Who Else?
Each second spins a silken thread to weave
the minutes which take turns to interlace
the hours which days through years spin tears to race
towards an unknown destiny. Don’t grieve,
for in Life’s cup there’s joy which could deceive
the Gods, grown jealous of the human race.
This blossom has both human name and face
coeval with one smile, so I believe, -
who else since Troy’s fair Helen could receive,
such charm, intelligence and simple grace?
These qualities unique here interface
with talents never hitherto achieved...
all future generations will regret
they lived not now, - her fame none shall forget...
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Related quotes
Unique
Silk seconds string net spider-strong to weave
minute spun-sequence skeins which interlace
hours which in turn days turn to years that race
to knit an unknown fate. No need to grieve.
For from Life's cup joy stems which win reprieve
from Gods, grown jealous of the human race.
Cause and effect are manifest, - one face
coeval with charm eternal can receive
accolades none challenge, disbelieve.
Innate these qualities, where talent, grace,
integrate the skills that interface
potential never hitherto achieved.
All future generations must regret
They lived not now, - such gifts none shall forget!
Unique Spin initial version
Silk seconds string net spider-strong to weave
minute spun-sequence skeins which interlace
hours which in turn days turn to years times trace
to spin an unknown fate. No need to grieve.
For from Life's cup joy stems which win reprieve
from Gods, grown tired of pride's human face.
Cause and effect are manifest, - one race
coeval with eight spindle legs receive
accolades none challenge, disbelieve,
potential insects never could achieve.
(25 April 1990 revised 22 August 2006)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Channels
CHANNELS
Each second spins, dissolves, fresh mesh to weave
flesh minutes in strange sequence, interlace
the hours which daily years refresh to race
ganesh unknown.
Each thought wave ripples outwards to conceive
a cause/effect relationship few trace
and fewer find the time to interface
with the unsown.
Yet all makes sense where channels to receive
decode what static seems to those who’d lace
the edges of their cells of time and place
together thrown
while Time itself, intending to deceive,
here tosses coin, replaces tail with face,
there spin repeats, initial choice erase
with cards unshown.
What some receive as Gospel, strong believe,
others hold as heresy, disgrace.
Black, white, day, night, lack insight to replace
with hid what’s shown.
On ignorance credes feed when doubters cleave
to certitudes where, insecure, they chase
from fount to font minds blind or lower case,
can’t call their own
an attitude where tolerance would leave
for others understanding, living space
to foster common interest with good grace,
not pick a bone.
Thread true to pattern, facettes fractal reeve
retinal after-image to encase
the here and now in setting far from base –
hear, how’s, tune-tone.
Each thought wave push me-pull you t(r) ies to heave
sigh of relief, - burst bottlenecks Change brace
for interlink to ink invent, deplace
accent ‘chance’ blown.
Life Lakshmi surfs on foam of make-believe,
leaves fall, leave echo (c) old, untold, embrace
the stirrings of another zeitgeist’s pace …
as challenge prone.
Second thoughts conjur hell or saving grace,
momentum gathered rushes on a-pace,
continuous, relentless, rolling race
to the unknown…
Outline sketched 12 October 2005 rewritten 14 November 2006
robi03_1328_robi03_0000 XXX_CZX
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Spin, Spin, Spin
Spin, spin, spin
Spin around, spin around
The harlequin dances in a costume of green
Spin around
But under his makeup his age can't be seen
Spin around
But where are you spinnin'
When will you know
That life is for livin'
That it isn't a show?
Spin, spin, spin
Spin around, spin around
You look out on the city from your penthouse so high
Spin around
But your pedestal's your prison and so is your high
Spin around
But where are you spinnin'
When will you know
That life is for livin'
That it isn't a show?
Spin, spin, spin
Spin around, spin around
Your pills are you conscience
They make ev'rything seem all right
Spin around
Take a white one go to sleep
Take a red one to stay up all night
To spin around
But where are you spinnin'
When will you know
That life is for livin'
That it isn't a show?
Spin, spin, spin
Spin around, spin around
Spin, spin, spin
Spin away, spin away
Spin, spin, spin
Spin around, spin around
song performed by by Jim Croce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spinning Destiny
SPINNING DESTINY
Spinning of Destiny
Never stops.
