The Gossiper
(9/15/12)
She was well to do, and had more
Money than me and you.
She loved to gossip and put people down
it mattered not- who was around.
She talked about everyone that she knew
And wouldn't let you leave till she was through.
She talked about her neighbors and her friends
And put them down to the bitter end.
They said she was lonely and didn't have a life
But who in the world would make her " his wife"?
Now the years have taken its toll
And she's gotten very old.
But! There was someone " who had done just that"
And she became bitter and fat.
She had married at a very young age
To a man who was twice her age.
After a few years he passed away
And she became even more bitter and enraged.
That is when she started to talk
About all who was around
And enjoyed the fact of putting people down.
Soon no one came to visit any more
For she had closed all the doors
They had gotten tired of trying
To be her friend, when she talked
About them - to no end.
There was nothing that could stop
Her wagging tongue, even as she
Was in her dying bed.
She talked about the living and the dead.
When the time came and she was laid to rest.
They said there was two coffins laid in the ground.
One for her body and one for her tongue
So she could not talk to anyone.
(the comical moral of this story)
: Don't talk without knowing- cause
Your tongue don't know where it's going.
© L. RAMS
poem by Louis Rams
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Related quotes
To a Dead Poet
I knew not if to laugh or weep;
They sat and talked of you--
"'Twas here he sat; 'twas this he said!
'Twas that he used to do.
"Here is the book wherein he read,
The room wherein he dwelt;
And he" (they said) "was such a man,
Such things he thought and felt."
I sat and sat, I did not stir;
They talked and talked away.
I was as mute as any stone,
I had no word to say.
They talked and talked; like to a stone
My heart grew in my breast--
I, who had never seen your face
Perhaps I knew you best.
Mom
"Hello mom, " I said "It's me"
"California set me free"
She just laughed and said "I knew"
Said I was one of the few
Who could make it anywhere
Go through life without a care
Which I can I know for sure
For in my heart I am pure
We talked for a long, long while
Which is really not my style
Then just before our goodbyes
She started in with the lies
About how good life had been
How she gave up on the gin
Then I heard a word she slurred
That moment my world was blurred
Was I to ignore the call
Or stop her from her sure fall
It pains me every day
That I didn't even pray
For we never spoke again
That's the source of all my pain
poem by Paul H Nelson
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In the desert
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter -- bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."
poem by Stephen Crane
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The ABC
'Twas midnight in the schoolroom
And every desk was shut
When suddenly from the alphabet
Was heard a loud "Tut-Tut!"
Said A to B, "I don't like C;
His manners are a lack.
For all I ever see of C
Is a semi-circular back!"
"I disagree," said D to B,
"I've never found C so.
From where I stand he seems to be
An uncompleted O."
C was vexed, "I'm much perplexed,
You criticise my shape.
I'm made like that, to help spell Cat
And Cow and Cool and Cape."
"He's right" said E; said F, "Whoopee!"
Said G, "'Ip, 'Ip, 'ooray!"
"You're dropping me," roared H to G.
"Don't do it please I pray."
"Out of my way," LL said to K.
"I'll make poor I look ILL."
To stop this stunt J stood in front,
And presto! ILL was JILL.
"U know," said V, "that W
Is twice the age of me.
For as a Roman V is five
I'm half as young as he."
X and Y yawned sleepily,
"Look at the time!" they said.
"Let's all get off to beddy byes."
