Dead Love
Mother of the unfortunate, mystic form,
Who calm, immutable, like oldest fate,
Sittest, where through the sombre swinging gate
Moans immemorial life's encircling storm.
My heart, sore stricken by grief's leaden arm,
Lags like a weary pilgrim knocking late,
And sigheth--toward thee staggering with its weight--
Behold Love conquered by thy son, the worm!
He stung him mid the roses' purple bloom,
The Rose of roses, yea, a thing so sweet,
Haply to stay blind Change's flying feet,
And stir with pity the unpitying tomb.
Here, take him, cold, cold, heavy and void of breath!
Nor me refuse, O Mother almighty, death.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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A Gentle Touch of a Doting Mother
Not a figment of one's imagination,
Is a life of another lived.
Nor can one explain a pain endured.
Felt as others take this and theirs,
For granted.
Kept are these wounds to heal,
Alone.
Sometimes heard,
Are those moans and groans to hush.
With a wish for them to be gone.
Not a figment of one's immagination,
Is a life of another lived.
Nor can one explain a pain endured.
Felt as others take this and theirs,
For granted.
Some dismiss a gentle touch of a doting mother.
The ones unfortunate to know what this is.
Some dismiss the hugs given with kisses.
The ones not missing,
The nourishment a providing of this gives.
Kept are these wounds to heal,
Alone.
Sometimes heard,
Are those moans and groans to hush.
With a wish for them to be gone.
And a healing of a pain eventually goes,
Away.
Some dismiss a gentle touch of a doting mother.
The ones unfortunate to know what this is.
And those who are,
Fortunate...
To know and/or remember,
Know memories of 'mama' within them linger.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Blackened Ocean
Life changes like turning tides,
Heart-felt walks become stricken strides,
The warmth can calm a darkening storm,
Yet in the stillness and peace it may form,
Abroad the ocean of many billion,
The sky, shades of angry vermillion,
Obscure problems evolve to many deviations,
Stirring the ocean and its false incantations,
For as I sit here today and watch,
Happiness around me does not blotch,
My own black view of a bitter ocean,
Chaotic waves of heartless notion.
poem by Anthony Degilio
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More Than A Mother
More Than a Mother by Kenny Davis
You’re more than a mother to me
You’re a better part of my heart
Through all the tears, I look to you
For me, that’s where the joy starts
You’re more than a mother to me
You’re more like a guiding light
There in the mists of the darkness
I am drawn to you, burning so bright
You’re more than a mother to me
You’re like the sunlight after the rain
A comfort after the troubles
Removing all of my pain
You’re more than a mother to me
You’re my calm before the storm
Keeping me grounded, keeping me focused
So my faith may take its form
You’re more than a mother to me
My personal North Star
Finding myself following your glistening glow
For times, when I shall stray afar
You’re more than a mother to me
You’re like the first day of spring
Each smile from you, a simple ray of sunshine
Angels and birds would sing
You’re more than a mother to me
You’re my absolute best friend
Of all the times we have spent and shared
I hope and pray they never end
You’re more than a mother to me
You’re truly one of a kind
I am truly blessed to have a mother like you
I am glad to say you’re mine
© May 2010 K. Davis
poem by Kenneth Davis
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The War
There is a sound of thunder afar,
Storm in the south that darkens the day,
Storm of battle and thunder of war,
Well, if it do not roll our way.
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
Be not deaf to the sound that warns!
Be not gull'd by a despot's plea!
Are figs of thistles or grapes of thorns?
How should a despot set men free?
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
Let your Reforms for a moment go,
Look to your butts and make good aims.
Better a rotten borough or so,
Than a rotten fleet or a city of flames!
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
Form, be ready to do or die!
Form in freedom's name and the Queen's!
True, that we have a faithful ally,
But only the devil knows what he means!
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Fate vs Destiny
To find your true happiness tempt fate to discover your destiny.
You must hearken back to when real happiness was known
Remember its impact on your life
Opportunity knocks, open the door, you will see it coming.
You may be surprised to discover fate can mask your destiny.
Your fate and your destiny are not one in the same.
Your fate is what you settle for in life.
What you take as your life marches on day by day, an obligation to life.
Destiny is the gate you find at the end of the path you blaze
As you strive to attain life’s goal open the gate and find love,
Happiness and contentment; true peace of heart and mind.
Fate may leave you at destiny’s gate at the end of life.
Knowing only the travails of your battles to achieve life’s goal
Knowing not the sweetness of your victories.
The gate may not be open, leaving you empty
At the end of life's journey.
The path to your destiny is yours and yours alone
Ask yourself whether you wish to settle for your fate or…
Tempt your fate and discover the path.
The dark side of life; fear and self doubt can blur and cover the path.