Unseen its designs,
Defying all rationale,
Mocking human scrutiny
And cures to avert its decrees!
Its moves unknown
But not unfelt.
Its hushed hooves
Shocking and stunning us
All unawares!
History is a museum
Of the dead,
The sepulcher
Of the sagacious and the saintly,
The virtuous and vicious,
Wherein guide
The ghostly moves
Of the curate-
Our present
In the shadows and reflections
Into the deceptive future,
Through the hoary past,
With rosy innocence!
And the innocent mortals,
In all their smartness,
Are liberally duped,
And smarted
Into the cadence of life.
Spinning never stops.
So spin, spin life in,
And spin life out,
Within and without.
O dear destiny!
poem by Raghukul Bhushan
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Timely Matters
I count my days
By the breaths I take
For in those breaths
Come a hope of better tomorrow
For secounds turn to minutes
Minutes into hours
Hours into to days
They will go on after
I am gone
So with each breath I am blessed
To see all the Lords provided
This miracle called life
Which time is only a play thing
poem by David Kush
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The Spinner
Oh, what was it he meant
By his question as he went?
'I am making a loom,
'T will be up in April's bloom;
If you think it may be,
Spin for me!'
Oh, what shall I believe?
Does he think himself to weave?
And the yarn that I spin,
Lo, he thinks to weave it in?
And so soon as the Spring
Flowers shall bring?
And he laughed when he'd done;
Oh, he is so full of fun.
Dare I trust all my skein
To so young and wild a swain?-
May God help to bind in
All I spin!
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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The Shadowed Life
Winter nights & summer days
A frozen meadow with shallow graves
I sit and grieve on this leather weave
For the great love that once was
We rise and fall like the path of the sun
Six feet up to six feet down
We observe our demise with great surprise
Gone when the sun’s in the west
If we accept death as a better place
And pleasantly live our lives
If in death we move closer to the light
Then why is death a world of shadow
Whether were in a concrete jungle
Or a tree-top city
Life always has an end
And death has no pity
So as I sit and grieve on this leather weave
For all of those who have passed
In a blink I begin to think
That life goes by so fast.
poem by Logan Fulk
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Our Tomorrows
Minutes fold into hours,
hours fold into days
and days fold into years
that quickly disappear away.
One day we are young
and then we are old
as time carries on
until we are no more.
In our universe,
we are alive no more
than a giant's
blink of an eye.
We strive to be remembered
in whatever field
we inspire to do
and never to be forgotten.
We try to live
a life to full measure
as if our tomorrows
depend on our today's.
11 June 2012
poem by David Harris
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Sad Wings Of Destiny
Mournful, yet grand is the destiny of man. Believing he can look destiny in the eye, without so much as flinching. And only after having swallowed the seeds of fate, did he find, they grew into hate. Making what was once water to the faithful, turn to nothing more, than blood, before the eyes of an unbeliever. Of all that man has been, or in his vanity, may come to believe, destiny, after having granted his wishes, also gave him more than he perceived. For only by the work of his own two hands, could such suffering be achieved. Leading him to fight against his destiny, even though, he had no hope of victory. Like pantomimes of white, on a background of black, his destiny, appears as a silken thread, lost in an endless labyrinth of time. Never knowing, only death transforms life into a destiny, for only death has no need for time. Having denied love, he sealed his fate. Unable to find the meaning and never seeing the truth of life, that it may only be found with another, but not alone. Fear, merely encouraged his ignominy and transported him to the nether world, where he will at last, take his final flight, on the sad wings of destiny
poem by Eric Paeplow
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Weave In, Weave In, My Hardy Life
WEAVE in! weave in, my hardy life!
Weave yet a soldier strong and full, for great campaigns to come;
Weave in red blood! weave sinews in, like ropes! the senses, sight
weave in!
Weave lasting sure! weave day and night the weft, the warp, incessant
weave! tire not!
(We know not what the use, O life! nor know the aim, the end--nor
really aught we know;
But know the work, the need goes on, and shall go on--the death-
envelop'd march of peace as well as war goes on;)
For great campaigns of peace the same, the wiry threads to weave;
We know not why or what, yet weave, forever weave.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Spinning Threads
Spin the threads of
life
creating a golden
tapestry.
