A Way To Make A Living
From an epigram by Plato
When I was a boy, a relative
Asked for me a job
At the Weeks Cemetery.
Think of all I could
Have raised that summer,
That money, and me
Living at home,
Fattening and getting
Ready to live my life
Out on my knees, humming,
Kneading up docks
And sumac from
Those flawless clerks-at-court, those beautiful
Grocers and judges, the polished
Dead of whom we make
So much.
I could have stayed there with them.
Cheap, too.
Imagine, never
To have turned
Wholly away from the classic
Cold, the hill, so laid
Out, measure by seemly measure clipped
And mown by old man Albright
The sexton. That would have been a hell of
A way to make a living.
Thank you, no.
I am going to take my last nourishment
Of measure from a dark blue
Ripple on swell on ripple that makes
Its own garlands.
My dead are the secret wine jars
Of Tyrian commercial travelers.
Their happiness is a lost beginning, their graves
Drift in and out of the Mediterranean.
One of these days
The immortals, clinging to a beam of sunlight
Under water, delighted by delicate crustaceans,
Will dance up thirty-foot walls of radiance,
And waken,
The sea shining on their shoulders, the fresh
Wine in their arms. Their ships have drifted away.
They are stars and snowflakes floating down
Into your hands, love.
poem by James Arlington Wright
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
How Do You Measure Up?
If you measure yourself by ambition,
There will always be someone more ambitious than you.
If you measure yourself by money,
There is always someone wealthier than you.
If you measure yourself by power,
There is always someone more powerful than you.
If you measure yourself with material things,
There is always someone with more stuff than you.
If you measure yourself by where you are in life,
There is always someone farther down the path than you.
If you measure yourself by appearance,
There is always someone that appears than you.
If you measure yourself by God,
Then we are all the same.
We are all wonderfully and beautifully made.
God is love.
And love has no end.
So in God's heart,
You will always measure up!
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Bible in Poetry: Gospel of St. John (Chapter 2)
There was a wedding in Cana,
And Jesus’ mother had gone there;
Invited was Jesus also;
His disciples attended too.
When wine ran short, His mother told,
Jesus, “They have no wine to serve.”
But Jesus asked. back, ‘Why tell me? ’
“How does that concern me? ” He asked.
“My hour has not yet come.” He said.
His mother told the servers all,
“Do whatev’r He tells you to do.”
There were six water-jars of stone,
Meant for Jewish ceremonies.
Each could hold some thirty gallons.
When Jesus told, ‘Fill up the jars
With water up to brim, ’ they did.
Then Jesus told them, ‘Draw out some
And take it to the head-waiter.’
The Head-waiter tasted new wine.
He knew not wherefrom this wine came.
He called the bridegroom and told him,
“All serve the good wine initially.
When people have drunk one less good,
You’ve kept the good wine until now? ”
This was his first miracle done
In Cana town, in Galilee.
His disciples believed in Him.
Thus was revealed His glory first!
All went to Capernaum later.
They stayed there only for few days.
Then Jesus reached Jerusalem,
As Passover was nearing fast.
And in the temple area then,
He saw some selling animals;
Some money-changers were there too.
He made a whip out of some cords,
And drove them out of temple fast.
He spilled the money of changers,
And over-turned their tables too.
He told the dove-sellers to leave.
He warned them not to make the house
Of His Father, a market-place!
His disciples recalled scripture,
‘Zeal for your house will consume me! ’
The Jews then asked Jesus to show
The sign for doing thus, that day.
And Jesus answered them and said,
‘Destroy this temple; in three days,
I’ll raise it up! ’ He firmly said.
‘The Temple took forty-six years
For construction, ’ the Jews all said.
‘You’ll raise it in just three days time? ’
But He meant His body’s temple.
When Jesus was raised from the dead,
His disciples remembered this.
They came to believe the scripture
And what was foretold by Jesus.
While Jesus in Jerusalem
And Feast of the Passover came,
So many believed in His name,
When they had seen the signs He did.
But Jesus didn’t trust anyone.
He knew the people all around.
He did not need one to tell Him.
