Facts Enacted
Very few 'doers' are without their critics.
And they may be relatives.
Or 'close' friends to suspect.
When one does things that are made public...
No matter who they are,
They will be scrutinized.
And flooded with advice and suggestions to test!
Very few 'doers' are without their critics.
Especially those who have expressed their concerns.
They are the ones often scandalized.
With a receiving of a 'burning'
For their good deeds in return.
And the evidence of that...
Becomes evident,
With the witnessing of those facts enacted.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
All The Critics Love U In New York
U can dance if U want 2
All the critics love U in New York
U don't have 2 keep the beat
They'll still think it's neat in New York
U can wear what U want 2
It doesn't matter in New York
U could cut off all your hair
I don't think they'd care in New York
All the critics love U in New York
Why U can play what U want 2
All the critics love U in New York
They won't say that U're naive
If U play what U believe in New York
Purple love-amour is all U're in it 4
But don't show it
The reason that U're cool
Is cuz U're from the old school and they know it
All the critics love U in New York
U can dance if U want 2
All the critics love U in New York
U can dance if U want 2
All the critics love U in New York
All the critics love U
song performed by by Prince from 1999
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sharing the Popularity of Procrastination
Who are the 'doers'?
Those who remove themselves from the don'ts.
Those who 'will'...
And do away with the 'wonts'.
The doers do things to get things done.
And spend less time,
Sharing the popularity of procrastination...
With others who cheer this epidemic.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Scrutinized For Their Blemishes
It is easy for many to sit back and critique,
With a judging done of those tasks...
Others produce with a doing to complete.
And if some people are prolific,
From experiences live that dictate this...
The critics are quick,
To stampede out from nowhere it seems...
With criticsms prepared,
Not to uplift or encourage...
But instead,
Demean.
But when given the opportunity to highlight their gifts,
Critics often spew excuses...
As those under microscope,
Are scrutinized for their blemishes.
Although,
Even those who enjoy themselves as critics...
Have moments they don't admit but wish,
An attention given to be critiqued...
Would validate a reason to rid their insecurities,
With a purpose in their minds that solidified their existence.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Deserving Of Individual Life Boats
Assuming...
That if they let the ship sink,
With a captain they've been made to dislike...
They could hop in the life boats,
Saving themselves...
And row to shore.
To receive the adulation of the people,
They believe await them to applaud their activities...
Adored.
However...
The doers perceive each one of them,
Are deserving of individual life boats.
With a servant to row...
And catered service.
These are the same doers,
Who implemented their own castastrophy.
And these are the same doers who now argue over...
The design of the life boats and the suits they should wear,
When they are honored at individual ceremonies...
To highlight the efforts each individually achieved.
And...
These are the same doers who pretend they can swim,
But have not a clue what to do with their arms.
However...
Dressed the part to play the role,
Is quite different than the acutal performance expected.
And many of them 'now' have decided...
Perhaps letting the ship sink was not a good idea.
So now they scramble amongst themselves,
To determine the cost of repair...
And if that can be done as cheaply as possible.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The critic
The status of critics has changed,
The most important critics were those who stood on street
corners
Full of gossip and finger wagging
Or the busty burly matrons whispering over washing lines
These critics were the slanderers
The little vipers who hung by the school gate
Some still do,
This time they sink a pint or two,
In the pub with a couple of pug nose friends
But there is a class of critics
That whitewash your pale white words
Austere and aloof from the proof,
Scrubbed clean and mean,
They murder sentiment
Mock fools without 'a scene'
Redefining the 'new' 'illiterattii, ' who never went to school'
These critics wear brogues.....? ?
Am I being cruel? [or just ironic? ]
The men drink whisky
The women a gin/ vodka and tonic!
Fifty years ago they would 'parade'
In a uniforn of tweed and plaid
Post public school
But some critics just thumbnail through
Half asleep over scripts they render dead/ unread
'They are not amused'
So don't lose any sleep
They have no time you
yvette smith may 2009
poem by Yvette Smith
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The galleries are full of critics. They play no ball, they fight no fights. They make no mistakes because they attempt nothing. Down in the arena are the doers. They make mistakes because they try many things. The man who makes no mistakes lacks boldness and the spirit of adventure. He is the one who never tries anything. His is the brake on the wheel of progress. And yet it cannot be truly said he makes no mistakes, because his biggest mistake is the very fact that he tries nothing, does nothing, except criticize those who do things.