They did, then "Z-z-z."
poem by Spike Milligan
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Lets Talk About Us
We talked about the birdies
That fly up in the trees
We talked about the moon
And the stars we couldnt see
But you keep on pretending
You dont know whats wrong with me
Come on, lets talk, about us
We talked about the good times
That made us laugh and sigh
We talked about the bad times
That brought tears to our eyes
Now, I think its about time
For you to realize
Come on, lets talk, about us
(hey)
Dear, I swear Ill love you, til the very end
But I dont plan on stickin around
If its just to be your friend
Weve talked, an talked, an talked, an talked
But theres been nothin said
The things that youve been talkin about
Just dont stick to my head
Sometimes I think, little girl
That your heart is filled with lead
Come on, lets talk, about us
Well, dear I swear Ill love you
Oh, til the very end
Well, I dont plan on stickin around
If its just to be your friend
Weve talked, an talked, an talked, an talked
And theres been nothin said
The thing that youve been talkin about
Just dont stick to my head
My darlin little girl
I think that your heart is made of lead
Come on, lets talk, about us
Come on, lets talk, about us
Well, well, well, well, well
Come on, lets talk, about us
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Talked Me Into It
I'll stand and hold onto
everything I wished for
I'm stubborn, but you talked me into it
You have the key to my mind
I melt in front of you
You turn me on without trying
You talked me into it
And I let you, at that time
I could have believed
anything you said
You ignored me before that night
but I was desperate for your attention
If I was psychic,
woulda wished for anything but you
You talked me into it
Into everything I wished for
I'm stubborn, but you talked me into it
Wondered if you knew I existed
I was enchanted with you
Never felt more forgotten
I'm stubborn, but you laughed
Said, I'll never leave you in the rain
I took your word, let you
Talk me into it
You're the only one that has
enough of me to love
and wish
You talked me into it
Banished me to the back of your mind
after all these years
Never felt more forgotten
I'm stubborn, but
I remember that night
When you talked me into it
But I stood and held onto
everything I wished for
I'm stubborn, but you talked me into it
The Ghost Machine
Wittgenstein took a sip from his tea.
"You're wrong Descartes, I can tell you,
because body and mind are one".
"Wittgenstein is right", seconded Ryle.
He looked very angry
and shook his head as he continued:
"In claiming that your thoughts are separated
from your body you created a dogma
of the ghost in the machine."
"Gentlemen", Descartes said, "relax.
Where were you when I talked about these things?
You were not even born then".
"Wait a minute", said Bohm. "You're all wrong."
"What? " snapped out Ryle.
"You heard it correctly. You're all wrong", insisted Bohm.
"You have to explain", Wittgenstein said.
Descartes looked to be perplexed.
"Well", explained Bohm,
"since everything in the universe is information,
the existence of matter is nothing but a myth.
The universe is an enormous thought, a giant computer.
It is the machine, which is the ghost."
poem by Paul Hartal
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Sonnet V: Nothing But No
Nothing but "No," and "Aye," and "Aye," and "No"?
How falls it out so strangely you reply?
I tell ye, Fair, I'll not be answer'd so,
With this affirming "No," denying "Aye."
I say, "I love," you slightly answer "Aye";
I say, "You love," you pule me out a "No";
I say, "I die," you echo me an "Aye";
"Save me," I cry, you sigh me out a "No";
Must woe and I have nought but "No" and "Aye"?
No I am I, if I no more can have;
Answer no more, with silence make reply,
And let me take myself what I do crave.
Let "No" and "Aye" with I and you be so;
Then answer "No," and "Aye," and "Aye" and "No."
poem by Michael Drayton
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My Friend, The Parking Lot Attendant
—he's a dandy
—small moustache
—usually sucking on a cigar
he tends to lean into cars as he
transacts business
first time I met him, he said,
"hey! ya gonna make a
killin'?"
"maybe," I answered.
next meeting it was:
"hey, Ramrod! what's
happening?"
"very little," I told
him.
next time I had my girlfriend with me
and he just
grinned.
next time I was
alone.
"hey," he asked, "where's the young
chick?"
"I left her at home...."
"Bullshit! I'll bet she dumped
you!"
and the next time
he really leaned into the car:
"what's a guy like you doing driving a
BMW! I'll bet you inherited your
money, you didn't get this car with your
brains!"
"how'd you guess?" I
answered.
that was some weeks ago.
