Chatter Chief Of Staff Application 1331 After William Shakespeare Hamlet's Soliloquy
To verse, or role reverse, that's in the question,
when writer's block may cause some indigestion -
[with contests tougher then the going's rougher] -
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the strings and sorrows of outrageous scribblers,
the binges of obsessional dribblers,
the noisy cutters' red, black, unread bubbles:
or to take arms against such teething troubles
and by opposing, end them? Still keep one's cool,
guide, bona fide, and gladly suffer fools?
There's surely something wrong in A.P. rules
when talent's topsy-turvy turned by ghouls,
when terms of reference ability are not retained.
Here trophy credibility must be regained.
For here are pressing claims and urgent needs,
though many try, scarce one percent succeeds -
and one percent of these may save their soul
as contest pressures take their toll
of high ideals, oft leaving empty shell
and little else as epitaph, - ah well!
Fame, fickle, tithes her victims. Writers' knell
tolls far more frequently than curtain bell.
Thus those who would their sacred dream preserve,
who from rhyme's chiming path would never swerve,
must make much sacrifice. To serve, - observe,
the scene, and by to serve we mean to fend -
(or else to disillusion most descend) -
the heartburn and the thousand natural shocks
rejection's heir to when rejection knocks.
Are value judgements devoutly to be wished
when versatility by contest rigging's dished?
Our scribes just fate deserve. To serve, observe
the entry they reserve too often stands
ignored, spinsterlike longing for unknown hands,
the shining silver, gold, bronze thus reject
the restless queue, as order ready-pecked,
full of sound and fury points a clue
shows some exchange their trophies. Much ado
'bout nothing scribblers screeding sticky caps
with spelling errors knitting self-writ traps...
To write, page lighting wait. Oh what a weight -
especially where some poetry postdate!
A.P. needs change so fairly dreams may come
when shuffled off the uniform, brain numb,
to often dumb, eraser rubs. Where's the respect?
Aspirant writers though they introspect
earn due reward to compensate long hours,
so unacknowledged, taxing all their powers.
expending energy for scant applause
as others benefit at their expense,
to few the points, to most so little sense.
For who would bear these whips and scorns for long,
envy contumely, commentator's wrong,
the pangs of wasted lines, free-versed, despised, -
(the impudence where, uninvited, eyed
the worthless stranger who advances tried,
who may not be so easily denied
in public places audience - we've cried!) -
Waste in untasted verse, those long delays,
days melting into nights, nights into days,
the insolence of judges, the sharp spurns
that patient merit from the unworthy takes.
When writer might some true quietus make
with rare home cooking? Who would fardels bear,
insults A.P., with little time to spare,
to grunt and sweat under a wordy life
with strife at work, A.P., through envy, - strife!
But that the dread of nothing else to do,
lest dreams sound hollow, isolation too,
or kids to mind, rent find and clothing too, -
threats unemployment act upon morale.
‘Tis true, and all too often ça fait mal!
The options open often puzzle will,
and make us rather bear those ills we have
than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
for few will answer truly to life's call.
Thus the native hue of resolution
is sicklied over with pale cast of thought
losing all instinctive love of writing!
Should one desire to act upon dire fate,
ambitions fire! React! No longer wait!
then the principles inspire to undertake
cooperation by your side, correct mistake
create a pool of judges early, late,
who either added are to contests' weight
or offer critiques daily of the fate
doled out to worthy writers ill displaced
by favorites applauseless trophy placed.
The Chatterer should Mission Statement draft
to standards raise as current wordy draught
blows best away - we witness with disgust
both fore and aft enthusiasms bust
by mini groups with macro pains to spill
on others where no praise may ever fill
the offline void some here avoid with just
a minimum of contact, feathers fussed.
On Mission Statement we could dwell awhile,
with workshops, shining sense and grooming style,
but who can guarantee attention span
with four thoughts max, as forethought many ban?
