The Riddle For Men
I
This Riddle rede or die,
Says History since our Flood,
To warn her sons of power:-
It can be truth, it can be lie;
Be parasite to twist awry;
The drouthy vampire for your blood;
The fountain of the silver flower;
A brand, a lure, a web, a crest;
Supple of wax or tempered steel;
The spur to honour, snake in nest:
'Tis as you will with it to deal;
To wear upon the breast,
Or trample under heel.
II
And rede you not aright,
Says Nature, still in red
Shall History's tale be writ!
For solely thus you lead to light
The trailing chapters she must write,
And pass my fiery test of dead
Or living through the furnace-pit:
Dislinked from who the softer hold
In grip of brute, and brute remain:
Of whom the woeful tale is told,
How for one short Sultanic reign,
Their bodies lapse to mould,
Their souls behowl the plain.
poem by George Meredith
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Related quotes
Abbherence!
A man was on the floor
Selling coco at the shore.
Making meal & money, he's happy.
Looking at d stars, he laid airy.
But the tale had a twist
Wid no legs, he held tight his fist
And the hatred tale started.
His fingers ran through pages
He knew history since sages
Giving lectures he spent the day
Moon or sun, knowing not from where came d ray
There lied in tale a twist
With no eyes, he held tight his fist
And the hatred tale started.
In a garden blossomed a flower
Reason being aroma, all wanted it ever
Few hours hence, it was plucked
Days later, dry it looked
That is where the tale took a twist
This' one more in that list
And the hatred tale started.
The hatred tale that had a twist
When few couldn't hold tight their fist
That hatred tale still in place
When some flawed life as they couldn't race
When a man wins if he thinks he can
& flower that spreads cheer before it dries
WHY SHOULD A LOSER END LOSER? ?
poem by BhanuPrakash Singh
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The Winners Write The History
That the winners write the war histories should not be the case
For war is a tragedy a human disgrace
And the losers in war see their Country destoyed
And the war history never written by the losing side.
Look at Oliver Cromwell victorious in war
The deeds of his glory from England known far
But those who write on Cromwell they never do tell
Of one who for poor people made life Earthly hell.
To the Catholics of Ireland Cromwell was a brute
The poor rural peasants he did persecute
Yet streets in his honour distant from England today
The winners only write the history so true what they say.
Efrain Rios Montt became President of Guatemala even though he
Was guilty of serious crimes against humanity
An old man now but for his crimes yet to pay
The winners write the history it's always been that way.
Augusto Pinochet in Chile has blood on his hands
And that he may die a free man seems hard to understand
And though loathed by many in Chile for his crimes of shame
The winners write the history and their's is the fame.
I've just mentioned a few for there are many more
Who have committed crimes against humanity but like it has been said before
that the winners write the history and that's how 'twill remain
And the mistakes of the past are repeated again.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Shadow
I said unto myself, if I were dead,
What would befall these children? What would be
Their fate, who now are looking up to me
For help and furtherance? Their lives, I said,
Would be a volume wherein I have read
But the first chapters, and no longer see
To read the rest of their dear history,
So full of beauty and so full of dread.
Be comforted; the world is very old,
And generations pass, as they have passed,
A troop of shadows moving with the sun;
Thousands of times has the old tale been told;
The world belongs to those who come the last,
They will find hope and strength as we have done.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The ugly human face
Wailing with tears and
Helplessly in commotion,
All of you’re telling to write
The history of hatred, enmity, killings,
The history of human ugly face.
My pen is dried up,
Tell me in which medium,
And language should I write.
Where to begin and
Where to end
Such history of human ugly face.
Oh! Betrayer
You’re telling me to wipe out from the history
Of such human ugly face,
That shattered and shook human conscience,
That haunts the face of those innocent people,
Killed and hurt; widows and orphans.
That hums: that reminds.
Telling me just to close my eyes.
But I’m not blind.
Telling me not to speak,
But I’m not dumb.
Telling me not to write the truth,
But I cannot write anything but the truth.
How can I deceive the history where I belong?
Human memory is short,
Tears would dry up,
The blood would be washed away with time
But the silent words, written in the heart of each human ugly face
Imbedded forever and immortal.
