Ticke[te]d Off
TICKE[TE]D OFF
Cold urns, mold marbled busts, shelved, stored, inanimate
mock passion’s pyres unburned, fires shunned through puny life.
On Earth few still maintain their stay predestinate,
most, weak, betray themselves until the t[h]read of strife
is severed - only then, each finds it is too late,
trip taken only once is ended by Death’s knife.
7 November 1990 revised 22 December 2008 robi03_0355_robi03_0000 XXX_DZX
previous title “The Proper Study of Mankind” for previous version see below
“The Proper Study of Mankind”
These storied marble busts and urns inanimate
mock on where passions grate, avoided during life.
On Earth who still believes his stay predestinate?
Most, tenets true betray until the t(h) read of strife
is severed, - only then, each knows it is too late.
The trip is made but once, is ended by Death’s knife.
7 November 1990
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Related quotes
Let Heart lead Head
Ambitions spurn, should man on man blind prey?
Sterile most gifts, where true hearts may not share,
phrases echo empty where none to care: -
best let the heart lead head along Time's way.
Life offers much, though who takes should repay
without delay, of bias, prejudice beware!
robi03_0357_robi03_0000 XXX_EXX
12 November 1990 revised 20 January 2012 for previous version see below
Let Heart lead Head
Ambitions spurn, should man on man blind prey?
Sterile most gifts, where true hearts may not share,
all phrases empty where there’s none to care: -
best let the heart lead head along Time’s way.
Life offers much, though who takes should repay
without delay – of prejudice beware!
12 November 1990
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Forever before Never
FOREVER BEFORE NEVER
Beneath stone slab forever lies
broker who could not devise
a way to pass on – sympathise! -
Rights Called when Death culled by surprise
And early Options exercised.
For him, for yours, bore worm supplies
answer unsought ‘neath sunny skies.
Bond Issues G[u]ilt cannot disguise,
recycle Shares of earth[l]y sighs.
Instructive Income, Prime rate wise
is Bonus gratis, - I’ll surmise:
Enjoy the day, before one dies,
life’s love true Love intensifies.
Insurance under in any guise
ignored is once will’s parchment dries.
Fee Contract, contact free, belies
fragility, no fortune buys
eternity when dock denies
soul’s sole appeal as none arise
when life’s Foreclosed, or rectifies
Mortgage Debenture - too late for cries
adventure over, severed ties.
Skeletal sods like last goodbyes
few mortals care to recognize
for Time forever forwards flies.
23 April 1990 revised 11 February 2009
robi03_0308_robi03_0000 XXX_DJZ
for previous version entitled On a Stockbroker see below
On a Stockbroker
Beneath this slab forever lies
a broker who could not devise
a way to pass on (sympathise) ,
the Rights that Death would exercise.
An thus it is the worm supplies
a Bond which G[u]ilt cannot disguise,
recycling Shares of earth[l]y sighs.
An Income of instruction wise
is offered gratis, - I’ll surmise:
Seek to enjoy, before one dies,
the love that Love intensifies,
assistance under in any guise
offer free beneath these skies
for Time forever forwards flies.
23 April 1990
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Truth Of Life!
Oh! The great death, the grand gift of life
Knows not the young or old, rich or poor
Visits all, acts as double edged knife
Can take the body, soul never!
None desires death, but that death spares none
For the good or bad, read or unread
Death brings pain and grief, sure gives not fun
None on earth wants death, that comes unsaid!
Man with wealth ever in fear of death
Men sans wealth with love for kith and kin
All in constant fear and worry
Over death none has control any!
Truth of life is certainty of death
Do thy duty, face death bold on earth!
poem by Subbaraman N V
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The Daily Act of Presence
Eight hours at work, commuting sometimes two,
the daily act of presence is assigned
its p[l]ace, weak celebration paid in kind,
traced race to waste bereft, much left to do.
Eight hours abed, at table almost two,
the daily act of presence, daily grind,
few dare opt out of as life's clocks unwind, -
such haste to conquer Time, whose ride’s askew.
Three hours of leisure, then, without ado,
day's drive departs, leaves most deprived of breath.