One could continue till the cows come home
to roost, to working shed, led docile in the gloam,
conclusion's called for here so I perceive
with Chatterer to booster A.P. heave
sigh of relief as quality improves,
emotions interplay - which feeling moves -
ambition principled and well perceived
to Karma adds Divine as verse we leave.
Hamlet's Soliloquy
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them.
To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to.
'Tis a consumation Devoutly to be wish'd.
To die, to sleep;
To Sleep? Perchance to dream! aye there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of such long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pang's of depised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
William Shakespeare Hamlet
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Chatter Chief of Staff Application 1331 after William Shakespeare, Hamlet's Soliloquy
To verse, or role reverse, that's in the question,
when writer's block may cause some indigestion,
[with contests tougher then the going's rougher]
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the strings and sorrows of outrageous scribblers,
the binges of obsessional dribblers,
the noisy cutters' red, black, unread bubbles:
or to take arms against such teething troubles
and by opposing, end them? Still keep one's cool,
guide, bona fide, and gladly suffer fools?
There's surely something wrong in A.P. rules
when talent's topsy-turvy turned by ghouls,
ability's terms of reference unsustained.
Here trophy credibility must be regained.
For here are pressing claims and urgent needs,
though many try, scarce one percent succeeds,
and one percent of these may save their soul
as contest pressures take their toll
of high ideals, oft leaving empty shell
and little else as epitaph, ah well!
Fame, fickle, tithes her victims. Writers' knell
tolls far more frequently than curtain bell.
Thus those who would their sacred dream preserve,
who from rhyme's chiming path would never swerve,
must make much sacrifice. To serve, observe,
the scene, and by to serve we mean to fend
[or else to disillusion most descend]
the heartburn and the thousand natural shocks
rejection's heir to when rejection knocks.
Are value judgements devoutly to be wished
when versatility by contest rigging's dished?
Our scribes just fate deserve. To serve, observe
the entry they reserve too often stands
ignored, spinsterlike longing for unknown hands,
the shining silver, gold, bronze thus reject
the restless queue, as order ready-pecked,
full of sound and fury points a clue
shows some exchange their trophies. Much ado
'bout nothing scribblers screeding sticky caps
with spelling errors knitting self-writ traps.
To write, page lighting wait. Oh what a weight,
especially where some poetry postdate!
A.P. needs change so fairly dreams may come
when shuffled off the uniform, brain numb,
to often dumb, eraser rubs. Where's the respect?
Aspirant writers though they introspect
earn due reward to compensate long hours,
so unacknowledged, taxing all their powers.
expending energy for scant applause
as others benefit at their expense,
to few the points, to most so little sense.
For who would bear these whips and scorns for long,
envy contumely, commentator's wrong,
the pangs of wasted lines, free-versed, despised,
[the impudence where, uninvited, eyed
the worthless stranger who advances tried,
who may not be so easily denied
in public places audience, we've cried! ]
Waste in untasted verse, those long delays,
days melting into nights, nights into days,
the insolence of judges, the sharp spurns
that patient merit from the unworthy takes.
When writer might some true quietus make
with rare home cooking? Who would fardels bear,
insults A.P., with little time to spare,
to grunt and sweat under a wordy life
with strife at work, A.P., through envy, strife!
But that the dread of nothing else to do,
lest dreams sound hollow, isolation too,
or kids to mind, rent find and clothing too,
threats unemployment act upon morale.
‘Tis true, and all too often ça fait mal!
The options open often puzzle will,
and make us rather bear those ills we have
than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
for few will answer truly to life's call.
Thus the native hue of resolution
is sicklied over with pale cast of thought
losing all instinctive love of writing!
Should one desire to act upon dire fate,
ambitions fire! React! No longer wait!
then the principles inspire to undertake
cooperation by your side, correct mistake
create a pool of judges early, late,
who either added are to contests' weight
or offer critiques daily of the fate
doled out to worthy writers ill displaced
by favorites applauseless trophy placed.
