheeled round him twice, and was off for new luck:
There in the dark her white wing beckon'd:--
Drop me a kiss--I'm the bird dead-struck!
poem by George Meredith
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Everything She Wants
Somebody told me
Boy everything she wants is everything she sees
I guess i must have loved you
Because i said you were the perfect girl for me, baby
And now we're six months older
And everything you want and everything you see
Is out of reach not good enough
I don't know what the hell you want from me
Somebody tell me
(won't you tell me)
Why i work so hard for you
(to give you money, work to give you money)
Some people work for a living
Some people work for fun
Girl i just work for you
They told me marriage was give and take
Well you've shown me you can take
You've got some giving to do
And now you tell me that your having my baby
I'll tell you that i'm happy if you want me to
But one step further and my back will break
If my best isn't good enough
Then how can it be good enough for two
I can't work any harder than i do
Somebody tell me
(won't you tell me)
Why i work so hard for you
(to give you money, work to give you money)
Oh why do i do the things i do
I'd tell you if i knew
My god, i don't even think that i love you
(won't you tell me)
(to give you money, work to give you money)
How could you settle
For a boy like me
When all i could see
Was the end of the week
All the things we sign
And the things we buy
Ain't gonna keep us together
It's just a matter of time
My situation
Never changes
Walking in and out of that door
Like a stranger
For the wages
I give you all
You say you want more
And all i could see
Was the end of the week
All the things we sign
And the things we buy
Ain't gonna keep us together
Girl it's just a matter of time
song performed by by George Michael
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nice to see you
"Hello, nice to see you here"
I was stunned to hear her
She was long time friend on line
I felt so excited and very fine
I wished her a happy life and good health
And she reciprocated it with equal warmth
"What a way to remember long time friend!
Even if with not in speaking terms can be mended
I felt like rushing to her
She was nice and very kind to care
I memorized her by saying many good things
You remember a friend for small or minute things
She was quick enough to invite in her land
An invitation very rare to refuse from friend
I was so much moved by her gesture
Saw an opportunity to see her in future
How do you remember so minutely?
I asked her in confidence lately
She was firm with reply and smiled
"You are so sweet" her reply was styled
You are white skinned woman
And I am man of dark complexion
She was not hesitant and acknowledged
Nice gesture with good humor well managed
It is common to find a person
You find some good things with reasons
But to stay for long with absence
And come out with same eagerness is real essence
You are lovely man with good nature
She was summing up with bold posture
I felt heavenly under the sky
She was worth to remember and try
As I was approaching evening in life
To find life time friend is to experience an edge of knife
It is difficult to judge and understand mentality
Yet it proved as an acid test with very good quality
I wondered about water pond in desert
She was same with all love to insert
I felt it unique in this hostile world
I felt gracious act on her part and lucky to be in her fold
People take an affront to friendship
Someone may remark it with bad sportsmanship
I always disregard their opinion and continue to surge
Accede to request and go on making new friends with strong urge
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Not My Concern tissue warning
The night was dark and damp and cold.
The match girl’s matches still unsold.
The passers by ignored her pleas
what she was selling failed to please.
An orphan child without a home.
By circumstances forced to roam
She earns enough to pay her way
but not today, but not today.
Ill clad in rags and frozen through
her tiny hands and feet are blue.
The freezing rain turns into snow
The match girl has nowhere to go.
Without money, she cannot buy
a night in somewhere warm and dry.
She tries in vain to sell her wares
Without success, nobody cares.
The falling snow was getting deep
and still she had no place to sleep.
Although she tried in vain to find
some shelter from the freezing wind.
This was the night the match girl died.
They found her frozen stiff beside
the local convents well barred door.
The little Sisters of the Poor.
Had not been very sisterly.
Ignored the orphans misery
because they did not choose to see.
Now kindly death has set her free.
No longer needs the charity
which they denied so easily
by pious women who profess
to proffer aid to the helpless.
I do not claim to be guilt free
but I make no pretence to be
a Little sister of the poor
and let a child freeze at my door.
I am quite sure they will
deny any responsibility
and call her death an accident.
They could nothing to prevent.
I should not judge but feel I must
express my feelings of disgust
That this child was allowed to die
for lack of Christian charity.
Although this happened long ago
There’s very little changed I know.
We’re still prepared to pass them by
and care not if they live or die.
We can pretend they don’t exist
an attitude which will persist
As long as we don’t choose to see
They’re our responsibility.
12-Aug-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Grandmother
I.
And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne?
Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man.
And Willy's wife has written: she never was over-wise,
Never the wife for Willy: he would n't take my advice.