Who'd buck luck's trend bends in the end to Death
whose lock mocks motto 'to thyself be true! '
Three hours for chat, sex, net or television,
no wonder Man’s case-study for derision.
16 May 2001 revised 18 December 2008
robi03_0936_robi03_0000 SXX_EJZ
for previous version see below
The Daily Act of Presence
Eight hours at work, in travel up to two,
the daily act of presence is assigned
and celebrated weakly, paid in kind, -
so much to waste, so little left to do.
Eight hours abed, at table almost two,
the daily act of presence, daily grind,
few dare opt out as life's clocks unwind, -
such haste to conquer Time, whose ride’s askew.
Three hours leisure, then, without ado,
the day departs, leaves most deprived of breath.
Who'd buck the trend bends in the end to Death -
what sense retains 'unto thyself be true'?
Three hours for music, films or television –
no wonder Man’s case-study for derision!
poem by Jonathan Robin
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I’m or Im-perfect
I'M OR IM-PERFECT
Perfection mirage often seems,
Equity protection needs.
Responsibility recedes
From cul-de-sac coercive streams.
Extrapolating god supreme
Church sectarian worry beads
To contention lead, strife breeds
Further strife, attracts extremes,
Advocates discrimative themes.
Much dogma self-defeats, or feeds
Irrationality. Who reads
Life’s conformist pressures, narrow schemes,
Yearns for alternatives, free dreams.
Acrostic Sonnet Perfect Family
28 February 2005 and 3 December 2006 revised 16 October 2007
robi03_1068_robi03_0000 ASX_EXX
for previous version see below
I’m or Im-perfect
Perfection is not always what it seems,
Equity protection active needs,
Responsibility as tide recedes
From open options when coercive stream
Ebbs from freedom’s tenets, to false scheme
Church led [whatever church or sect] that leads
Too often to contention, strife that breeds
Further strife despite ‘truth’ some say gleams,
Attending 'church on Sunday' here speaks reams,
Much dogma self defeats, resentment feeds.
If 'Freedom' is at stake, awake! Who reads
Life’s pressures on conforming to set themes
Yet seeks alternate avenues, fires dreams.
28 February 2005 and 3 December 2006
I’m or Im-perfect © Jonathan Robin
poem by Jonathan Robin
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On The Western Front
I
I found a dreadful acre of the dead,
Marked with the only sign on earth that saves.
The wings of death were hurrying overhead,
The loose earth shook on those unquiet graves;
For the deep gun-pits, with quick stabs of flame,
Made their own thunders of the sunlit air;
Yet, as I read the crosses, name by name,
Rank after rank, it seemed that peace was there;
Sunlight and peace, a peace too deep for thought,
The peace of tides that underlie our strife,
The peace with which the moving heavens are fraught,
The peace that is our everlasting life.
The loose earth shook. The very hills were stirred.
The silence of the dead was all I heard.
II
We, who lie here, have nothing more to pray.
To all your praises we are deaf and blind.
We may not ever know if you betray
Our hope, to make earth better for mankind.
Only our silence, in the night, shall grow
More silent, as the stars grow in the sky;
And, while you deck our graves, you shall not know
How many scornful legions pass you by.
For we have heard you say (when we were living)
That some small dream of good would “cost too much.”
But when the foe struck, we have watched you giving,
And seen you move the mountains with one touch.
What can be done, we know. But, have no fear!
If you fail now, we shall not see or hear.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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Life
life life oh God given life
you and me given without strife
i'll say life comes from life
if i lie read science, religion about life
oh wonderful life how long more
to stay for mans heart grows sore
as he found for the earth it has core
but for life only mysteries more and more
the one who made life for man
and made it for great and small man
i know everything you can
grant he so we enjoy it as breeze fan
poem by Gideon Zerah Ogbonna
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Toy Soldiers Leaden Eyed - Acrostic Mata Hari
TOY SOLDIERS LEADEN EYED
My life foams fast, spurts sudden surge,
Appraise past fancy, sullen urge,
Then see toy soldiers leaden eyed
Attest failed flight, time, grace denied.