He understood human nature!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 5-21-2007
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Wine (Love Poem)
Wine is for laughing
Wine is for talking all night
Wine is for living life out loud
Wine is for making us beautiful
Wine is for all-night conversations
Wine is for getting together again
Wine is for ‘never again’ tomorrow
Wine is for sleeping like a baby
Wine is for telling the truth
Wine is food for love
Wine is friendship
Wine is fresh
Wine
Can
Be
The
One
Perfe ct
Companion
At the end of a long day
poem by Ian Beckett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
No.106.
At no.106 she sits in the dark
Watches snowflakes fall and gently park.
Cruel lights as rats race home
Her only guest one gaerden gnome
On her dresser is perfume, 'Elizabeth Arden'
And make-up she now doesn't use
She still sees him smile, her heart wouldn't harden
Though beauty numbs she still tries to enthuse.
Silence screams-so unforgiving
She spills her blood with ink in prose
The only proof the dead are living
With pills and booze the feeling goes.
She lies unloved as the devil's clock ticks
A countdown to suicide at 106.
At no.106 the world isn't fair so
She takes in some wine and an Elgar concerto
She floats in a haze like a butterfly in hell
Her nights meet her days with a silent death knell
Memories all bad, save for love's only drummer
One lonely swallow never made a summer.
She still holds his hand, in dreams they still meet
The life they both planned blows down a dark street.
She kisses a photo that never was taken,
A poem not written, a love not foresaken.
But reality rises with the dawn and cuts her like a knife
On her knees she prays, though forlorn
At no.106 still clinging to life.
poem by Kevin East
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In the spirit of Rumi - 25
I said to My Beloved
Tell me the measure of truth
My Beloved said
Tell me first what you know of truth
‘One and one make two,
- as You and I’
My Beloved said
Tell me more of truth
‘Love draws me to You
as the white moth to the candle’s flame’
My Beloved said
Tell me more of truth
‘Love makes You and me
into one single perfect love’
My Beloved said
This is the measure of truth
which is immeasurable:
the greater the truth
the less it can be measured;
the greater the truth
the deeper it may be experienced;
this is its measure: its experience.
Truth has no other measure,
for only love can measure truth.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
356
measure my love
i will love you without measure
there you shall fail
this love has no number
unquantifiable
your measure cannot measure
this love immeasurable
this love so
unbearable
you measure me again
this love like a flame on your oil lamp
shall then die
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Without Measure
measure my love
i will love you without measure
there you shall fail
this love has no number
unquantifiable
your measure cannot measure
this love immeasurable
this love so
unbearable
you measure me again
this love like a flame on your oil lamp
shall then die
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Some Life’s Paradoxes
The dead can’t care about living;
The living must pray for their dead;
Though dead took care of living then,
The living can’t take care of dead!
The elderly cared for all young;
The young must care for aged when old;
The love that parents had shown then,
Can’t be repaid ever by young!
The fruits I enjoy now when young,
Are from the trees planted by aged;
The things I do to others now
Will be returned to me when old!
The measure I use for others
Will be used unto me by God;
The judgments I pronounce on next,
Will decide my after-life’s rod!
Let’s do our duty with great love;
Reward will come from heav’n above.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 20-11-2010
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To J.W.
Set not thy foot on graves;
Hear what wine and roses say;
The mountain chase, the summer waves,
The crowded town, thy feet may well delay.
Set not thy foot on graves;
Nor seek to unwind the shroud
Which charitable time
And nature have allowed
To wrap the errors of a sage sublime.
Set not thy foot on graves;
Care not to strip the dead
Of his sad ornament;
His myrrh, and wine, and rings,
His sheet of lead,
And trophies buried;
Go get them where he earned them when alive,
As resolutely dig or dive.
Life is too short to waste
The critic bite or cynic bark,
Quarrel, or reprimand;
'Twill soon be dark;
Up! mind thine own aim, and
God speed the mark.
poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Calculations
Space you measure in feet and inches
and shoes by where your big toe pinches;
seasons by cherry, rose and snow,
when may comes and swallows go:
empires by rise and fall of kings;
weather by rain and drought and flood;
dead trees by whether the dragon sings
flowers by when they seed and bud.
But how do you measure silence?
Or the space between two thoughts?
Or the point where forces balance?
Or the product of two noughts?
Or where the shadows fade to
when the sun sinks in the west?