Not always seen in the clear; hidden in your memory
Or on the full plate before you the path is always there.
Those who have known the depth of their love, the strength of their spirit,
Will find a guiding light illuminates their path.
In these qualities of character you will discover your true self
And the key to unlock the gate.
You will recognize the guide of your light.
The choice is yours, settle for fate or follow the light,
Find the key, unlock the gate … discover your destiny.
poem by William J. Henderson Jr.
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Aurobindo 93 Savitri Book 7
An appreciation on Savitri-
Book Seven: The Book of Yoga
Canto One: The Joy of Union; the Ordeal of the Foreknowledge
of Death and the Heart's Grief and Pain
Words within inverted commas are Aurobindo's
'Fate followed her foreseen immutable road.'
Gazing curiosity now more alerted to watch Savitri
'All was fulfilled the heart of Savitri'
'Once more she sat behind loud hastening hooves;
A speed of armoured squadrons and a voice
Far-heard of chariots bore her from her home.'
'Once more was near the fair and fated place, '
'Where first she met the face of Satyavan'
'Arrived in that rough-hewn homestead they gave,
Questioning no more the strangeness of her fate, '
'Their pride and loved one to the great blind king, '
'And the stately care-worn woman once a queen'
'All joy of earth, all heaven's beatitude.'
'Lingering some days upon the forest verge'
'All put behind her that was once her life, '
'She abode with Satyavan in the wild woods: '
'Two lives were locked within an earthly heaven
And fate and grief fled from that fiery hour.
But soon now failed the summer's ardent breath'
'And storm became the forest's titan voice.'
'And sorrow muttering in the sound-vexed night,
The grief of all the world came near to her.'
'The shadow of her lover's doom arose
And fear laid hands upon her mortal heart.'
'The moments swift and ruthless raced; alarmed
Her thoughts, her mind remembered Narad's date.'
'Her eyes stared blind into the future's night.'
'Her quiet visage still and sweet and calm, '
'Only her violent heart and passionate will
Were pushed in front to meet the immutable doom; '........
............My consciousness this moment,
O'Guru, I'm in awe....in invincible heights
Ineffable Thee embellishing poetic creation
My inquisitive apprehension, erring Thee may opine
May thereso, let Savitri in my self arise
Aroused thereso be knowledge and fortune
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Pain and Sore
What is pain
What is Sore
Let me define the too
They mean when a soul is dead
When there is nothing left
But emptiness
Where is pain
Where is sore
For me pain is everywhere
But for the sore
Thats only in my eyes
Where I cry all the time
How is pain
How is sore
Pain slowly kills a body
Sore is worse then words can explain
Who is pain
And who is sore
Pain is the enemies-thy sisters
As for the sore that would be my heart
When is pain
And when is sore
Pain is when you call
And sore is seeing everyone cry
All these are symbolizing one thing
That thing is whats inside
What hurts and is unbarriable
So thats what, where, how, who, when
Pain and Sore are
poem by Renee Ortiz
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The Nature Of The Storm
Glare at the cloud
Guarded by fog and shroud
And see the storm will be here
Soon it will be quite near
Brace yourself my dear
And yet before
We have to be torn at the core
Torn to and fro, there will be a calm before a calm
A time where there shall be no qualm
And yet the calm is terrifying
The silence before war is maddening
It is not the nor consoling calm of peace
But a maddening roar of quiet
I fear the calm more than the storm because sometimes 'Not Knowing'
That's the worst
poem by David Knox
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The Flower.
I.
The flower in its own scent breathes till it dies
As if the scent its very birth-breath were
(As love is life's) which, while it occupies
Like a mesmeric light the living air,
Feeds every portion of the tender hue
In which it manifests so subtly fair
The faery form, which as in a dream grew
Out of the dark earth with ethereal power
Quickening its limbs, as those of a babe who
Draws from its mother's life a vital dower
Of warmth and beauty, thrilling breast and brain
Till it too comes to birth — a perfect flower
With its own aura, like a subtle strain
Which must vibrate to every joy and pain.
II.
The seeing eye and hearing ear are fed
With nature's nurture, and the mind imbues
Earth and all things within it, even the dead,
With its own sap that with thought's mystic hues
Bourgeons in every waking hour, and e'en
When sleep does all the inner life transfuse
With its own radiance, and the unseen
Becomes a part of us too, as we were
Back in some other sphere where we had been
Before the new thought breathed in the old air,
And the new body budded into birth,
Making us all that we are now who bear
The signs in us of all the woe and mirth
That came and has gone on with man on earth.
III.