Let me dip the pen in the smeared blood,
The blood of all religions, caste, creed and colour, poor and rich,
The thick blood of those innocent persons.
poem by Dr.bhagya Chandra Rajkumar
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On Passing Cromwell Street
In Melbourne streets named in his honour though he does not warrant such fame
For he lived a life of dishonour yet he never felt any shame
For his crimes against the poor of Ireland the winners write the history they say
And historians are too kind to Cromwell the one who did awful things in his day.
He evicted the poor of rural Ireland those who only knew of poverty
And put them on the hard road to Connacht the victims of crimes against humanity
His army were thugs and not soldiers for they did things that soldiers ought not do
The winners always write the history though their version of history is often not true.
In Cromwell's time the winners wrote the history and the winners still write the history today
But for any crimes against humanity the winners too should be made to pay
But Cromwell and his army honoured for their crimes in Ireland against the poor defenceless poor
'Tis sad to think that one so unworthy of a place in history is secure.
To hell or to Connacht his catch cry he forced thousands of poor families on the road
To people who were penniless and innocent not one scrap of mercy he showed
Thousands of them died in the harsh Irish Winter when homelessness on them took it's toll
Because they were poor they were punished though their life circumstances beyond their control.
I think of the untruths of history each time I drive by Cromwell street
The history written by winners their history of lies and deceit
I say to myself they honour a tyrant and I struggle for to understand
Why they name a street after somebody who oppressed the poor of Ireland.
Andrew Marvell in verse glorified Cromwell but he was one who would not know
What Cromwell and his army got up to in Ireland in those bleak times centuries ago
But he only believed what they told him and they told him what he wanted to hear
History often written by unworthy people those who rule by terror and fear.
In Melbourne streets named in his honour his poor victims long forgotten and gone
Into the World of the forgotten but Cromwell's fame is living on
And the lessons we should have learned from history did not lead to a fair go for all
And the winners only write the story though the real truth they never recall.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Riddle
One little riddle
Two little three little
Four little riddle
Five little six little
Seven little riddle
Eight little riddle
Now you know
You gotta go
One little riddle
Two little three little
Four little riddle
Five little six little
Seven little riddle
Eight little riddle
Now you know
You gotta go
Monday morning was the first time
That I noticed something strange
Now I know with your kiss was not the same
Was it all just in my mind
Or was it something I should pay attention to
Then on tuesday having lunch with friends
I thought I saw your car
Leaving from our favorite restaurant but too far
For my eyes to see what I feel
Would be heartbreaking if I saw was true whoo
One little riddle
Two little three little
Four little riddle
Five little six little
Seven little riddle
Eight little riddle
Now you know
You gotta go
(while the chorus is singing)
History
Its history
cause now I see, you lie
One little riddle
Two little three little
Four little riddle
Five little six little
Seven little riddle
Eight little riddle
Now you know
You gotta go
(while the chorus is singing)
You gave me clues
I saw through
Now you lose,
You fool
Wednesday evening
Every time the phone would rang
Youd say hello
When Id come around youd say I got to go
Youre friends never called line two before
And I dont know nobody named tyrone
Oh now its thursday
You left the house to go to work an hour early
You said you had some papers for your boss to sign
But you left your briefcase home
And when I called you job
They said you were not there oh yeah
One little riddle
Two little three little
Four little riddle
Five little six little
Seven little riddle
Eight little riddle
Now you know
You gotta go
(while the chorus is singing)
History
Its history
cause now I see, you lie
One little riddle
Two little three little
Four little riddle
Five little six little
Seven little riddle
Eight little riddle
Now you know
You gotta go
(while the chorus is singing)
You gave me clues
I saw through
Now you lose,
You fool
Friday night
Is the night weve always had our weekend date
But you showed up at the house extremely late
Without any conversation you just went to bed
And said that youre head ached
Now its the weekend
And you know that its the day I do my cleaning
And when I washed your shirts I just could not believe
Im picking hair weave off your seam
Found a letter in your pocket from the week please
One little riddle
Two little three little
Four little riddle
Five little six little
Seven little riddle
Eight little riddle
Now you know
You gotta go
(while the chorus is singing)
History
Its history
cause now I see, you lie
One little riddle
Two little three little
Four little riddle
Five little six little
Seven little riddle
Eight little riddle
Now you know
You gotta go
(while the chorus is singing)
You gave me clues
I saw through
Now you lose,
You fool
One little riddle
Two little three little
Four little riddle
Five little six little
Seven little riddle
Eight little riddle
Now you know
You gotta go
One little riddle
Two little three little
Four little riddle
Five little six little
Seven little riddle
Eight little riddle
Now you know
You gotta go
song performed by by En Vogue
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tales of my past
Don't write me down in history,
In reference to my past deeds,
Works I derived no joy from,
Or mistakes of those years.