Weave together love
and memories,
how it was yesterday.
Being woven together
on the loom of life.
Spin threads of gold
and silver,
to make a tapestry
of delight.
Spin the threads of
gold,
spin the events of
life.
poem by Heather Burns
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Day By Day
EVERY day has its dawn,
Its soft and silent eve,
Its noontide hours of bliss or bale;--
Why should we grieve?
Why do we heap huge mounds of years
Before us and behind,
And scorn the little days that pass
Like angels on the wind?
Each turning round a small sweet face
As beautiful as near;
Because it is so small a face
We will not see it clear:
We will not clasp it as it flies,
And kiss its lips and brow:
We will not bathe our wearied souls
In its delicious Now.
And so it turns from us, and goes
Away in sad disdain:
Though we would give our lives for it,
It never comes again.
Yet, every day has its dawn,
Its noontide and its eve:
Live while we live, giving God thanks--
He will not let us grieve.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Pieces Of Fragile Lace
A spider spins a micro fine thread, her gentle web to weave,
It is with awe, that we behold this art, one can't believe
This work, viewed on a frosty morn, portrays pieces of fragile lace,
How can a tiny creature create these patterns, with silent grace.
She works with great dedication, using skills beyond belief,
Securing her thread to one, and then another sturdy leaf,
Or twig, or gate, or fence, or flower, whatever is to hand,
A magical spun gossamer, her love sealed in every strand.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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My Days
My days are but the tombs of buried hours ;
Which tombs are hidden in the piled years ;
But from the mounds there spring up many flowers,
Whose beauty well repays their cost of tears.
Time, like a sexton, pileth mould on mould,
Minutes on minutes till the tombs are high ;
But from the dust there fall some grains of gold,
And the dead corpse leaves what will never die-
It may be but a thought, the nursling seed
Of many thoughts, of many a high desire ;
Some little act that stirs a noble deed,
Like breath rekindling a smouldering fire :
They only live who have not lived in vain,
For in their works their life returns again.
poem by Isaac Rosenberg
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Round & Round
Round and round and round we spin,
To weave a wall to hem us in,
It won't be long, it won't be long
How slow and slow and slow it goes,
To mend the tear that always shows.
It won't be long, it won't be long.
It's hard enough losin' the paper illusion you've hidden inside,
Without the confusion of findin' you're usin' the crutch of the lie
To shelter your pride when you cry.
Round and round and round we spin,
To weave a wall to hem us in,
It won't be long, it won't be long
How slow and slow and slow it goes,
To mend the tear that always shows.
It won't be long, it won't be long.
Now you're movin' too slow and wherever you go there's another beside.
It's so hard to say no to yourself and it shows that you're losing inside,
When you step on your pride and you cry.
Round and round and round we spin,
To weave a wall to hem us in,
It won't be long, it won't be long
How slow and slow and slow it goes,
To mend the tear that always shows.
It won't be long, it won't be long.
How the hours will bend through the time that you spend till you turn to your eyes,
And you see your best friend looking over the end and you turn to see why,
And he looks in your eyes and he cries.
Round and round and round we spin,
To weave a wall to hem us in,
It won't be long, it won't be long
How slow and slow and slow it goes,
To mend the tear that always shows.
It won't be long, it won't be long.
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Famine
The sinking sun is now undone,
the sky is fading red.
A spider black hides in a crack
and spins a silken thread
And babes will soon collapse and swoon,
on stones they call a bed;
With vacant eyes they fantasize
and dream of gingerbread,
And then are freed, though still in need,
from anguish of the dead.
poem by Terry O'Leary
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Choice Channels Choice Channels Choice Current Version
Is Man Free Will or karmic puppet strung
upon Fate's juggling whim with sting or stung
dependant on some déjà vu song sung
by Time's wind blown?
Thus, 'What is Truth? ' if logic's made to fit
some preconceived ideas, Cartesian kit:
'The moving finger writes, and having writ
moves on' to clone
another pawn whose dawn is followed soon
by blight or boon, pride's sunny afternoon
is swift supplanted by black night. Buffoon
who would gold own!