The Chatterer should Mission Statement draft
to standards raise as current wordy draught
blows best away - we witness with disgust
both fore and aft enthusiasms bust
by mini groups with macro pains to spill
on others where no praise may ever fill
the offline void some here avoid with just
a minimum of contact, feathers fussed.
On Mission Statement we could dwell awhile,
with workshops, shining sense and grooming style,
but who can guarantee attention span
with four thoughts max, as forethought many ban?
One could continue till the cows come home
to roost, to working shed, led docile in the gloam,
conclusion's called for here so I perceive
with Chatterer to booster A.P. heave
sigh of relief as quality improves,
emotions interplay - which feeling moves;
ambition principled and well perceived
to Karma adds Divin as verse we leave.
(13 January 2007]
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hamlet: Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
line from Hamlet, Act III, Scene 1 by William Shakespeare (1599)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Soliloquy of the first time buyer
To buy, or not to buy: That is the Question.
Whether it is better in the end to suffer
The moods and whims of some outrageous landlord
Or take A.R.M.S. against your future earnings
And end up owning something? In hock, for years;
Pay rent? And by paying rent to say we end
The heart ache and the thousand natural shocks
Home ownership is heir to. Reduced Consumption?
No Politician’s wish! To rent? To lease?
To lease, perchance to own? Ay, that’s a thought
For in the grip of debt you’re paying bills
Till you have shuffled off this mortal coil
It gives one pause. That’s the aspect
That makes calamity of adjusting rates
For who would bear the years and years of debt
Fine dining now reduced to happy meals,
Buyers remorse, and the long delays.
The Questionable title and the risk
Your credit rating doesn’t rate the loan.
When you yourself know if you lose your job
You’ll end up sleeping in your S.U.V.
To grunt and sweat under a heavy load
Under the threat of something worse than debt
The forced short sale, from which, once closed
No equity returns. It puzzles the will.
And makes us rather bear such debts we have
And, if necessary, refinance them still.
Compounding thus make cowards of us all.
And so our youthful promise and ambition
Is hobbled by the weight of student loans
Made by lenders judged too big to fail.
In this regard the risk is very real
We lose the house to auction.
quote by by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Bachelor's Soliloquy
To wed, or not to wed; that is the question;
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The bills and house rent of a wedded fortune,
Or to say "nit" when she proposes,
And by declining cut her. To wed; to smoke
No more; And have a wife at home to mend
The holes in socks and shirts
And underwear and so forth. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To wed for life;
To wed; perchance to fight; ay, there's the rub;
For in that married life what fights may come,
When we have honeymooning ceased
Must give us pause; there's the respect
That makes the joy of single life.
For who would bear her mother's scornful tongue,
Canned goods for tea, the dying furnace fire;
The pangs of sleepless nights when baby cries;
The pain of barking shins upon a chair and
Closing waists that button down the back,
When he himself might all these troubles shirk
With a bare refusal? Who would bundles bear,
And grunt and sweat under a shopping load?
Who would samples match; buy rats for hair,
Cart cheese and crackers home to serve at night
For lunch to feed your friends; play pedro
After tea; sing rag time songs, amusing
Friendly neighbors. Buy garden tools
To lend unto the same. Stay home at nights
In smoking coat and slippers and slink to bed
At ten o'clock to save the light bills?
Thus duty does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of matrimony
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of chores;
And thus the gloss of marriage fades away,
And loses its attraction.
poem by Edgar Albert Guest
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To die, to sleep - to sleep, perchance to dream, ay there's the rub, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause there's the respect that makes calamity of so long life.
quote by William Shakespeare
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Hamlet: Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought.
line from Hamlet, Act III, Scene 1 by William Shakespeare (1599)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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My Plight.
Bear with me as I tell of my plight,
I am just an old man that cannot sleep at night.