II.
For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save,
Had n't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave.
Pretty enough, very pretty! but I was against it for one.
Eh!--but he would n't hear me--and Willy, you say, is gone.
III.
Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock;
Never a man could fling him: for Willy stood like a rock.
`Here's a leg for a babe of a week!' says doctor; and he would be bound,
There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round.
IV.
Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue!
I ought to have gone before him: I wonder he went so young.
I cannot cry for him, Annie: I have not long to stay;
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away.
V.
Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and cold;
But all my children have gone before me, I am so old:
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest;
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.
VI.
For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear,
All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear.
I mean your grandfather, Annie: it cost me a world of woe,
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.
VII.
For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well
That Jenny had tript in her time: I knew, but I would not tell.
And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar!
But the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire.
VIII.
And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise,
That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies,
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright,
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.
IX.
And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day;
And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May.
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been!
But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself clean.
X.
And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late
I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate.
The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale,
And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale.
XI.
All of a sudden he stopt: there past by the gate of the farm,
Willy,--he did n't see me,--and Jenny hung on his arm.
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how;
Ah, there's no fool like the old one -- it makes me angry now.
XII.
Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant;
Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and went.
And I said, `Let us part: in a hundred years it'll all be the same,
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name.'
XIII.
And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine:
Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine.
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well of ill;
But marry me out of hand: we two shall be happy still.'
XIV.
`Marry you, Willy!' said I, `but I needs must speak my mind,
And I fear you'll listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind.'
But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, `No, love, no;'
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.
XV.
So Willy and I were wedded: I wore a lilac gown;
And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown.
But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born,
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn.
XVI.
That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death.
There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath.
I had not wept, little Anne, not since I had been a wife;
But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for his life.
XVII.
His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain:
I look'd at the still little body--his trouble had all been in vain.
For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn:
But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born.
XVIII.
But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay:
Kind, like a man, was he; like a man, too, would have his way:
Never jealous--not he: we had many a happy year;
And he died, and I could not weep--my own time seem'd so near.
XIX.
But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could have died:
I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side.
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget:
But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me yet.
XX.
Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two,
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you:
Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will,
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill.
XXI.
And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too--they sing to their team:
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream.
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed--
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead.
XXII.
And yet I know for a truth, there's none of them left alive;
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty- five:
And Willy, my eldest born, at nigh threescore and ten;
I knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly men.
XXIII.
For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve;
I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve:
And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I;
I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by.
XXIV.
To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad:
But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had;
And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease;
And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace.
XXV.
And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain,
And happy has been my life; but I would not live it again.
I seem to be tired a little, that's all, and long for rest;
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.
XXVI.
So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower;
But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour,--
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next;
I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext?
XXVII.
And Willy's wife has written, she never was over-wise.
Get me my glasses, Annie: thank God that I keep my eyes.
There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away.
But stay with the old woman now: you cannot have long to stay.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Break Loose
I’m growing old disgracefully.
It is not eccentricity
but a decision I have made,
Though rules are meant to be obeyed
.
The time has come to be just me
and not the me you’d have me be.
Although perhaps you’ll fume and fuss
I do not give a tinkers cuss.
No keeping up appearances.
Seeking official clearances
to the things I want to do.
If you don’t like it you can sue.
No three piece suit and tie for me
I aim for comfort casually.
There’s no one who I need impress.
Removes the need to power dress.
What you see is what you get
I am quite real so don’t forget.
No man can say he is my boss
I cannot say I feel the loss.
Retired now completely free
to be the man I want to be..
I have no need to chase success
I never did I must confess.
I lived my life as I thought best.
I think I earned the right to rest.
I find that rest’s eluding me
and I have little time that’s free
It’s rather strange but now I find
I left the world of work behind.
I’m busier than I was before
I find that I am doing more.
More than I ever did at work
although I was not one to shirk.
Perhaps because I can refuse
to do the things of little use.
Which used to be required of me
by people in authority
of little use to anyone.
Not now those days are long gone
I’ve cast aside my public face.
The mask I used to keep in place.
So I can act disgracefully
and let whole world see it’s me.
So growing old disgracefully
Is much more fun than quietly
Just taking to my easy chair
and let the world forget I’m there.
There’s more to life than the TV
I want to live outrageously.
Its my intent to break the rules.
which rule the life of the poor fools.
Who think at sixty life is done.
Retirement is the time for fun.
I find I can enjoy each day
in doing things in my own way.