Or how your deeds are weighed you
as your life drifts into rest?
Houses go from stone to dust.
The builder is himself undone.
The gate is broken and gone to rust.
Nothing survives from sun to sun.
What was there before the beginning
lingers when stars now born are dead;
in the absence of suns is ever shining;
when nothing is thought and nothing said.
poem by Brian Taylor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Measure Of Love sung to From Russia With Love
The measure of love, in truth, is this:
To treasure each sigh, close by, then kiss!
I've revelled each girl I yearn,
Just to discern
The measure of love!
Soft embraces, gazes...
In search for one true friend...
Let go... then watching love grow...
Then lips pressed tight, just right,
As if our two hearts said, 'Hello! '
Love prays this is so...
The measure is true in gentlemen...
Right out of the blue! So who knows when?
It's meant to astound you, too...
So you can view
The measure of love!
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Conveyings
I have taken Yesterday
wrapped it in time and space
aligned it with previous weeks and days,
inside sliver months;
plucked stars down for your hair,
laid down silly smiles;
and lover's whisperings;
with silent sittings between you and I
cryptic written notes;
walks into fading sunlight;
gentle glancings
surging breathings
hands outreaching
and they'll all not
convey
the way it was
and will be.
I'll not count the fathoms deep
I've seen in your eyes;
from my dingy
floating here
with me my hands raised
in sweet surrender.
I'll not measure
the paper thin
separation between us
causing electricity itself
to jump the gap
make the spark
and you say' did you do that? '
'No, ' I said 'but we did.'
I'll place awe, my own,
into the center of things
when I see and feel
our two souls
cross the paper thin;
each soul
becoming the other one's;
each sigh is born
first a tiny trembling
and later the raging
body-storm
.
'Some things' she said 'are known or felt
and some are revealed to us.'
I said 'Yes, for me it is humility
when shown
that which is larger than anything known
in individual philosophies;
in this we are shown
another world
through
that portal
labeled 'Love' s Call.'
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Haunted
Gulp down your wine, old friends of mine,
Roar through the darkness, stamp and sing
And lay ghost hands on everything,
But leave the noonday's warm sunshine
To living lads for mirth and wine.
I met you suddenly down the street,
Strangers assume your phantom faces,
You grin at me from daylight places,
Dead, long dead, I'm ashamed to greet
Dead men down the morning street.
poem by Robert Graves
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Many People Hate To Make A Ripple
Not many people beating on their own drum.
Bumma dum bum.
Bumma dum bum.
Not many people making music they hum.
Bumma dum bum.
Bumma dum bum.
Cause many people hate to make a ripple.
Bumma dum bum.
Bumma dum bum.
Many people hate to make a ripple.
Bumma dum bum.
Bumma dum bum.
Clinging on a moan and a whine all the time.
Bumma dum bum.
Bumma dum bum.
Complaining to their neighbors and their neighbors don't mind.
Bumma dum bum.
Bumma dum bum.
Cause many people hate to make a ripple.
Bumma dum bum.
Bumma dum bum.
Many people hate to make a ripple.
Bumma dum bum.
Bumma dum bum.
Not many people beating on their own drum.
Bumma dum bum.
Bumma dum bum.
Not many people making music they hum.
Bumma dum bum.
Bumma dum bum.
Cause many people hate to make a ripple.
Bumma dum bum.
Bumma dum bum.
Cause many people hate to make a ripple.
Bumma dum bum.
Bumma dum bum.
Many people hate to make a ripple.
Bumma dum bum.
Bumma dum bum.
Many people hate to make a ripple.
Bumma dum bum.
Bumma dum bum.
Many people hesitate with wishes to procrastinate.
Many people hate to make a ripple.
Bumma dum bum.
Bumma dum bum.
Many people hate to make a ripple.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
What's Important?
Where is the beginning?
Where is the end?
Does anyone really
know, my friend?
What does it matter?
What does it mean?
It's the in-between stuff
that creates the scenes
of your life.
For some are born poor
and end up with money.
Some are born rich
and end with not any.
So money's not how
to measure your worth.
It can be gone in a minute.
Those that measure their worth
by faith have a life
with everything in it.