I have counted millions of sheep in my time,
Even written verses that usually rhyme.
Full moon nights are really the worse
For then I am compelled to write more verse.
Sleeping tablets I have take by the score,
These make things worse and cause me to snore.
I have had hot baths before going to bed,
These make my skin wrinkly and red.
Cold showers I have tried to make me sleep,
But I only end up counting more sheep.
They say as one gets older one does not need so much sleep.
When I hear this psuedo wisdom I just want to weep.
When I was young eight hours sleep was just right.
It saw me through a long restful night.
If just for once I could sleep through the night,
I would not ask you to bear with my plight.
poem by Bernard Shaw
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hamlet: To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, for in this sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil.
line from Hamlet by William Shakespeare (1599)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Pay back time.
Perchance to sleep and not to dream
I would I could but I can not.
Dreams in a never ending stream
Fate hath decreed to be my lot.
My conscience won't let me forget
That I have acted selfishly
In doing things I now regret.
Sends evil dreams to punish me.
I long to sleep but do not dare
I know not what dreams lie in wait
My punishment is hard to bear.
But my regrets came far too late.
Now at long last I've come to know
You must reap what you chose to sow.
Wednesday,07 March 2012
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Feeling of Sleep
As I lay here in bed
The only thing I dread
Is when I wake up tomorrow
And wish for the feeling of sleep
As I finally rest form my long days of work
There is no more ache in my legs
As I lay in my cloud bed
I rest my head on nothing but air
As I drift in to sleep
It feels like happiness is in the air
I can’t feel my body
As I can only dream good dreams
For I love the feeling of sleep
As sleep hit its highest point
I’m no longer responsive
For this is the feeling of sleep
As I descend form my sleep
The ache comes back
as if I never fell asleep
seven hours has pass
but it felt like one hour
this the one thing
that I long for
and that is the feeling of sleep
Poem Writer,
By: Jackie Thielman
poem by Jackie Thielman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Too Many Hearts Get Broken
You're the one I can see in your eyes
You're the one You're the once in my life
When you know there's a time
For a love that survives
I look at you I know that you are mine
I've been wrong when I thought I was right
You go on puttin' hope in my life
But a single mistake can be all that it takes
We're through
Know we're gonna make it I know in my mind
We're through
If we're gonna make it then now is the time
Too many hearts get broken
Too many dreams get blown away
Too many hearts grow cold
I know this time is the time
Cross my heart I can swear it's true
All I need is the feeling in you
Cause I've waited too long (waited too long) for it all to go wrong
We're through
Know we're gonna make it
It's fate that we do
We're through
I could never face it a world without you
chorus
The way she makes you burn
Past the point of no return
Love gone wrong leaves you cold as ice
Too many hearts get broken x2
chorus x3
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Work, Sleep, Work, Sleep, Work
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work:
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work, sleep, work, sleep,
Work.
Oh free me please with gentle ease
From work, sleep, work, sleep, work!
This odium, pounding tedium
Of my work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
Just whisk me off to lands afar
From work, sleep, work, sleep, work -
That grinding train of rhythmic pain
Called ‘Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.’
Poor neural circuits fizzle and pop
In work, sleep, work, sleep, work,
In trying to make some sense of all this
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
But Hark! I see a golden gleam -
A saving spirit of hope:
‘You’re fired! ’ He screams. What news to bear,
This wondrous hangman’s rope!
So now I’m free, released from all this
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work -
Eternal peace and rest for me, no
Work, sleep, work, sleep, work.