Don't write me down in history,
The ages gone show little of what I am,
That part of me is truly done,
My dreams now can say it all.
Don't write me down in history,
The lessons of life flows in my blood,
My blunders are now my teachers,
The scars now my daily pledge.
Don't write me down in history,
I am yet to achieve perfection,
Still I strive for redemption,
Searching the soil for my lost glory,
Don't write me down in history,
The tales of my past I recall,
That was then, this is me,
Woes to your judgment.
poem by Venessa Ambrose
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We've Not Learned From War History The Facts Never Lie
We've not learned from war history the facts never lie
For God and for Country many still fight and die
The flowers do not bloom brighter on the dead soldier's grave
As the one who died of old age and was not known to be brave.
With the words we've not learned from war history
I happen to be one of those who agree
One war leads to another it does seem to me
And we still have War Memorial day in the twenty first century.
Where there is mistrust between people hatred come to the boil
In war over borders and war over oil
And in wars over God far too many have died
To antiquated thinking many do remain tied.
Out of war and it's suffering many heroes are made
And to honour the war dead another parade
And for as long as those who glorify war do have things their own way
The flower of peace will never see light of day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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All About Two Friends
Two true friends they were.
A kite and a sparrow living in a tree.
They chit-chatted all day long
And forgot the rest of the world.
None an nothing could separate them
There came a dark and short man once
Who smiled and smiled at the sparrow and
Said aloud, 'It can`t be, how is it that you are here now?
The sparrow turned pale and looked at his friend, the kite.
The little man was looking into a foliage now.
Two true friends they were.
The kite murmered into the ears of his friend,
'Fear not my friend, I shall take you to another tree high and tall
And save you from this dark and short brute..come with me'.
As they flew off unto a far away tree, the'brute'down still smiled.
Two true friends they were.
The kite made the pal sit on a tall branch and said,
'It`s safe here, let me go back and ask that brute who he is? '
The bigger winged beauty flew back to old tree and the'dark brute'
And he hovered around both for some time.
The dark and the short man heard the kite speak,
'Who are you to speak to my friend and why did you speak such words? '
The smiling 'brute'said, 'Oh bird, I am the god of death and as per my book
Thy friend, the sparrow should be on the top of a far off tree
And should have been eaten by a huge snake by now, and therefore alone
I spoke to your friend words'.
Shocked, the flew back to the tree high and tall,
His friend the sparrow was not there on any branch!
Down across the shrubs was moving a big python after feasting on the prey.
The kite flew off unto the skies infinite next.
He and his late friends were two true friends.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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Calico Cat
I walk down the road
And what do I see?
A Calico cat is
looking at me.
I smile at the cat
So refreshingly free.
I sit down and wait
And he deigns to come see.
I ask why his name
Is the Calico Cat.
He rubs on my knee
And he says 'it's just that'
For the Calico Cat
Is not commonly seen.
Don't you know why we're so called?
Just where have you been?
I had to admit I never had heard
Why the Calico Cat was so named.
He flicked up his tail,
Said 'don't be ashamed,
I'll tell you the story'.
The word on the street
Is uttered in whispers
These cats are elite.
The legends do tell
Of the history true
That the Calico Cat
Carries blood only blue.
For he once did a favour
For the King and the Queen.
When his task was complete
Such reverence was seen.
Honoured in the circles
Of royalty was he
And frequently sat
On the pretty queen's knee.
But the secret of trust
He will carry to grave
For the Calico Cat
In whose honour was gave.
In awe and in wonder
Regarded was he,
And to this day the Calico
Still sits on 'the knee'
So hush little darlings
As the tale will be told
And we'll all keep the secret
To have and to hold.
So his story he told me,
Then he went on his way
And I never was wiser
To the end of my day.
The tale of the Calico cat
Is oft relayed,
But the secret of such
In the closing is laid.
poem by Rosi Caswell
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Interlude IV.
