That is a harsh gravity,
If people were emotionally harsh with you while you where forming, that is a harsh gravity, that constantly pulls you down; you do not have to be that way with others or your self, stand, reach for your dreams, help others do the same.
poem by Michael Kavuoti
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Harsh Winter Storm
harsh winter storm
life is like weather always changing
sometimes for good and sometimes for the bad
life is all but change
to all that loves or is loved be forsaken
words of hate and hurt
turn to stone
life is harsh winter storm
blistering and freezing everything in its path
to what extent must this go on
peace at mind seems impossible
darkness around consealing him in a cage of disaster
lost with out a sight blinded cant see
come to the conclusion one life is a harsh winter storm
pulling its victims one by one
seeing happyness all around
secluded and alienated unable to find true happyness
life's a harsh winter storm
slowing destroying us all
poem by Mitchtifer Lederer
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The Harsh Truths About Other People
IN ONE of those streetcars
named desire
one shall glean
that truth hurts sometimes
and even kills
it would have been better
if
out of respect for life
one simply should have been more
gentler
about the harsh truths
about others
we can be harsh on ourselves
because we are not afraid to die.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dream Drifter
Into dreams, you drift,
away from the harsh realities,
to places full of tranquillity.
You drift along to
where everyday brings happiness,
sorrow is not allowed there.
In these places of peaceful beauty,
where birds sing, and flowers bloom everyday
under a never setting sun.
Places where the word worry
is always questioned there.
You drift along in your dreams,
til the morning comes to call
with the waking hour
and the dream drifter must get up
to face the world again
with its harsh realities of pain.
poem by David Harris
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The Last Day On Earth
shall i say that the last day
of the earth is the last day
of man?
for when man is gone
all the stories to be told shall be gone
but the earth is there
shivering for all the harsh things
that have been done
there was an explosion
forming a very huge mushroom
on that last day
of man
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Home Acre
Is this your home-acre
Dark beauty of mine,
Cold winds and rash words
And long hurts and harsh wine,
Caught fast in disasters
That seldom relent,
Am I your un-maker
My sweet discontent?
Is this your home-acre
This bleak, loveless tor,
Where promises are lost in
The dreams on your shore,
Where all that you hoped for
And wished for your own
Was left in harsh soil with
The seeds that I’d sown?
6 September 1979
poem by David Lewis Paget
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A Dream Escape
confronted with a harsh
reality of his daily existence
on skin
unfeeling any pain
neither
happiness, and this too harsh,
when nothing is felt
whatever be that, he.... finally finds a escape inside
his dream, it
was a lazy afternoon in an island
where his lover is
waiting
behind them the sun sets
like an
egg yolk
scrambled into
settled
doubts.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Farming
In the harsh reality, of the fierceness of the land
the farmer walks over furrows of ploughed sand,
in the distance calves bellow, his eyes look at the blue,
if a rain cloud is appearing somewhere
but the sun scorches like an ach-enemy.
There are lumps of sand clinging together,
his crops are spread over a distance
when a light breeze only just touches the stubbles,
in the harsh reality.
This piece of ground, this farm has a strong bond with him,
he walks to a tractor with a flat tire,
see the sun growing faint in the west,
pray for rain, while he trusts in God
on the blessings from His almighty hand,
in the harsh reality.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Day Dreaming
I day dream most times
day and night
and come back to
This Reality
with a Start.
Day-Dream world
pleases me;
rich
tapestries
and there
many of my lives
converge and mingle.
Is it so wrong to live there
much of my day?
To wrap my Soul
in that world and play?
So many of the things
I love
only reside there
what harm
can there be with
loving and being with
that pleasing Reality?
Swapping day Dream World
for work
and this Harsh Life
seems
only a proposition
one might accept
who likes harsh.
I do not.
I like rainbows
and pretty things
and they
all live
and sing
in my Day Dreams.
You can find me there
by singing.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Harsh Truth Of The Camera Eye
Churchillian legs
Hair barely there
Mmm, the harsh truth of the camera eye
Your eyes signal pain
Because of the strain of smiling
The harsh truth of the camera eye
Telling you all
That you never wanted to know
Showing you what
You didnt want shown
My so friendly lens
It zooms into
The inner you
And it tells the harsh truth
And nothing but
Laugh with us all now, here
If you can
Then take the pictures home
And scream
Oh, ooh; telling you all
That you never wanted to know
Showing what
You didnt want shown
This photographer
He must have really had it in for you
Ooh, I dont want
To be judged anymore
I dont want to be judged
I would sooner be loved
I would sooner be
Just blindly loved ...
song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Evil Against The Good
The game unquestionably harsh
Started the day we were born
Out of me God created the best
Out of me evil wants
To recreate the worst
An infant between life and death
Not yet time to escape by losing breath
The game just began for the young one
The game unquestionably harsh
Dark streets and rough childhood
Experience of an adverse neighborhood
Got him trapped under the belly of the beast
Evil encounters sinking in the young head
Thoughts of the good lad decaying
The game heading for the climax
The game unquestionably harsh
Thought I would be good forever
Evil troops changed me for a sinner
Got addicted to the harmful world
Young days of ours full of madness
Got my own demons and so fearless
The game has ambushed us under stress
The game unquestionably harsh
Work of the young man is to daydream
Run the best imaginary world as possible
Managing mind tries the impossible
Fantasy world will never be reality
Perhaps the dream just a prophesy
The game plays tricks in the young mind
The game unquestionably harsh
It is play on the day we are born
Even before us it was playing
As we see more days we get played
Evil rules the planet earth
Good rules the purest heaven
The game is on until the end of times.