Take my advice and don’t think twice
retirement is very nice.
Cast off responsibility
grow old disgracefully like me.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The smells of Football
Football has it's own smells
from the grass on the pitch
to the aroma from the Hot Dog stalls.
In the dressing room there's sweat
strong odour coming from ointments
being rubbed into aching muscles.
On the terraces you smell beer
years ago there was tobacco too
on Boxing Day the whiff of cigar smoke.
As a boy my mothers washing powder
making my kit smell nice and fresh
and getting rid of mud and grass stains.
The smell of leather of a new pair
of football boots and new ball
and layers of thick black polish.
At the half-time break in a match
onto the field came a large tray
full of sweet smelling and tasty Oranges.
These are the smells of Football
the odours of the Beautiful game
and for some the sweet smell of success.
poem by Kevin Halls
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Trouble In Mind
by Bob Dylan
I got to know, Lord, when to pull back on the reins,
Death can be the result of the most underrated pain.
Satan whispers to ya, "Well, I don't want to bore ya,
But when ya get tired of the Miss So-and-so I got another woman for ya."
Trouble in mind, Lord, trouble in mind,
Lord, take away this trouble in mind.
When the deeds that you do don't add up to zero,
It's what's inside that counts, ask any war hero.
You think you can hide but you're never alone,
Ask Lot what he thought when his wife turned to stone.
Trouble in mind, Lord, trouble in mind,
Lord, take away this trouble in mind.
Here comes Satan, prince of the power of the air,
He's gonna make you a law unto yourself, gonna build a bird's nest in your hair.
He's gonna deaden your conscience 'til you worship the work of your own hands,
You'll be serving strangers in a strange, forsaken land.
Trouble in mind, Lord, trouble in mind,
Lord, take away this trouble in mind.
Well, your true love has caught you where you don't belong,
You say, "Baby, everybody's doing it so I guess it can't be wrong."
The truth is far from you, so you know you got to lie,
Then you're all the time defending what you can never justify.
Trouble in mind, Lord, trouble in mind,
Lord, take away this trouble in mind.
So many of my brothers, they still want to be the boss,
They can't relate to the Lord's kingdom, they can't relate to the cross.
They self-inflict punishment on their own broken lives,
Put their faith in their possessions, in their jobs or their wives.
Trouble in mind, Lord, trouble in mind,
Lord, take away this trouble in mind.
When my life is over, it'll be like a puff of smoke,
How long must I suffer, Lord, how long must I be provoked?
Satan will give you a little taste, then he'll move in with rapid speed,
Lord keep my blind side covered and see that I don't bleed.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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London Boys
Cow bell strikes another night
Your eyes are heavy and your limbs all ache
You've bought some coffee, butter and bread
You can't make a thing cause the meter's dead
You moved away
Hold your folks you're gonna stay away
Bright lights, Soho, Wardour street
You hope you make friends with the guys that you meet
Somebody shows you round
Now you've met the London boys
Things seem good again, someone cares about you
Oh, the first time that you tried a pill
You feel a little queasy, decidedly ill
You're gonna be sick, but you mustn't lose faith
To let yourself down would be a big disgrace
With the London boys, with the London boys
You're only seventeen, but you think you've grown
In the month you've been away from your parents' home
You take the pills too much
You don't give a damn about that jobs you've got
So long as you're with the London boys
A London boy, oh a London boy
Your flashy clothes are your pride and joy
A London boy, a London boy
You think you've had a lot of fun
But you ain't got nothing, you're on the run
It's too late now, cause you're out there boy
You've got it made with the rest of the toys
Now you wish you'd never left your home
You've got what you wanted but you're on your own
With the London boys
Now you've met the London boys
Now you've met the London boys
Now you've met the London boys
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Farewell Song
Oh, the last time that i saw you
You know you didn't say a word.
And i knew, honey as i looked into your eyes
That my feelings, lord, they'd never been heard.
Well, i'm talkin' to you about love,
Did you hear me ? i said love.
Yeah, because it's got to be such a long, long, long way
From denyin', from denyin'.
And i say you don't say no, no, no, to me no more.
And i believed in you all the time,
Honey, until i found out you know that i was so wrong.
I wanted to try and build a life with you,
I guess i should've known it, i guess i should've known it all along.
Let me hold you just once
Honey i'll ask you just once more
Because it's got to be such a long, long way from cryin'
And i been cryin'
And i got tears in my eyes,
Yeah, but don't you know when you love somebody, have some pressures
There can never, never, never be any secret,
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
You gonna have to pay your dues
And sometimes, honey, sometimes you're bound to lose.