Far back in the unstoried past, whose rune
No sage has ciphered and no bard has sung,
In the beginning of the sun and moon
When e'en the oldest hill was very young —
Ah! then perchance the seed that was us first
Took root in th' mystic soil whence we have (Unclear
Under the very hand of God, and burst
Into the secret being it has had,
All through the enchanted aeons strangely nursed
From death to life between the good and bad;
E'en as it were a spirit-germ that grew
By some mysterious process, and was clad
E'en like the flowers with varying form and hue,
Till it ends in what all may end in too!
poem by Robert Crawford
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The Soul Of The Anzac
THE form that was mine was brown and hard,
And thewed and muscled, and tall and straight;
And often it rode from the station yard,
And often it passed through the stockyard gate;
And often it paused on the grey skyline
'Twixt mulga and mallee or gum and pine.
There was never a task that it would not do;
There was never a labour it left undone;
But ever and always it battled through,
And took the rest that its toil had won,
And slept the sleep of the weary-limbed
Till the stars grew pale and the planets dimmed.
The form that was mine is mine no more,
For low it lies in a soldier's grave
By an alien sea on an alien shore;
And over its sleep no wattles wave,
And stars unseen on their journey creep;
But it wakes no more from its dreamless sleep.
O Mother of mine, what is is best!
And our graves are dug at the hour of birth;
And the form that slept on your shielding breast
Sleeps soundly here in the mothering earth.
And dust to dust! When our part is played,
Does it matter much where the change is made?
O Heart that was mine, you were brave and strong —
How strong, how brave, let another tell!
You loved the lilt of the bushman's song,
And loved the land that he loved so well,
And loved — ah, well! — as well she knew,
The sweet, white girl who was all to you.
O Heart of mine, though your love was great,
Yet a greater than Love is lord of man;
The rose-path wound to the garden gate,
And there the track to The Peaks began;
And though storm threatened and skies grew black,
You dared the menace and took the track.
O Heart, when the cliffs were hard to climb,
How sweet was home, and her eyes how sweet!
How sweet the moments when Love kept time,
And you and her heart gave beat for beat,
And the waters sang, and the sun-rays glanced,
And the flowers laughed out, and the saplings danced.
Yet better, O Heart, to do as you did
Than to lie on her breast, as your love-gift lies;
For how can Love prosper when Honour lies hid,
Ashamed to look Love fair and square in the eyes?
Though grave-mould be round you, grey grasses above,
You live, and shall live, evermore in her love!
O Man that I was, you were foe to Death;
For Life was fair to you — wonderful, rare;
You had your being and drew your breath
In ample spaces of earth and air;
While ever and always, by night and day,
Bright Promise pointed the Golden Way.
And yet 'twas your choice to be this thing —
A young man dead on an alien shore,
Where the immemorial surges sing
As once they sang in the days of yore,
When Greek and Trojan matched their might
And Troy shone down upon the fight.
O Man that I was, well done! Well done!
You chose the nobler, the better part;
Though a mother weep for her soldier son,
And a fair, sweet girl be sad at heart,
Yet the soul of your country glows with pride
At the deed you did and the death you died.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Fates Game
fate plays with me,
Day in and day out,
I never get what I want no matter how much I plee,
People say things will work but in my head it’s an utter doubt,
I’m heart broke and beat down,
My tears take form but no life,
It’s like my life is cursed and bound,
I feel like fate and I are in an uncompromising strife,
My emotions are tossed from left to right,
There is no outlet for my feelings,
Life to me is one big fright,
How I feel isn’t fate’s dealings,
I’m the one who should lead my life!
I’m the one who should determine what to do!
Freedom from fate’s grip is what I thrive,
I thought I knew,
But I thought wrong that I determined my own living,
I’m not perfect but then again no one is true,
But fate can be so unforgiving,
I wish I could just get up and flee,
But I’m in a game,
A game that fate plays with me.
poem by Michael Ferreira
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River Of Endless Love
Im looking for a better world
Where theres no more hurt
Where theres only hope
For the eagle and the dove
I can see your face
Nothing can take your place
If we sail away on a river of endless love
Im living in the hands of time
On the wings of love
On the edge of night
Where theres darkness everywhere
I wont be denied
Im never going to leave your side
I will always be
On the river of endless love
In the silence just before the dawn
The shadows lose their form
We rise to greet the morning
In the calm that comes before the storm
A troubled and a restless heart is born
The river of endless love
Im tearing down the walls of hate
Gonna start again gonna turn it round
Gonna build it with a prayer
I can always dream
And nothing is what it seems
If you lose your way
In the silence just before the dawn
The shadows lose their form
We rise to greet the morning
In the calm that comes before the storm
A troubled and a restless heart is born
The river of endless love
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mother, O Mother
Mother O Mother, You Are Great
Mother O Mother you are great,
All the problems solve in any state,
Still we find there is no hate,
Each and everyone you make your mate,
Love is in your heart, your work is very smart,
All your whole life you carry the home-cart,
In your job there is no wait,
Mother, O Mother you are great.