'A pleasant and a winsome tale,'
The Student said, 'though somewhat pale
And quiet in its coloring,
As if it caught its tone and air
From the gray suits that Quakers wear;
Yet worthy of some German bard,
Hebel, or Voss, or Eberhard,
Who love of humble themes to sing,
In humble verse; but no more true
Than was the tale I told to you.'
The Theologian made reply,
And with some warmth, 'That I deny;
'T is no invention of my own,
But something well and widely known
To readers of a riper age,
Writ by the skilful hand that wrote
The Indian tale of Hobomok,
And Philothea's classic page.
I found it like a waif afloat
Or dulse uprooted from its rock,
On the swift tides that ebb and flow
In daily papers, and at flood
Bear freighted vessels to and fro,
But later, when the ebb is low,
Leave a long waste of sand and mud.'
'It matters little,' quoth the Jew;
'The cloak of truth is lined with lies,
Sayeth some proverb old and wise;
And Love is master of all arts,
And puts it into human hearts
The strangest things to say and do.'
And here the controversy closed
Abruptly, ere 't was well begun;
For the Sicilian interposed
With, 'Lordlings, listen, every one
That listen may, unto a tale
That 's merrier than the nightingale;
A tale that cannot boast, forsooth,
A single rag or shred of truth;
That does not leave the mind in doubt
As to the with it or without;
A naked falsehood and absurd
As mortal ever told or heard.
Therefore I tell it; or, maybe,
Simply because it pleases me.'
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Three Singers To Young Blood
Carols nature, counsel men.
Different notes as rook from wren
Hear we when our steps begin,
And the choice is cast within,
Where a robber raven's tale
Urges passion's nightingale.
Hark to the three. Chimed they in one,
Life were music of the sun.
Liquid first, and then the caw,
Then the cry that knows not law.
I
As the birds do, so do we,
Bill our mate, and choose our tree.
Swift to building work addressed,
Any straw will help a nest.
Mates are warm, and this is truth,
Glad the young that come of youth.
They have bloom i' the blood and sap
Chilling at no thunder-clap.
Man and woman on the thorn
Trust not Earth, and have her scorn.
They who in her lead confide,
Wither me if they spread not wide!
Look for aid to little things,
You will get them quick as wings,
Thick as feathers; would you feed,
Take the leap that springs the need.
II
Contemplate the rutted road:
Life is both a lure and goad.
Each to hold in measure just,
Trample appetite to dust.
Mark the fool and wanton spin:
Keep to harness as a skin.
Ere you follow nature's lead,
Of her powers in you have heed;
Else a shiverer you will find
You have challenged humankind.
Mates are chosen marketwise:
Coolest bargainer best buys.
Leap not, nor let leap the heart:
Trot your track, and drag your cart.
So your end may be in wool,
Honoured, and with manger full.
III
O the rosy light! it fleets,
Dearer dying than all sweets.
That is life: it waves and goes;
Solely in that cherished Rose
Palpitates, or else 'tis death.
Call it love with all thy breath.
Love! it lingers: Love! it nears:
Love! O Love! the Rose appears,
Blushful, magic, reddening air.
Now the choice is on thee: dare!
Mortal seems the touch, but makes
Immortal the hand that takes.
Feel what sea within thee shames
Of its force all other claims,
Drowns them. Clasp! the world will be
Heavenly Rose to swelling sea.
poem by George Meredith
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Southerndown South Wales No3
History Writ Large
Like layered cake the tide washes
The crumbled mix of history
Laid down in times that ceased so long ago
Yet stand so resolute for all to see.
Peering through the lens of time
We scan the distant vista with impunity
The cliffs that tower over all the bays
Along this ragged coastline etched in time
We feel the hand of God writ large
Yet most who pass this way see nothing
Nothing but the weathered view
Transient and ephemeral, short lived
But here history was made and carved
In the mind of God and in eternity
Southerndown South Wales
November 2004
No 3 in the Southerndown Trilogy
poem by James Tipp
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A tale i was told
Right as i was told their handwriting were'nt bold
so; our forefathers were sold
that their conscience they had sold
but to me; a fairy tale better not told
i was young
and the music seem dingdong
to me at dawn,
the story seem sown
not till i was told
it was a fairy tale better not told.
Unaware in the market; they haggle
to them, the reward a cry
and they saw no battle
but on this path, i dare not ply
To me; a fairy tale better not told.