I haven't seen him lately.
feIlow like that, chances are he just moved on
to better
things.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Poverty of Families
All they ever think about is how to survive their struggle,
They best be laborin', livin' on with their hustle.
Best be workin' overtime, best be feeding my child,
Best to hand it to the government, than acting all wild.
That's because that's how things work around here,
You have to follow the system cause' you're one useless gear.
But truth be told you just followin' your peers,
to the depths of anger, sadness, and despair.
You don't speak for yourself, so you just play follow the leader,
You just follow blindly and you ain't makin' money either.
Plus your daughter's hungry, who the hell is gon' feed her?
and then you left her for nothing, "Daddy I need ya! "
"Where are you daddy? When I need you the most?
You were there when life's good now you're gone like a ghost"
They had everything before and they so proud that they boast,
But then daddy lost his job, and that's what hurts the most.
So, mommy left daddy and daddy left me,
Then daddy came back and said that he's got me,
But all that sweety talk was gone and now he's doin' bad deeds,
Cause daddy is hustlin' now sellin' crack rocks and weed.
But he said it's for the better, life before is coming back now,
And daddy's makin' lot of money, but gettin' close with bad crowds,
I'm worried for daddy, cause he got death threats now,
But it all ended with the worst of all sounds.
4 gunshots to his body and 2 in his head,
They really made sure that my daddy's is dead,
But daddy really is, and now I'm really sad.
"Take care of yourself, honey." were the last words he said.
Now I'm cryin' an' cryin' and I feel like I'm dyin'.
I want to kill myself now but I don't feel like tryin'.
A mysterious force is pulling me to my goals,
The path of vengeance, to kill all my father's foes.
But then I talked to the man, that my dad talked to the most,
I talked to God, Jesus and the Holy Ghost.
I found it easy to talked to them, the line wasn't closed,
He taught me to live rather than go with the flow.
Soon I graduated college with the help of my father's money,
The money he earned while he still had a decent job,
I used to think we were broke then but the story is quite funny,
While he was working with high pay, he wasn't a slob.
Mommy went away because he wouldn't use the money he earned,
He saved money for my college and hid it an urn.
He always said to open it when I graduate high school,
And he did tell me that its the ash of granpa mike too.
So, the money in the urn could be used to save the day,
The day dad lost his job and the bills he couldn't pay,
But he insisted its college money for me,
And he saved it and I'm a graduate, So thats the story of the poverty of my family.
poem by Anthony Yaman D. Cabal
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If Trees Could Talk
If trees could talk, what would they say?
That would definitely be question of the day.
They'd say, "Help us! Help us! We're being chopped down! "
That wouldn't help as our oxygen would frown.
They'd say, "Help us! We're being turned into furniture! "
That doesn't sound like much of an adventure.
They'd say, "Help us! Our branches are losing leaves! "
That shouldn't be the case until Christmas Eve.
If trees could talk, what would they say?
They'd say, "We watch the children who like to play."
There are some nice things too that trees would utter,
Like, "We're as important to life as bread is to butter."
Sadly, trees are like some of us; they speak in silence.
But do they really deserve to be treated with violence?
poem by Stephen Cahill Furlong
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I did not cry
In that day I didn't cry
I didn't know exactly why?
People around and relatives wept
But not all tears except one I had kept
He was laid on the ground
Very quietly and peacefully found
He deserved praises from all
Now I feared all tears may fall
He was man of principles and known as down to earth
He was not at all afraid of death
He used to say" life may be over one day"
Hence never loose patience all the way
Enjoy with whatever you have
Treat all equal and nicely behave
Words may fall as if from sage's tongue
Crystal clear with echo and not a vague
"Dear son, I have a high hope in you"
Never loose a hope and always prove true
I was always upset with his advices
As if he was about to leave me on his demise
He lived his life peacefully
Not all the people might have proved it successfully
I was sure of his life mission
"Life for the people" was his dear ambition
How can I weep over his demise?