Working all the time,
To make our things fine,
Guiding always to be far from crime,
In your work there is no late,
Mother O Mother you are great,
Caring for us, praying for us,
Struggling for us, standing for us,
With your efforts, make our bright fate,
Mother O Mother you are great,
You are my lord, you are my God,
In your service there is no fraud,
With your blessings, life is always set,
Mother O Mother you are great.
poem by Prakash Joshi
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A Storm Is Gathering
The calm before the break
A building electricity in the air
The howling wind is restless
Like a predator pacing a cage
Barely contained
It waits
Biding its time before
It finally strikes
The clouds are
Gathering 'round
Encircling with
An iron grip
The smell of rain
Permeates everything
A storm is gathering
poem by Autumn Winds
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My Fate Has Been Sealed....
My Fate Has Been Sealed....
your love placed inside my heart...
came to me without prior notice...
owned it and got into it to burn this heart...
how pity this heart...
this heart which i hold..
pity you are, my heart from this love...
from those fires which burned you...
and changed your life, up to down...
is that your fate...?
this fate, which wrote on you...?
to be always in love..
in love with whom who don`t know how to take care of you...
who owns this rights...
to make you always in pains...
who can change this...
and who can put the end to this fate..
pity you are, my pity heart...
i know that i shall meet my fate oneday...
but i need a fate which my heart deserve...
i need a happiness...
the happiness which i seek and dream always about...
i will accept my fate for what it was...
but if this fate completed my life with you...
poem by Hazem Al Jaber
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Encircling All The Madness
It is unfortunate...
Those who are obstinate,
Have no back up coming to defend
Those who stubbornly see they can't win!
It's like a jump into water and pretending,
One can swim.
When everyone sees the sharks closing in,
Encircling all the madness...
From where it started,
To begin its end!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Passing Voice
'Turn me a rhyme,' said Fate,
'Turn me a rhyme:
A swift and deadly hate
Blows headlong towards thee in the teeth of Time.
Write! or thy words will fall too late.'
'Write me a fold,' said Fate,
'Write me a fold,
Life to conciliate,
Of words red with thine heart's blood, hotly told.
Then, kings may envy thine estate!'
'Make thee a fame,' said Fate,
'Make thee a fame
To storm the heaven-hung gate,
Unbarred alone to the victorious name
Which has Art's conquerors to mate.'
'Die in thy shame,' said Fate,
'Die in thy shame!
Naught here can compensate
But the proud radiance of that glorious flame,
Genius: fade, thou, unconsecrate!'
poem by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop
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A mother's story
'Can' you tell what is mother and her form?
Who reminds you doing thing's when you are wrong, , ,
Mother is the candle who burn herself;
to light our life
Mother hold you nine month's, with a pain and fights, , to bring you to the new life, , , , ,
Mother hids her pain from our life,
How the apple is cut by a knife
The apple cut and gives us tast, , , thats he feel her life is not wast,
Every one says that 'god' is best, , ,
But in my life my mother is best, , , , ,
I love you mother, , , , ,
poem by Ali Hussain
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Mother’s love
They say that love is blind
Blind is not to be
When the love is in you that I see.
A mother’s love is not to be considered by every child
But it is to be accepted by every heart.
Fate can be twisted by the life it leads.
Fate can be abandoned by the destination in which life succeeds.
Life can be ruined and tarred apart
Love can be the cure for each happening, and a new start
But love would be nothing,
If not for a mother’s love
poem by Ricardo Phillips
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The Slave Mother
Heard you that shriek? It rose
So wildly on the air,
It seemed as if a burden'd heart
Was breaking in despair.
Saw you those hands so sadly clasped --
The bowed and feeble hand --
The shuddering of that fragile form --
That look of grief and dread?
Saw you the sad, imploring eye?
Its every glance was pain,
As if a storm of agony
Were sweeping through the brain.
She is a mother, pale with fear,
Her boy clings to her side,
And in her kirtle vainly tries
His trembling form to hide.
He is not hers, although she bore
For him a mother's pains;
He is not hers, although her blood
Is coursing through his veins!
He is not hers, for cruel hands
May rudely tear apart
The only wreath of household love
That binds her breaking heart.
His love has been a joyous light
That o'er her pathway smiled,
A fountain gushing ever new,
Amid life's desert wild.
His lightest word has been a tone
Of music round her heart,
Their lives a streamlet blent in one --
Oh, Father! must they part?
They tear him from her circling arms,
Her last and fond embrace.
Oh! never more may her sad eyes
Gaze on his mournful face.
No marvel, then, these bitter shrieks
Disturb the listening air;
She is a mother, and her heart
Is breaking in despair.
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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