It is not the man who has too little, but the man who craves more, that is poor.
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Soul’s propeller
An infant craves for strokes.
A child craves for attention.
An adolescent craves for recognition.
An adult craves for identity.
An old one craves for gratitude.
A dead one craves for visiting as ghost.
Craving is the soul’s propeller.
11.09.05
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Understand the friendships
One craves more to be needed than gifted.
One craves more to be cared than loved.
On craves more to be remembered than praised.
Keeping these in mind, behave with your friends.
17.07.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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It is not the man who has too little, but the man who craves more, that is poor.
He is not poor that hath not much, but he that craves much.
He is not poor that hath not much, but he that craves much.
quote by Thomas Fuller
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The poor man is he who, having much, craves for more.
quote by Marcus Minucius Felix
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The ear tends to be lazy, craves the familiar and is shocked by the unexpected; the eye, on the other hand, tends to be impatient, craves the novel and is bored by repetition.
quote by W.H. Auden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hollywood Holiday
I rode my motorcycle through a watermelon patch
Right on the california freeway
I took my holy Bible on my blessed boogie woogie drive
Cause I know I know I know
Where I go oh lord theyre gonna bless me jive
Poor you poor me
Poor everybody who buy to be
Poor me poor you
Poor everybody who die to do
I parked my motorcycle on hollywood and vine
And sang till my red blood turned boiling blue
I took my sole survival and bore my cross on a string
Cause I know I know I know
What I dear I bear my charm to king
Poor you poor me
Poor everybody who buy to be
Poor me poor you
Poor everybody who die to do
song performed by by Gino Vanelli
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Farewell
'Tis not the untried soldier new to danger
Who fears to enter into active strife.
Amidst the roll of drums, the cannon's rattle,
He craves adventure, and thinks not of life.
But the scarred vetran knows the price of glory,
He does not court the conflict or the fray.
He has no longing to rehearse that gory
And most dramatic act, or wars dark play.
He who to love has always been a stranger,
All unafraid may linger in your spell.
My heart has known the warfare, and its danger.
It craves no repitition - so farewell.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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I Go For Simplicity My Friend
i go for simplicity my friend
because i am poor
i do not go for sophistication
because i am poor
i do not complicate matters
because i am poor
i do not want you to misunderstand
because i am poor
i do not want you to think some more
because i am poor
i do not want to convince you
because i am poor
i do not want you to be with our side
because we are poor
i want all things in their simplified forms
because we cannot afford
any other form of convolutions
we cannot afford another revolution
it will be expensive
and we have no more years to give
to pay for the sponsors
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Art And Science
ART does not ascertain
SCIENCE does ascertain
it shows results...though
the other sows seeds
ART will never
ascertain..not its nature
as ARTS goal is not success
ART will never ascertain itself
ART is already wholesome
proving itself will never show its stature
a successful artist
will definitely have a science
behind his success...
though ARTS purpose
is never in success
ART only craves to express
yes
ART ONLY CRAVES TO EXPRESS
TODAY'S WORLD HAS
A VERY LITTLE OF ART AND MORE OF SCIENCE
a round and pretty face with no expression
or a
compelled pleasing smile from a diplomatic compulsion
poem by Samanyan Lakshminarayanan
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Fresh Blood
All the neighbours never see me
But they wonder why I walk around at night
He gets hungry - I go hunting
In the moonlit streets
For somebody that's right
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast Is all he's living for
And he craves it more and more
Showgirls, businessmen in suits in the midnight rain
If they walk alone are never seen again
In the paper, seems a florist
Found in Lincoln Park, died of some anemia
No one raped her, poor Doloris
Just detained her and drained her on the spot
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast
Is all he's living for
And he craves it more and more
Old men, ladies of the night walking in the rain
If they walk alone are never seen again
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
No one calls and no one visits
We're like a couplet out of Desolation Row
We don't want them to want to know us
'Cause when they do, they get a little bit too close
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast is all I'm living for
And I crave it more and more
Bad girls, cops on the beat in the midnight rain
If they're out alone, are never seen again
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me, cry to me
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fresh blood (Lyrics)
All the neighbours never see me
But they wonder why I walk around at night
he gets hungry - I go hunting
In the moonlit streets
For somebody that's right
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast
Is all he's living for
And he craves it more and more
Showgirls, businessmen in suits in the midnight rain
If they walk alone are never seen again
In the paper, seems a florist
Found in Lincoln Park, died of some anemia
No one raped her, poor Doloris,
Just detained her and drained her on the spot
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast
Is all he's living for
And he craves it more and more
Old men, ladies of the night walking in the rain
If they walk alone are never seen again
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
No one calls and no one visits
We're like a couplet out of Desolation Row
We don't want them to want to know us
'Cause when they do, they get a little bit too close
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast is all I'm living for
and I crave it more and more
Bad girls, cops on the beat in the midnight rain
If they're out alone, are never seen again
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me, cry to me
poem by Satan's Sibling
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Lazyboy Syndrome!