Peace of mind,
beauty to find,
time to unwind
and time to be kind,
and that's the secret
to success in your life.
Beginnings and ends, forgot,
but the in-betweens are not.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
If you never stand in glory
If you never stand in glory
If you never find 15 minutes of fame
I will tell your story
I’ll stand up and chant your name
If you measure yourself
With your own hands
If you don’t make excuses
If you do the best you can
You’ll be my hero
The heart, young one
Is the measure of the man.
If you don’t break the record
But yet you run the race
If you give it all your effort
And come in second place
If you do the best you can
You’ll be my hero
The heart young one,
Is the measure of the man.
If don’t sing in the spotlight
But refrained into the chorus
If you don’t climb MT Everest
But spend time in the forest
You’ll be my hero
The heart young one
Is the measure of the man.
If you don’t’ get elected
But you shake every hand
If the cause is effected
If clearly mark out where you stand
If you do the best you can
You’ll be my hero
The heart young one
Is the measure of the man.
IF you lose your direction
And meander for awhile
But seek out the correction
With each foot of every mile
You’ll be my hero
The heart young one
Is the measure of the man.
If you never stand in glory
If you never find 15 minutes of fame
I will tell your story
I’ll stand up and chant your name
poem by Eaton Bard
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Cemetery Drive
cemetery drive,
covered in mist,
driving down the road,
so cold,
the crypts and tombstones cast dark shadow,
the bats and the wind,
grimly howl,
cemetery drive,
a place of shadow,
cemetery drive,
tall dead trees,
comfort the dead,
black roses grow along the road,
they fight the cold,
and give the living hope,
the living hope their hearts never stop,
and they'll never have to call cemetery drive home,
and tend to the shadows and black roses
poem by Catie Belle Stark
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
So Tired
Scent on a postcard
A memory left behind
Warm hand, cool look but no time...
Winsome lose some
Hung up on old flame
My heart depends on fire
So who am I to make demands on love?
...relax and walk on by
So tired
So tired
Beaten like a drum
So tired
Living life alone
So tired
Beaten like a drum
Kiss the right faces
And tap the party line
Short measure of cheap skate pleasure
Easier said than done
Sip the night water
But not too drunk to say
Well just who am I to ever hope to love you?
Id turn and shy away
So tired
So tired
Beaten like a drum
So tired
Living life alone
So tired
Beaten like a drum
Once upon a bed
You said you loved me
Once upon a bed
Those eyes of blue
Now what am I supposed to do?
So tired -
So tired
Beaten like a drum
So tired
Live my life alone, so alone
Once upon a bed
You said you loved me
Once upon a bed
Those eyes of blue
And what am I to rhyme with you?
Now I lie alone and so defenceless
Dream of love in sunny daze with you
So tired...
song performed by by Haircut 100
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
As I Am A Man
as i am a man
measure me not with that
divine stick
i do not wish
to be more than God
nor do i intend to be
lower than
that beast.
measure me
with the love that i can give you
the sorrows i have
the pains i have endured
the successes that i have
hidden from your eyes
measure me with the purity
of my intentions
the care with which i do my
actions
do not measure me
with your expectations
let me stand strong
on the pavement of
your cares.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Whatever Makes You Mine
On a hill by a church
One warm summer day
I saw a man with a child living,
In his eyes; but he couldn't say
What he saw in the world,
What he wanted to claim;
He couldn't say the truth,
Could never say my name.
My chest is your grimoire,
My tears are your wine;
Go ahead, kill the animal
If it makes you more mine.
He wanted to own me,
To gather me close;
Wanted every sunrise thing,
But could never make that choice.
We met by the woods,
On a dark winters day;
We talked with our hands, never used
One word; and side by side we lay..
My chest is your grimoire,
My tears are your wine;
Go ahead, kill the animal
It if makes you more mine
On a long endless night,
He died in my arms,
No one ever knew it was me; his alone;
Just for him only, just to keep him from harm.
So go tell all your loved ones
How much you love them truly,
And give them sweet gifts, all your best to give
Don't save them for rain,
Don't save for something better;
In this world we know not, how long we may live.
And my chest is your grimoire,
And my tears be your wine;
So go on, kill that animal-
Whatever makes you mine.
poem by Patti Masterman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!