quote by David M. Shoup
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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From A Letter to A Friend
I write to you asking for advice
You my good friend who I trust
It concerns a matter of the heart
Where you have found some success
Amongst your share of heartbreak
I admire your strength of character
It is a trait I wish to succeed
I have never felt as much at ease
Around others in the social sense
I have found myself to be less adept
When looking to love and romance
I am considered strange by many
To whom I remain a stranger
I keep a piece of myself back
An insurance against being known
And left unwanted
I do not known what to ask you
Or what I would ask of myself
I would like to stand much taller
Appear confident and charming
That I may win another’s affection
I guess it’s down to the little things
And what would you suggest for me
My friend who I trust
I close this letter now
Without actually having said much
I suspect I may have revealed plenty
Letters and words can paint a comedy
Nearly as funny as life it seems
Without family and friends
I do not know where will would end
Or who we would become
My good friend
Who I sincerely trust
I would like to thank you
For the advice and the time
Our friendship, our life
poem by Matthew Holloway
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May I Have Another Helping of Those Delicious Critics, Please?
What do I have to say,
To those who are my critics?
I have been aware of them,
Since I began taking my first steps.
Since my first breath taken...
Was done independently.
I've heard it said,
My lifetime of actions...
By them has been disapproved.
And things I do have been ego led.
It's believed what I do,
Is done to seek attention.
Even those things I do to cleanse,
In privacy...
I care not mention.
We all have talents,
And those gifts that are given.
How I use the ones I have...
Aren't from a critic's invention.
Or maybe because of the creation of 'them'.
Who knows?
Perhaps that's what has them upset.
And if they have time like that to waste...
Don't hesitate in delay to say,
I am just getting started.
And what I've given to them to nibble...
Is just a little taste.
From a baking not completed,
Yet imaginations rate!
They have no idea,
Of who I am!
Or the making of 'me'.
And-what-that-takes!
Since I'm the cooker who does the feeding...
I know who eats!
And those served,
That ate.
Those who choose to regurgitate...
Do it without my decision given to make!
What do I have to say,
To those who are my critics?
I do admire their efforts,
But...
What's there is there for them to digest.
I'm not about to give up my peace,
Or my mind for them to test.
My eyes are clear,
And focused on my progress.
Not on things that I've done.
For purposes to keep manifested,
The days I spent in my youth...
Doing things to shock and stun,
Just for the 'hell' of having devilish fun.
Although I must admit,
There is 'something' about controversy...
That appetites my palate much more than just a bit.
'Excuse me...
I know I shouldn't.
Since I am here by invitation.
But,
May I have another helping of those delicious critics,
Please?
I can not believe they could be this delicious.
What have these critics been mixed with? '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Message of The Great Doers
A message of the great doers of the good
Could bring about great change
Or It could destroy and maim
If the message is not understood
Its like leading a child into the dark woods
A message of the great doers of the vain
Will always remain the same
In distaste and depravity lies their game
Looking for nothing then more fame
Look at me, for I am here for all the world to see
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Somebody, Somewhere Claims To Have Proof
Many with a minature flow grown old,
Have overblown and exposing bluff that disrupts.
Just to get the followers of doers to give up...
What they know effective and correct,
And not corrupt...
'Cause,
Somebody, somewhere claims to have proof...
That the doers are the losers.
With lies they tell and try to hide.
Many with a minature flow grown old,
Have overblown and exposing bluff that disrupts.
Just to get the followers of doers to give up...
What they know effective and correct,
And not corrupt...
'Cause,
Somebody, somewhere claims to have proof...
That the doers are the losers.
With lies they tell and try to hide.
Somebody, somewhere claims to have proof...
But,
Where is it?
Somebody, somewhere claims to have proof...
But,
Does it exist?
And...
Somebody, somewhere claims to have proof...
That the doers are the losers.
Can a duck pass as a pheasant?
And...
Somebody, somewhere claims to have proof.
But...
Where is it revealed?
And...
Somebody, somewhere claims to have proof,
Kept hidden and concealed.
Yet...
Somebody, somewhere confuses truth,
That those who 'Do' are not the losers.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Critics?
Critics?
They do what they do best...
Undress those who create.
It is easier for them to probe,
Than appreciate.
It is a frustration of sorts,
To be boxed within boundaries.
Not knowing or understanding...
What the force behind creativity means,
Or where it begins...
With perceptions taught and conceived.
They have an awareness of it.
Or so some believe.
Although a conformity upon them visits.
But to comprehend what it is...
And why some have it and they don't,
Really makes them pissed.
Although an 'intelligence'
Once applied can hide this.
Is that why they delight in being critics?
As creators sweat to expand their wits,
Critics enjoy deploying...
A complete misunderstanding of it!
As they assist others like themselves...
Attempting to expand minds of limited demands.
Hoping this attachment,
Delivers to them someone's attention span.
And they get it!
That is why there is so many critics.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Somehow This Is Praised
It doesn't matter where they go.
They will still show they can degrade themselves.
That is the only identity they know.
And those who protect them with excuses...