His limbs are numb,
In bottom gear...
He's snoring some,
But he can't hear...
He's found new joy
From Alpha waves...
Poor Lazyboy,
Now sleep he craves...
He needs coffee!
Caffeine's not there...
In Dreamland, see
And gorn all care...
The future's bleak
And black as well,
Yet Lazyboy,
He just can't tell...
As he wakes up,
Sore neck and back,
Maybe leg cramp
Fresh from the sack...
Lazyboy stirs!
Beware! Take care!
It's then he'll curse
His comfy chair!
poem by Denis Martindale
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Almost all the noblest things that have been achieved in the world, have been achieved by poor men; poor scholars, poor professional men, poor artisans and artists, poor philosophers, poets, and men of genius.
quote by Albert Pike
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Small Plot Of Land
Poor soul
Spit upon that
Poor soul
He never knew what hit him
And it hit him so
Poor dunce
He pushed back the pigmen
The barbs laughed
The fool is dead
Poor dunce
Hes less than within us
The brains talk
But the will to live is dead
And prayer cant
Travel so far these days
The talk of your life
Standing so near
To innocent eyes
Poor dunce
Swings thru the tunnels
And claws his way
Is small life so manic
Are these really the days
Poor dunce
Poor dunce
Poor soul
Poor soul
Poor soul
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Bow and the Strings
How dark and heavy’s the delirium’s embrace!
How they’re turbid under moon – the heights!
To have touched Violin for so many years
And not distinguish those Strings in light!
Who craves for us? Who, insolent, has set
In flames two faces, yellow and vexed,
And suddenly the saddened Bow felt
That someone took them and forever merged.
‘How long ago it was – as in a dream –
Tell me trough dark: are you the same one, else?’…
And Strings pressed close, caressing, to him,
Ringing and tossing in their fond caress.
‘Is that all true, that it’s enough, God blessed,
That we shall never ever part again?
And poor Violin replied him always ‘yes’,
Though its heart was sinking in sharp pain.
Bow fell silent, understanding, then,
But poor Violin still echoed its complaint,
And what seemed music to the most men,
To both of them was everlasting pain.
The man didn’t blow, till the night was gone,
The candles … And the Strings were singing, yet…
And they were found, drained of strength, by sun
On the black velvet of the sleepless bed.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, January, 2001
poem by Innokenty Fedorovich Annensky
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Ode to the Plum Blossom
Wind and rain escorted Spring's departure,
Flying snow welcomes Spring's return.
On the ice-clad rock rising high and sheer
A flower blooms sweet and fair.
Sweet and fair, she craves not Spring for herself alone,
To be the harbinger of Spring she is content.
When the mountain flowers are in full bloom
She will smile mingling in their midst.
Outside the post-house, beside the broken bridge, Alone, deserted, a flower blooms.
Saddened by her solitude in the falling dusk,
She is now assailed by wind and rain.
Let other flowers be envious!
She craves not Spring for herself alone.
Her petals may be ground in the mud,
But her fragrance will endure.
poem by Mao Zedong
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Poor Little Girl
Poor Little Girl
Nobody cares what she does
She only lives what she was
In her mind reliving thoughts of yesterday
‘til she finds she knows her way she’ll have to play poor little girl
Poor little girl
Why can’t she love what she’s seen
People don’t want her to’ve been
Wasting time and living in her yesterday
‘til she finds she knows her way she’ll have to play poor little girl
Poor little girl
Her heart will shoulder
Who she’s intended to be
She may never know her
Until she has set herself free
Harboring the darkest nights of yesterday
So until she finds her way she’ll have to play poor little girl
Poor little girl
She’s so important to me
I admit I use to be
Runnin’ never knowin’ of my destiny
Blessings in disguise today that end that play
Poor little girl,
Poor little girl
Poor little girl
Little girl’s me
Copyright 1969, Will Fiala
poem by Will Fiala
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Knowledge is like money the more he gets, the more he craves.
quote by Josh Billings
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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