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I'd Do Anything For Love
and i would do anything for love, i'd run right into hell and back
I would do anything for love, i'll never lie to you and that's a fact
But i'll never forget the way you feel right now, oh no, no way
And i would do anything for love, but i won't do that, i won't do that
Anything for love, oh i would do anything for love
I would do anything for love, but i won't do that, oh i won't do that
Some days it don't come easy, and some days it don't come hard
Some days it don't come at all, and these are the days that never end
Some nights you're breathing fire, and some nights you're carved in ice
Some nights you're like nothing i've ever seen before or will again
Maybe i'm crazy, but it's crazy and it's true
I know you can save me, no one else can save me now but you
As long as the planets are turning, as long as the stars are burning
As long as your dreams are coming true, you better believe it
That i would do anything for love, and i'll be there til the final act
I would do anything for love, and i'll take a vow and seal a pact
But i'll never forgive myself if we don't go all the way tonight
And i would do anything for love, oh i would do anything for love
Oh i would do anything for love, but i won't do that, no i won't do that
I would do anything for love, anything you've been dreaming of
But i just won't do that
Some days i pray for silence, and somedays i pray for soul
Some days i just pray to the god of sex and drums and rock 'n roll
Some nights i lose the feeling, and some nights i lose control
Some nights i just lose it all when i watch you dance and the thunder rolls
Maybe i'm lonely and that's all i'm qualified to be
There's just one and only, the one and only promise i can keep
As long as the wheels are turning, as long as the fires are burning
As long as your prayers are coming true, you better believe it
That i would do anything for love, and you know it's true and that's a fact
I would do anything for love, and there'll never be no turning back
But i'll never do it better than i do it with you, so long, so long
And i would do anything for love, oh i would do anything for love
I would do anything for love, but i won't do that, no no no i won't do that
I would do anything for love, anything you've been dreaming of
But i just won't do that
But i'll never stop dreaming of you every night of my life, no way
And i would do anything for love, oh i would do anything for love
I would do anything for love
But i won't do that
No i won't do that
Will you raise me up, will you help me down?
Will you get me right out of this godforsaken town?
Will you make it all a little less cold?
I can do that! i can do that!
Will you hold me sacred? will you hold me tight?
Can you colorize my life, i'm so sick of black and white?
Can you make it all a little less old?
I can do that! oh oh, now i can do that!
Will you make me some magic, with your own two hands?
Can you build an emerald city with these grains of sand?
Can you give me something i can take home?
I can do that! oh oh now, i can do that!
Will you cater to every fantasy i got?
Will ya hose me down with holy water, if i get too hot?
Will you take me places i've never known?
I can do that! oh oh now, i can do that!
After a while you'll forget everything
It was a brief interlude and a midsummer night's fling
And you'll see that it's time to move on
I won't do that! no i won't do that!
I know the territory, i've been around
It'll all turn to dust and we'll all fall down
And sooner or later, you'll be screwing around
I won't do that! no i won't do that!
Anything for love, oh i would do anything for love
I would do anything for love, but i won't do that, no i won't do that
song performed by by Meat Loaf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hamlet soliliquy insomnia
'To sleep, or, not to sleep?
That is the question
Whether it is nobler in the mind
To heave the leaded unslept eyes of sleep
Adrift in that uncertain hour
Between the hem of dawn
And sombre headed night
Or drink the hemlock of dispair
And sleep herewith eternally
In some far distant land?
I, but there's the rub
For in that sleep of death
What dreams may come?
When we have shuffled off our mortal duvets
Must give us pause,
And wrench thus the heavy eyed soul of heaven
With a careful prayer
And thus without relent
Allow the troubled heart and troubled thoughts
No rest but beckon in the coming dawn
With one last stretch
One final yawn
Alas I melt and thaw into a dew!
yvette smith march 09
poem by Yvette Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On Books
Books are my first love, I’m so proud to read;
They give me knowledge and help life to lead;
Hours, days just pass by, by reading life-time;
Life would not be worth, if not for my rhyme.
Great are those people who write books all life;
Burning just candles, with Goose-quills in strife;
Tired of writing though day-long or night,
They keep on writing in such a bad light.
Books serve a great cause; their value can’t cease;
It takes years to write but reading is ease;
Book-makers struggle to print a few books;
And keep spending time to, improve their looks.