Have not a clue they've become numbed to the abuse.
It doesn't matter where they go.
They will loudly expose their ignorance.
With no common sense to use as a defense.
And everyone who came to assist them in the past...
Were backstabbed and lied upon.
Since the doers of these deeds had minds long trashed.
Worthless they are!
And somehow this is praised.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Prove Critics Fools
No matter who does what,
Just do.
No matter who does what,
Just do.
No matter who does what,
Just do.
With a doing to be done...
To do.
And...
Deliver to the people to prove,
Critics fools.
Deliver to the people to prove,
Critics fools.
And deliver to the people to prove,
Critics fools.
Just deliver to the people to prove,
Critics fools.
No matter who does what,
Just do.
No matter who does what,
Just do.
No matter who does what,
Just do.
With a doing to be done...
To do.
With a doing to prove critics fools.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Critics
dont look for
critics who treat
your work as an
extension of
themselves
look for critics who
give you a field
for your talent
to grow
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Hyperbolic
The actor!
His greater mentor;
The actress!
Her greator mentor;
With critics and the hyperbolic of things,
But this satirical case is always seen around us.
Trained from oral history,
Trained from oral works,
And like the beauty of love plus the act of peace;
With critics and the hyerbolic of the things around us today,
But, my sweet mind will lead me on always.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Your Life May Not Be Considered Terrific
No matter what one sees,
To compare with belief...
You alone can conceive with a receiving,
What it is in your life...
Made with those decisons,
For you is right and is liked.
Your life may not be considered terrific,
By those critics with their 'standards' picking it apart.
But it is 'your' life to live.
With a living of it in the way you like.
And if it isn't...
You will be the one to decide,
What for you is significantly sufficient.
With a living of it honestly.
And truth in your heart.
No matter what one sees,
To compare with belief...
Your life is yours!
Not anyone else's to oversee.
Or convince with their perceptions,
How one should live.
And in which way lived one's life should be.
Oh...
How I wish to hear you say to them,
Where and what on you they can kiss!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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To My Friends and Critics
Come all you friends and critics,
And listen to my song,
A word I will say to you,
It will not take me long,
The people talks about me,
They've nothing else to do
But to criticise their neighbors,
And they have me now in view.
Perhaps they talk for meanness,
And perhaps it is in jest,
If they leave out their freeness
It would suit me now the best,
To keep the good old maxim
I find it hard to do,
That is to do to others
As you wish them do to you.
Perhaps you've read the papers
Containing my interview;
I hope you kind good people
Will not believe it true.
Some Editors of the papers
They thought it would be wise
To write a column about me,
So they filled it up with lies.
The papers have ridiculed me
A year and a half or more.
Such slander as the interview
I never read before.
Some reporters and editors
Are versed in telling lies.
Others it seems are willing
To let industry rise.
The people of good judgment
Will read the papers through,
And not rely on its truth
Without a candid view.
My first attempt at literature
Is the "Sweet Singer" by name,
I wrote that book without a thought
Of the future, or of fame.
Dear Friends, I write for money,
With a kind heart and hand,
I wish to make no Enemies
Throughout my native land.
Kind friends, now I close my rhyme,
And lay my pen aside,
Between me and my critics
I leave you to decide.
poem by Julia A Moore
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Easy Has Not Been The Word
The challenge was first,
To do it.
To move in that direction,
Pursuing what some said...
I could not do.
The next was to improve,
Upon that which I pursued.
And remaining focused and true...
To that which I chose to do.
Then the real test came,
When I began to hear my name.
And instead of support,
Out from the woodwork critics came.
The next challenge I faced,
Was to appear in public...
Without a sign of emotion to be traced.
Nor quick to defend...
Or attempt to erase those steps I placed.
And 'easy' has not been the word,
To take or describe...
Some of the things I've heard,
From those who have tried...
To discredit my efforts!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Die Hard Ignorites
So accustomed they were,
To ruining the lives of the doers.
With the making of false claims.
And doing their best,
To dismantle goals of good deeds...
And achievable gains to aim.
They the people grew to know no shame at all...
Or have no concern about their future.
These folks were die hard ignorites!
With a teaching done that taught them,
To fight amongst themselves.
And that was done with tremendous success.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Where Have You Deposited Your Sweat?
There are those with beliefs,
What I have managed to do...
Without there consent or approval.
Can be better accomplished...
IF what I had done was left to them.
But...
There is one thing missing,
In this equation!
Those creations were of my making.
Where are those contributions made by critics?
Not one has ever volunteered,
Any proff at all...
Something they've done actually exists.
'Show me where have you deposited your sweat?
And in what did you toil,
To bring to life to give it breath?
Show me 'that'...
And I 'may' consider your suggestions.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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