Here at my post I’m posted, tied,
And no-one dares to act as guide.
Right, tight, where Hell’s four streams converge:
I stand and wait... serve on lead’s purge!
5 December 1990 revised 10 January 2009
robi03_0360_robi03_0000 AXX_DJZ
For previous version see below
Toy Soldiers Leaden Eyed
My life foamed fast, in sudden surge,
All passing fancies, sullen urge, -
The child’s toy soldiers, leaden eyed,
Attest failed flight which Time defied.
Here at my post I’m posted, tied,
And none now dares to be my guide.
Right, tight, where Hell’s four streams converge:
I wait awhile, .............. how lead does purge!
5 December 1990
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The proper study of Mankind is Man.
quote by Alexander Pope
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Foreplay
Seventy seasons sliced by harvest scythe,
sent spent from feast’s fields to untimely grave,
while g[r]azing Time derides begged ebb-tide crave
denies recycled dream, Life’s token tithe.
Who dwells on Death when young and carefree, blithe? -
child heedless plays till taught how to behave.
Adult, aware of all he’d pay to save
from dark forgetfulness, as worm will writhe
an hour, though blind, before brain’s dropped by hive,
good-bye encounters, countdown’s final wave
submerging shawl with pall. Fresh faces pave
new roads, loads, sequent stage for limping, lithe.
Dead end lies destiny both mouse and man
enjoy - span evanescent also-ran.
© Jonathan Robin robi3_0540 written 28 September 1996 revised 23 November 2006 revised as sonnet 3 December 2008 - see below for previous versions initial title Childsplay
Foreplay
Seventy seasons sliced by harvest scythe,
s[p]ent from fields of feasting for[e] Time, grave,
g[r]azes with equanimity, the [g]rave
seems dream recycling tinsel token tithe.
Who dwells on Death when young and carefree, blithe?
Child heedless plays till taught how to behave.
Adult, aware of all he’d give to save
from dark forgetfulness, as worm will writhe
an hour, though blind, before life's final wave
with pall's enshrouded, for fresh paths must pave
subsequent stage for limping, hale, pale, lithe.
Dead end is destiny both mouse and man
enjoy - span evanescent also-ran.
© Jonathan Robin robi3_0540 written 28 September 1996 revised 23 November 2006 modified 17 April 2008 for previous version see below
Childsplay
Seventy years cut from the waiting scythe,
gleaned from fields eternal where Time, grave,
g(r) azes with equanimity, the (g) rave
is but recycling of Life’s token tithe.
Who dwells on Death when young and carefree, blithe? -
the child plays till he’s taught how to behave.
Adult, aware of all he fain would save
from dark forgetfulness, as worm will writhe
an hour, though blind, before the final wave.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The proper study of mankind is books.
quote by Aldous Huxley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The proper study of mankind is woman.
quote by Henry B. Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The proper study of mankind is the science of design.
quote by Herbert Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; The proper study of mankind is man.
quote by Alexander Pope
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Know then thyself, presume not God to scan,The proper study of Mankind is Man.
quote by Alexander Pope
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The proper study of mankind is man in his relation to his deity.
quote by David Herbert Lawrence
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spent
SPENT
So seldom she sees him –
sometimes twice a week –
stays free for stray whim
to tease, tousle, peek.
When he leaves salt tears swim,
then she grieves, fears weak,
brown eyes, russet rim,
pearls course down, streak cheek.
She wakes out on a limb
for his sake, rake sleek,
the chances seem slim
he’ll wedding bespeak.
Over half-truths he’ll skim
though true love she’ll seek –
no commitments from him –
sad heart cries, sighs bleak.
19 November 1977 revised 17 November 2008
robi03_0142_robi03_0000 XXX_LUX
for previous version entitled Borrowed Time see below
Borrowed Time
So rarely she sees him, –
two to three times a week, –
though free for his stray whim
to tease, tousle, speak.
When he leaves her, salt tears swim,
then she grieves, from fears weak,
brown eyes russet of rim,
down pearls course, streak each cheek.
Over half-truths he’ll skim
although true love she’ll seek, –
no commitments from him –
her heart is so bleak!