Some find their way to libraries in town;
Some remain untouched and nev’r taken down;
Silver-fish, Moths eat the books that are old;
Some are gone obsolete, some sold like gold.
Some are in tatters and must be rebound;
Books are Man’s best friends where solace is found;
Reading for long hours, does help you to learn;
Books give much knowledge and wisdom to men.
Read books with great care whose weight is in gold;
Serve generations though they may be old;
Source of much Info, deserving respect;
Books are life-partners whom you ne’er reject!
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Beggar's Scapegoat
O fate how cruel thy ties and twists,
O fate, how can I love thee for this?
How should I bear thee now?
Like a brother? A mother?
Or as a farmer should bear the stench
Of his fatted sow?
O fate with thy binds and grips,
O fate, how should thou tear so deep to flesh on oily whips?
And how should I know thee now?
To string me like half a veal.
By strips of sinew and rusted hooks,
Have you no mercy to spare my carcass meal?
Would thee burden I with an Atlas weight,
For simple pleasure of a graceless hate?
O fate with thy vice and traps,
O fate, know this of me that;
Should I know and bear and love thee now; -
By Will it would not be done.
And only as a thong tethered to thy bloated purse
Should I carry your riches with scorn and curse,
And hope as thee would dither through miserable streets
And swollen markets,
Dead woods, forgotten roads and hooker’s hoards,
That some miserable thief should slit my throat
And pocket your keep, for bread, for wine
Or comfortable sleep.
I would not care as long as our ties lay severed and our relations dead.
And should you find then, my goat of blame, a reason of loathing that
Brews and bruise behind a beggar’s broken mind,
I say this: O fate,
Be not surprised.
poem by Graham Stone
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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After All Hymn
After all I am human
And I get mad sometimes
Sometimes it is hard for me to think of something else in
Order to get rid of my anger
But I think I have to replace it with poetry
Poetry is my life
And I live writing poetry
Is poetry just a scribbling that doesn't make sense?
No
Poetry are feelings that are wrtten on a piece of paper or in the computer Scream
Poetry makes sense because every word I carefully select
And there are other words that might pop out of my mind
That I connect with the words in my heart
Do I use strong words in my poetry?
Yes I use strong words
Do I offend my readers with the words I pick?
That Is something that I try not to do
AAafter all
I am human and I do make mistakes
But after I make mistakes I try to move to the next step so I never get Stuck with my mistake
Yes poetry is my voice that is a message that I am trying hard to give to My readers
There are so many different styles of poetry
Haiku, rhiming, and free style
But I always stick with the free style of poetry
I find that it is the style that sooths me just fine
After all
I try very hard to live a modest life that is very plain and simple
From the one I lived 16 years ago
What is wrong to live a life of luxury to me?
First I need to have the money to live a luxurious life
The second part is that I don't want anything to do with a luxurious life
Because I am happy living my simple life
And I hope to live that simple life forever
I want to have dreams only and I don't wish them to turn into reality in My Life
Because I know that my dreams will be dreams
No I can't sell my dreams
Because my dreams are only fantasies that I face every night when I sleep In my bed
And after all I will always be human
poem by Aldo Kraas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Love Will Conquer All
Here we are out hear, me and you
Reaching out to each other
Is all that we can do
Here we stand trying not to fall
Theres no need to worry
Love will conquer all
Do you really want to know
Just how long will last
Will all of the bad times pass?
How can we make things right?
Ooh and why, why is the world so unkind?
We surely can find peace of mind
If we only see the light
Cant you see that?
Can somebody tell me why?
Why do our dreams go wrong?
Why cant we all belong?
Oh where did we start?