What seem a tale
to me a dog without tail
on our fall i was
when the tale went on without a pause
to me a fairy better not told.
poem by Atimiwoaye Adetunji dayo
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By Those Interested In War History
By those interested in war history war history is read
But the winners write the war history or so it is said
That is how it is and will always be
What is true to one is not to another that's how it seems to me
Of war and war heroes many stories are written and many poems to recite
And mostly of war winners that war writers stories do write
And readers believe what they want to believe
And the mothers of the war dead for their dead children grieve
In war as in life 'tis the winners who count
And the stories of losers to little amount
For the dead war heroes many a parade
And far too many films of war have been made
And 'tis mostly the winners write the war history
That is how it is and always will be.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Spirit Of Freemen, Wake
Spirit of Freemen, wake;
No truce with Slavery make,
Thy deadly foe;
In fair disguises dressed,
Too long hast thou caress’d
The serpent in thy breast,
Now lay him low.
Must e’en the press be dumb?
Must truth itself succumb?
And thoughts be mute?
Shall law be set aside,
The right of prayer denied,
Nature and God decried,
And man called brute?
What lover of her fame
Feels not his country’s shame,
In this dark hour?
Where are the patriots now,
Of honest heart and brow,
Who scorn the neck to bow
To Slavery’s Power?
Sons of the Free! we call
On you, in field and hall,
To rise as one;
Your heaven-born rights maintain,
Nor let Oppression’s chain
On human limbs remain ; ——
Speak! and ‘t is done.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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To Life's Pilgrim
FLY from the press, and dwell with soothfastness;
Suffice unto thy good, though it be small,
For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness ;
Preise hath envie, and weal is blent o'er all.
Savor no more than thee behoven shall,
Rede well thy self that other folk can'st rede,
And Truth thee shalt deliver 'tis no drede.
That thee is sent receive in buxomness :
The wrestling of this world, asketh a fall.
Here is no home, here is but wilderness.
Forth, pilgrim, forth on, best out of thy stall;
Look up on high, and thank the God of all!
Weivith thy lust, and let thy ghost thee lead,
And Truth thee shalt deliver 'tis no drede.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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FootPrints In The Sand
footprints in the sand
heading that way as it
leads away it leaves a
tale.
a tale of pain a tale of sorrow
a tale of hurt a tale to be told
whispir in my ear a tale of a
new generation
a generation of determination
where love is an everyday thing
and not as rare as a blue moon
so foot prints in the sand
your tale was heard as it hit
the nation pure like solid gold
so though your mist wash away
your tale live on till today
poem by Robert Roberts
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Living A Boys Adventure Tale
(pal waaktaar/morten harket)
Ive fixed my dwelling for the night
Lights in pairs come passing by
Where I hide
I need some time now on my own
Leave my loneliness alone
To lick my wounds
Night has found me just in time
To help me close my eyes
One more time
Living a boys adventure tale
In so many ways
Living a boys adventure tale
For so many days
Im living a boys adventure tale
Cant escape, if I wanted to
Living a boys adventure tale
I may be dreaming but I feel awake
Ive been lost in so many places
Seeked love in so many faces
A change of weather,
The rain pours down
My head in hands,
Pressed to the ground
And where am I supposed to go now
Living a boys adventure tale
In so many ways
Living a boys adventure tale (aah)
Living a boys adventure tale
A voice I hear
Living a boys adventure tale
Singing a lullaby for me
Living a boys adventure tale
Because of you
Living a boys adventure
Oh you know its true
Living a boys adventure tale
In so many ways (aah)
For so many days
I love you. I love you
So many ways
song performed by by A-Ha
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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War Is Our Worlds History
I Look into a history book.
And what do I see?
Pain and agony, death and suffering,
I see history that tells a lot about our world.
War!
Our world's history is war.
It is the pain and agony, the death and the suffering,
I see large fields of dead bodies,
I see our heritage being destroyed by other people
because it is not what they believe in,
I see people begging for mercy, but they do not get it
instead they get a bullet in the head.
In our history I see many mistakes in which we can learn from,
but we obviously we do not.
They say not to judge a book by its cover,
to me this quote means nothing to our history.
Our history is our cover,
and the book is filled with pain and agony, death and suffering.
Plain and Simple
War!
poem by Christian Cervantes
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