Yeah, but that's the way
You're gonna learn, learn, learn to love people, yeah.
Oh god, i wish i could explain it myself,
'cause i know that it's my fault, dear.
It's so easy to hurt you, darling,
It's so hard, i guess it's hard not to do.
And i know you showed me a new life
And you'll always, yeah you'll always be my friend.
Baby i don't think that i can keep from cryin'
And i'll be tryin' and i been cryin' for you, babe,
Yes i have now.
Well, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me
What would i do without you child ?
I'm afraid i can't say
But i hope honey that when you remember,
Lord, it'll be, it'll be such a sunny day
Now, now, now, now, good-bye,
And i'll see you sometime
And don't be worried, everything's just fine
Baby i don't think
That i can keep from dyin'
And i've been dyin'.
I said now every day i got a little bit, babe,
I said now every day i lose me someone in my heart
I've been lonely, lonely, look around baby
I said i've been lonely, lonely, i've been searchin' for you,
And i got to find, honey have to find my baby
I gotta find, i gotta want it, gotta need it,
'cause hear me baby, baby, talk about my baby
Hear me baby, baby, whoa yeah, my baby,
Hear me baby, baby, talk about my baby
Won't you help me now,
Won't you help me now,
Gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta
Whoa yeah, i gotta
I gotta leave you, baby, i can't help myself
I gotta leave you, baby, i got to, you know
Gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta
Gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta
Whoa yeah, i gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta, gotta
Whoaa ... lord, lord lord lord!!
Whoaa ... lord, lord lord lord!!
Thank you.
Five very very nice people, one great big talent, big brother & the holding company.
Thank you very much. sorry for the delay and we want to thank you very much, i think you're a whole lot of people, as compared to like people in new york who wouldn't remain as patient, or as ki
You have, so thank you very much. time to make things happen.
You know i got me some new tune, man. it's really boss. yeah, it's a, oh, wait a minute, it's a record by emma franklin, it's a tune called "piece of my heart". groovy! did you see tha
N ?
song performed by by Janis Joplin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Half Empty/Half Full
This coulda been one of those days
I didn't feel like writing
A day when drugs embraced me
And washed my thoughts away
This coulda been a day I didn't feel like fighting
When the minutes turn to hours till the end of the day
But, there will come a day when even drugs won't be enough
To forget mistakes and problems all surrounding us
Pretty soon this little world is gonna tear itself apart
I can feel it in my soul
I can feel it in my heart
I crack a beer, and out the window I stare
My glass half empty; my glass half full
Thinkin' about the rich, the poor, and all our affairs
I'm a fuckin' genius; I'm a fuckin' fool
The writers write, the singers sing
The poor stay poor; the rich hoard things
The thirsty and the hungry die
People don't care, so nobody asks, 'Why? '
The smoke from burnt books clouds the sky
Men beat their wives; Religion or cultures justify
While asses rot in front of TV screens
The masses scream - the poets still dream
I crack a beer, and out the window I stare
My glass half empty; my glass half full
Thinkin' about the rich, the poor, and all our affairs
I'm a fuckin' genius; I'm a fuckin' fool.
- Aug.2009 -
poem by Ray Quesada
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To a Friend Concerning Several Ladies
You know there is not much
that I desire, a few chrysanthemums
half lying on the grass, yellow
and brown and white, the
talk of a few people, the trees,
an expanse of dried leaves perhaps
with ditches among them.
But there comes
between me and these things
a letter
or even a look--well placed,
you understand,
so that I am confused, twisted
four ways and--left flat,
unable to lift the food to
my own mouth:
Here is what they say: Come!
and come! and come! And if
I do not go I remain stale to
myself and if I go--
I have watched
the city from a distance at night
and wondered why I wrote no poem.
Come! yes,
the city is ablaze for you
and you stand and look at it.
And they are right. There is
no good in the world except out of
a woman and certain women alone
for certain. But what if
I arrive like a turtle,
with my house on my back or
a fish ogling from under water?
It will not do. I must be
steaming with love, colored
like a flamingo. For what?
To have legs and a silly head
and to smell, pah! like a flamingo
that soils its own feathers behind.
Must I go home filled
with a bad poem?
And they say:
Who can answer these things
till he has tried? Your eyes
are half closed, you are a child,
oh, a sweet one, ready to play
but I will make a man of you and
with love on his shoulder--!
And in the marshes
the crickets run
on the sunny dike's top and
make burrows there, the water
reflects the reeds and the reeds
move on their stalks and rattle drily.
poem by William Carlos Williams
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