Oh and tell me when
When will we ever learn
Theres nowhere else we can turn
The truth is in our hearts
Here we are together
Sometimes the road gets hard to travel
Sometimes the pains too much to bear
Sometimes when life seems to unravel
Thats the time oh to say
Were gonna make it anyway
Cant you see that?
song performed by by Lionel Richie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Silver Shadows Golden Dreams
Within the silver shadows
are locked our golden dreams
waiting patiently for us
to find the key and then set them free.
Dreams of love everlasting
to last us through our days,
dreams of happiness for evermore,
to let us smile through our life’s troubles.
They lay within the silver shadows
locked away in the recesses of our mind,
those golden dreams we dream about
from time to time.
The meandering wasteland,
within our shell of eternity,
where our dreams sleep,
awaiting us to awake them to make their escape.
The key is in us to unlock them
from within the silver shadows
where our golden dreams await
to be free to come true.
23 March 2009
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cui Bono
1.
Why should we care for storms that rave and rend,
Safe at our household hearth?
Unknowing whence we came, or where we wend,
Why should we ache and toil, and waste and spend,
Treading from no beginning to no end,
An uncrowned martyr's path?
2.
Is it worth while to suffer, when we might,
Like happier men, be blest
With that dull blindness that desires no light,
That peaceful soul that feels no need to fight,
Nor thirsts for liberty, and truth, and right,
But lives its life at rest?
3.
Is it worth while to work, and strive, and learn —
To sow where none may reap?
Is it worth while to rage, and fret, and yearn
For nameless treasure that we cannot earn?
Is it worth while in fever- fires to burn,
While wise men eat and sleep?
4.
Is it worth while to care for praise or blame,
This little time we live,
When purest deeds are oftenest put to shame?
To pant for noble strife and lofty fame,
When gold seems better than a stainless name,
Or all the world can give?
5.
Is it worth while for friendship's gift to sue,
For friendship's joys to crave?
When sordid tests, that bring us ruth and rue,
And sorrowful years, alone discern the clue
That tells us what is false and what is true,
And what we lose or save?
6.
To open wide our sanctuary door
Some welcome guest to greet,
To find, perchance, when we have shown our store,
The sacred places rudely trampled o'er,
Bereaved, profaned, and soiled for evermore
With tread of vulgar feet?
7.
Is it worth while to love — though love find grace
In our belovèd's sight?
To bear a restless heart from place to place,
Hungry for sight of one transcendent face,
That shines our central sun in azure space,
Or leaves our world in night:
8.
And, after all, to gain no more than this
At such a life- long cost —
A taste, a glimpse, the memory of a kiss,
A speechless sense of what diviner bliss,
That might have been, we have contrived to miss —
To know what love has lost?
9.
Is it worth while — O sadder fate! — to heed
The solemn chime that knells
The death hour of an immemorial creed —
A staff of strength become a broken reed —
And never friendlier help in time of need,
Nor surer guide, foretells?
10.
To heed the spirit- voice that bids us take
A strange new road alone;
From gentle slumber and sweet dreams to wake,
And hear the mighty billows boom and break —
The thunder of immortal seas that shake
The earth's foundation- stone?
11.
Is it worth while, so far away as we,
To long, in hope and dread,
For the great unborn Age that is to be —
To pine for light that we shall never see —
To care what course man's life and destiny
May take when we are dead?
12.
Is it worth while to toil in doubt and fear,
Through thorny ways like these,
When they who turn blind eye and heedless ear
To change and portent, and who see nor hear
The pregnant storm that gathers far and near,
Dwell all their days at ease?
13.
To leave the Good whereof we are possest,
To search, in gloom and grief,
Through pathless trouble, for some unknown Best,
And see no goal, and find no place of rest —
Is it worth while, on such a fruitless quest
To waste a life so brief?
14.
Is it worth while to wear out heart and brain?
Ah me, what must be must!
The maddening Mystery cannot be made plain,
And they who seek to solve it seek in vain,
Yet can but seek, in sleepless hope and pain,
Till heart and brain are dust.
poem by Ada Cambridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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