***The Book of End of Times
poem by Young Church
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Another Song Of A Fool
This great purple butterfly,
In the prison of my hands,
Has a learning in his eye
Not a poor fool understands.
Once he lived a schoolmaster
With a stark, denying look;
A string of scholars went in fear
Of his great birch and his great book.
Like the clangour of a bell,
Sweet and harsh, harsh and sweet.
That is how he learnt so well
To take the roses for his meat.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Tenderness Is A Privilege Of Few
Name the violence and her sons
A sort of callousness enshrouds us
Harsh words friendly support bitter behaviours
And tenderness is a privilege of few
I can't let you die, I can't, I am sorry
The only thing I may do for you is to allow me not to exist anymore
What I was, the one you knew has to be choked off
Despite my awkward attempt to survive with you
I do recognise that I don't deserve your memory
Stunned by the revelation I wander in despair
Still and frozen my mind learns your thoughts by heart
Is that everything lost?
And then mist in my dreams, your gaze weird moved by compassion
Does it mean that you felt my pain?
Name the violence and her sons
A sort of callousness enshrouds us
Harsh words friendly support bitter behaviours
And tenderness is a privilege of few
I don't fear either the blame or the damnation
The world is mean enough with or without my version of events
I won't be going overboard for trying
I will always fiercely protect my low river
And I'm really pissed off at all these faces in mourning
Being so called reputable is not my priority anymore, if ever it was
People are often sidetracked by appearances
I want to be gentle and decent
I need to be authentically in love with Humanity
I need to care for its destiny, to pray for redemption
Name the violence and her sons
A sort of callousness enshrouds us
Harsh words friendly support bitter behaviours
And tenderness is a privilege of few
poem by Ilaria Boffa
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Hunger They Feel
i cannot and will not stand
to watch any living being go hungry...
whether it be homeless people,
street bums, addicts, or small children...
and even dogs and cats abandoned
by their 'owners'....
the hunger they feel
is a part of me...
drives me like a harsh wind...
morsels of food, whatever i've got...
come sit by the fire....
we are one!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Be bad to the bad
Be mild to the mild and harsh to the harsh
And tough to the tough to stay fit.
Be not a liar to the liar,
A cheat to the cheat, a thief to the thief
And better avoid such men.
Be a miser to the greedy,
A possessive to the selfish
To discourage their habit.
Be good to the bad
Is a cowardly act.
23.12.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Ch 06 On Weakness And Old Age Story 06
In the folly of youth I one day shouted at my mother who then sat down with a grieved heart in a corner and said, weeping: ‘Hast thou forgotten thy infancy that thou art harsh towards me?’
How sweetly said the old woman to her son
When she saw him overthrow a tiger, and elephant-bodied:
‘If thou hadst remembered the time of thy infancy
How helpless thou wast in my arms
Thou would’st this day not have been harsh
For thou art a lion-like man, and I an old woman.’
Anger And Self-denial
something arrives
it is harsh and you do not recognize it
it exists but your mind refuses
to acknowledge it
this is self-denial and you tend to take
this harsh thing too lightly
upon a bottle of beer
and some puffs of Marlboro cigarettes
the harsh thing sticks to your skin
like a leech and sucks your blood
and drained
you fall into an unconsciousness
self-denial falls like
a stone to a house of dominoes
causing this pandemonium
of your guts
then comes anger
you scatter all your parts on the highway
you let the trucks run over you
whatever is left
everything shatters
and you scream to the continents of the world
to no avail
of course
there is this angel of pity
hovering over your soul
bringing you the light of the brightest day
of your life
you stretch your hand and there is this
new world before your eyes
acceptance, the tranquility after the chaos,
heaven, this must be, serene, a clear pond,
a self rising above the selfishness of your
earthly existence
it is no longer us, in this luminosity.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The middle-class people
In the pages of magazines & story-lines of TV channels,
I have always heard about the middle class people
What we are and where we belong (?)
disco & pop are replacing folk song
we talk about globalization at the cost of identity
while chasing endless dreams, meet harsh reality
In efforts to achieve esteem ambitions
people are forgetting culture & traditions
rich people do not have value for it,
& poor do not have time
it's the middle-class that carry weight of expectations
poem by Deependra Kumar Jha
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There Is Always A Time For Reckoning
those with black conscience
shall take all the time to laugh
they will have their own time
the deepest ocean knows how
to listen
there is always a time for
reckoning
that is our hope
we do not inflict the pain
it is the pain that inflicts itself
upon themselves
that is the law
it is harsh
and it shall prevail
we who have white souls
shall wait
we do nothing to stain our hands
with blood
to dirty what clean skins we have
we shall wait
for always the day of reckoning comes
it is harsh
it is the law
and surely it will prevail
they shall grind their teeth
burn themselves
eternally in hell
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Thought or Romance
Mama's world is different than papa's
Hers is romance
His is thought;
Thought and romance
Which do I prefer?
I prefer mama's world,
Tears
Joy
Passion
Love;
A kaleidoscope of hearts,
A diversity of human expression;
Children play
Adults kiss
Old men stroke the beard gently;
Even the sun
Is not harsh,
Casting as it does
Warm glistening showers and
Not the harsh passion of
Dreary
Pondering.
poem by Samuel Nze
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Silence is my friend
Silence is my friend
He never says a word
He never speaks of the end
My sorrow never stirred
Silence is my friend
He sticks right by my side
He never leaves me in a bend
Through harsh times we always bide
Silence is my friend
He's always there for me
He never stops to join a trend
He always sets me free
Silence is my friend
He goes wherever I go
Even in poverty we fend
Even in the harsh winter snow
No matter what we try
No matter if I die
He sticks with me until the end
Silence is my friend
poem by Logan Fulk
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