19 November 1977
poem by Jonathan Robin
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More Snow.... (Will Fall)
this body has to die,
to decompose back into earth,
for this spirit to step free,
and remember who it 'is'...
we borrow urns for the journey,
but urns are not the journey.
and pots made of clay,
cannot hold oceans forever.
the dance of death,
smells of womb, and depth...
the hidden name,
sets paper walls ablaze.
the kiss of death's lips,
turns great trees toward winter.
leaving stains in the snow...
ah, but more snow will fall!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sonnet: Earth’s Only Sun
The central star of Milky Way- the Sun:
God made the sun for mankind’s sake on earth;
Around the sun, the earth is on her run;
Each dawn, the rising sun brings newer mirth!
Without the sun, the earth will turn all dark;
If not for it, the world can’t support life;
Sunlight sustains all life-forms up to mark;
Dense forests, seas, abyss escape its knife!
The ball of fire burns incessantly;
The core is hotter than one can think of;
Atomic fusion supplies energy;
Alas! A cloud can block the sun’s great laugh!
Without the sun, can life go on, on earth?
For sake of man, God gave one sun(Son) , its(His) birth!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 2-4-2008
poem by John Celes
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In Days to Come
IN DAYS TO COME
In days to come when, dumb, I’ll strum no more
rhymed witness to timed world where butterflies
still dance rare marbled patterns through fair skies -
when I’ll have sunk to rest unblessed before
enchantment fades – who’ll feel one penny poor?
Most, wor[l]dy-wise, ignore one poor demise,
for life continues as before - here lies
our irony, reflections poet pours
in [l]ink think themes on pixel pages’ scores
fade with ambitions one can’t realize,
when hopes unmet forget joy’s first surprise.
Self is both root and cause of fatal flaws.
My memory, wax candle w[e]aned from flame,
may shadow search vain answers to Life’s game.
20 May 2005 revised 16 November 2006 and 25 March 2009
robi03_1257_robi03_0000 SXX_DIZ
for previous versions see below variant of Unjaded Sparkle 6 July 1991
In Days to Come
In days to come when, dumb, I’ll bear no more
to Time rhymed witness, world where butterflies
still dance rare marbled patterns through fair skies -
when I’ll have sunk to rest twice blessed before
enchantment fades – who’ll feel one penny poor?
Most, wor[l]dy-wise, ignore one poor demise,
for life continues as before - here lies
our irony, reflections one would pour
in [l]ink think themes on pixel pages’ score
fade with ambitions one can’t realize,
when hopes unmet forget joy’s first surprise.
Within oneself is found the fatal flaw.
My memory - wax candle w[e]aned from flame,
while others, vain, search answers to Life’s game.
20 May 2005 and 16 November 2006 revised 23 November 2008
- for previous versions see below
In Days to Come
In days to come when I may bear no more
to Time rhymed witness, world where butterflies
still dance rare marbled patterns through fair skies -
when I’ll have sunk to rest twice blessed before
enchantment fades – who’ll feel a cent more poor?
For most wor[l]d-wise, ignoring one demise,
Life bright or boring as before, - here lies
our irony, reflections one would pour
in [l]ink think on the pixel pages’ score
fade with ambitions, one can’t realize,
when hopes unmet forget their first surprise.
Within oneself is found the fatal flaw.
My memory - wax candle w[e]aned from flame,
while others, vain, search answers to Life’s game.
20 May 2005 and 16 November 2006
for previous version see below
In Days to Come
In days to come when I may bear no more
to Time fair witness, world where butterflies
aloft dance marbled patterns in the skies -
next May, when I’ll have sunk to rest before
enchantment fades – who’ll feel a cent more poor?
Life will appear to who these verses buys
as bright or boring as before, - here lies
the irony, reflections one would pour
in ink upon the pixel pages’ score.
Ambitions fade, and libido, too, sighs
when hopes unmet one cannot realize, -
within oneself is found the fatal flaw.
Life will for me be candle lost to flame,
for others, search for answers to its game.
20 May 2005
© Jonathan Robin
poem by Jonathan Robin
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