Who seeks control, spurns writing on the wall
is often role-reversed, flight's final fall,
who takes theme 'dream supreme', who 'hears the call'
may be just drone.
What Tao to follow, what gleans win, means lose,
what grief's choice try, buy, what joy's track refuse?
Hindsight finds, binds vice voice to confuse
what's light, what's stone.
Hindsight tricks weal's wicks, drum double-bind,
dream mirage offers hesitating mind,
as what before remains, what's left behind,
hopes overthrown,
depends on more than superficial weave wound
on waft and weft success or failure found,
on pride or fall. Peak's call, cave underground,
mirth, dearth, atone.
Insight holds good when goal's perceived, race run
with trust, integrity, deception shunned,
with Fate's thread spun what seems done's just begun,
take stock alone.
Seconds spin, dissolve, fresh mesh weaves lace,
flesh minutes in strange sequence, interlace
the hours which daily years refresh to race
Ganesh unknown.
Each thought wave ripples out, conceives trump's ace
as cause/effect relationship few trace
and fewer find the time to interface
fate's seeds unsown.
All makes sense when channelled, radar's trace
decodes what static seems to those who'd lace
the edges of their cells of time and place
together thrown
Time deceives, re-edits joy, disgrace
here tosses coin, replaces tail with face,
there spin repeats, initial choice erase
with cards unshown.
What some believe as Gospel state of grace,
others hold heresy, biased debunk, debase.
Black, white, day, night, lack insight to replace
with hid what's shown.
On ignorance creeds feed, doubts cleave to base
on certanties' tease, insecure, they chase
from fount to font minds blind or lower case,
can't call their own
trust, tolerance leave or misplace
understanding, for neighbours living space
to foster common interest with good grace,
not pick a bone.
Thread pattern, fractal facettes reeve, erase
retinal after-image to encase
the here and now in setting far from base,
hear 'how's' tune-tone.
Thought waves pushmi-pully, surge, merge,
heave sigh of relief, burst bottlenecks embrace
Change interlink to ink invent, deplace
accent ‘chance' blown.
Surf foams with make-believe, fears future's face
leaves fall, leave echo [c]old, untold, embrace
the stirrings of another zeitgeist's pace
as challenge prone.
Second thoughts conjur hell or saving grace,
momentum gathered rushes on a-pace,
continuous, relentless, rolling race
to the unknown.
[19 June 2012]
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Spin In The Black Circle
See this needle...a see my hand...
Drop, drop, dropping it down...oh, so gently...
Well here it comes...i touch the plane...
Turn me up...wont turn you away...
Spin, spin...spin the black circle
Spin, spin...spin the black, spin the black...
Spin, spin...spin the black circle
Spin, spin...whoa...
Pull it out...a paper sleeve...
Oh, my joy...only you deserve conceit...
Im so big...a-my whole world...
Id rather you...rather you...than her...
Spin, spin...spin the black circle
Spin, spin...spin the black, spin the black...
Spin, spin...spin the black circle
Spin, spin...whoa...oh...
Youre so warm...oh, the ritual...when I lay down your crooked arm...
Spin, spin...spin the black circle
Spin, spin...spin the black, spin the black...
Spin, spin...spin the black circle
Spin, spin...
Spin the black (5x)circle
Spin the black circle... (4x)
Spin, spin... (6x)
song performed by by Pearl Jam
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lies
You took my strength by minutes...
you took my life by hours.
The days went by like shadows;
the minutes wheeled like stars.
You gave me life by seconds...
you gave me death by lies.
The rain went by like rivers;
the rivers flowed like tears.
You gave me happiness for a moment...
and pain for the rest of my life.
The clouds sailed by like oceans...
the oceans strolled like skies.
And life went by like sad songs...
the songs went by like cries.
If only you had shot me dead
than stripping me naked with lies!
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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Time~
Time waits for no one
Tick tocking itself along
Even measured seconds
Morphing into minutes
Minutes into hours
Into days, months
And, yes years;
Where did it all?
Down the drain?
Much like the water
Draining in the sink...
This sink that we call life
This sink that once held it all...
The sink, my sink, once full now empty
Down the drain
Kind of like my life;
By, Theodora Onken
November 15,2012
poem by Theodora Onken
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