When he had taken from me a promise
I will not dropp a tear for whatever reason
As he was not for me at all as single person
I had spent most of my time with the forces
But he had never regretted with simple word of remorse
I controlled my emotions with great difficulty
As he had told me not to feel any kind of sorry
: "Life is not what people firmly believe in and lead"
He used to tell me in private "people must observe and read"
What you are doing and how are you useful for the noble cause?
He may then take deep breath and wait for my response
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Intimacy
I hear people say, "I love my iPhone, "
Or, "I love drinking a Starbucks coffee."
Sometimes: "I love my Versace cologne, "
And also: "I love having this money."
I hear people say, "I love my Walmart, "
Or, "I love the drive-thru at Taco Bell."
"I love my TV. It's state of the art."
"I love the shoes that Nike has to sell."
I hear this: "I love American Idol, "
And, "I love a nice, cold Budweiser."
"I love medicines such as Demerol."
And, "I love my internet provider."
Yet, one thing I don't hear is, "I love you."
Saying that is too intimate to do.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Liebestod
When I was bold, when I was bold-
And that's a hundred years!-
Oh, never I thought my breast could hold
The terrible weight of tears.
I said: "Now some be dolorous;
I hear them wail and sigh,
And if it be Love that play them thus,
Then never a love will I."
I said: "I see them rack and rue,
I see them wring and ache,
And little I'll crack my heart in two
With little the heart can break."
When I was gay, when I was gay-
It's ninety years and nine!-
Oh, never I thought that Death could lay
His terrible hand in mine.
I said: "He plies his trade among
The musty and infirm;
A body so hard and bright and young
Could never be meat for worm."
"I see him dull their eyes," I said,
"And still their rattling breath.
And how under God could I be dead
That never was meant for Death?"
But Love came by, to quench my sleep,
And here's my sundered heart;
And bitter's my woe, and black, and deep,
And little I guessed a part.
Yet this there is to cool my breast,
And this to ease my spell;
Now if I were Love's, like all the rest,
Then can I be Death's, as well.
And he shall have me, sworn and bound,
And I'll be done with Love.
And better I'll be below the ground
Than ever I'll be above.
poem by Dorothy Parker
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The Conundrum Of The Workshops
When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art?"
Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew --
The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;
And he left his lore to the use of his sons -- and that was a glorious gain
When the Devil chuckled "Is it Art?" in the ear of the branded Cain.
They fought and they talked in the North and the South,
they talked and they fought in the West,
Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest --
Had rest till that dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,
And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art?"
They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,
Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art?"
The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,
While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.
The tale is as old as the Eden Tree -- and new as the new-cut tooth --
For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;
And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,
The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art?"
We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,
We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg,
We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart;
But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art?"
When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room's green and gold,
The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould --
They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves,
and the ink and the anguish start,
For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art?"
Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow,
And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,
And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry through,
By the favour of God we might know as much -- as our father Adam knew!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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I have lived with Shades
I
I have lived with Shades so long,
So long have talked to them,
I sped to street and throng,
That sometimes they
In their dim style
Will pause awhile
To hear my say;
II
And take me by the hand,
And lead me through their rooms
In the To-Be, where Dooms
Half-wove and shapeless stand:
And show from there
The dwindled dust
And rot and rust
Of things that were.
III
"Now turn," they said to me
One day: "Look whence we came,
And signify his name
Who gazes thence at thee" --
-- "Nor name nor race
Know I, or can,"
I said, "Of man
So commonplace."
IV
"He moves me not at all:
I note no ray or jot
Of rareness in his lot,
Or star exceptional.
Into the dim
Dead throngs around
He'll sink, nor sound
Be left of him."
V
"Yet," said they, "his frail speech,
Hath accents pitched like thine --
Thy mould and his define
A likeness each to each --
But go! Deep pain
Alas, would be
His name to thee,
And told in vain!"
poem by Thomas Hardy
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With each other
(after T.T. Cloete)
Together we enjoyed evenings
in each other's company, dined out,
at times we talked and sometimes were silent;
for months we knew about our love,
we visited and drove around,
shared poems, stories and memories,
at times we only stayed peacefully at home,
we knew that love can never be boring
and we talked almost right through nights,
we went to church in suits and ties and coats,
we embraced every time that we got together,
even in rain showers and in muddy patches
while we were becoming much more in love.
[Reference: "die welkomsomhelsing" (the welcoming embrace) by T.T. Cloete.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Things in vague
Mind is talked about but not located.
Heart is talked about but not ascertained.
Ghosts are talked about but not captured.
God is talked about but in ‘faith' bracket.
We find it delightful to talk about
Things about which we are not certain.
14.06.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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I, She And Silence
First, first...
Over phone...
"Hello"... "Hello"
For hours… sweet talk…
Many a laugh…
3 years later...
Face to face
"Hi"... "Hi"
Two shy smiles…
Silence...
Two cups of coffee...
Silence...
While parting two broad grins...
Silence…
She turned aside …bit her lips
I sighed…scratched head
Silence…silence…silence…
2 days later........
Over phone...
"Hello"..."Hello"
for hours …sweet talk…
Many a laugh
poem by Sathya Narayana
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The Reverend Micah Sowls
The REVEREND MICAH SOWLS,
He shouts and yells and howls,
He screams, he mouths, he bumps,
He foams, he rants, he thumps.
His armour he has buckled on, to wage
The regulation war against the Stage;
And warns his congregation all to shun
"The Presence-Chamber of the Evil One,"
The subject's sad enough
To make him rant and puff,
And fortunately, too,
His Bishop's in a pew.
So REVEREND MICAH claps on extra steam,
His eyes are flashing with superior gleam,
He is as energetic as can be,
For there are fatter livings in that see.
The Bishop, when it's o'er,
Goes through the vestry door,
Where MICAH, very red,
Is mopping of his head.
"Pardon, my Lord, your SOWLS' excessive zeal,
It is a theme on which I strongly feel."
(The sermon somebody had sent him down
From London, at a charge of half-a-crown.)
The Bishop bowed his head,
And, acquiescing, said,
"I've heard your well-meant rage
Against the Modern Stage.
"A modern Theatre, as I heard you say,
Sows seeds of evil broadcast - well it may;
But let me ask you, my respected son,
Pray, have you ever ventured into one?"
"My Lord," said MICAH, "no!
I never, never go!
What! Go and see a play?
My goodness gracious, nay!"
The worthy Bishop said, "My friend, no doubt
The Stage may be the place you make it out;
But if, my REVEREND SOWLS, you never go,
I don't quite understand how you're to know."
"Well, really," MICAH said,
"I've often heard and read,
But never go - do you?"
The Bishop said, "I do."
"That proves me wrong," said MICAH, in a trice:
"I thought it all frivolity and vice."
The Bishop handed him a printed card;
"Go to a theatre where they play our Bard."
The Bishop took his leave,
Rejoicing in his sleeve.
The next ensuing day
SOWLS went and heard a play.
He saw a dreary person on the stage,
Who mouthed and mugged in simulated rage,
Who growled and spluttered in a mode absurd,
And spoke an English SOWLS had never heard.
For "gaunt" was spoken "garnt,"
And "haunt" transformed to "harnt,"
And "wrath " pronounced as "rath,"
And "death" was changed to "dath."
For hours and hours that dismal actor walked,
And talked, and talked, and talked, and talked,
Till lethargy upon the parson crept,
And sleepy MICAH SOWLS serenely slept.
He slept away until
The farce that closed the bill
Had warned him not to stay,
And then he went away.
"I thought MY gait ridiculous," said he -
"MY elocution faulty as could be;
I thought I mumbled on a matchless plan -
I had not seen our great Tragedian!
"Forgive me, if you can,
O great Tragedian!
I own it with a sigh -
You're drearier than I!"
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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