En.Citatepedia^®.ro

On The Fall of Dhaka

When we all were small girls and boys,
And played with dolls, and ball like toys,
Were often asked to drift and lead the cattle;
To the nearby meadows, farms and forest,
To have them grazed from morn to eve,
And freshened them with the water clean.

We the little masters of cows, goats and sheep,
Letting them loose sat on top of the mound,
Among the old reverend shepherds,
Who told us the tales of olden times;
Ups and downs of the world they had seen,
How they fought the World War Second,
How they did see the roaring fighter jets;
How the rumbling sounds of the shells,
Did resound and reverberate in the valleys,
How they did watch meadows, fields and farms,
Littered with the human blood flesh and shreds,
How the two shining glaring cities of Japan,
Were obliterated casting perpetual horror.

One day as we sat in the sunshine of December,
Among us someone broke the depressing news,
That our one hundred thousand sons of the land,
Spotting, smudging, smearing the whole history,
Surrendered themselves throwing the weapons.

We the little masters of cows, goats and sheep,
Sat sad and silence prevailed wrapping us all,
As in the days of frost often fog envelops,
The visible objects and blurs the beauties,
The waves of rage and wrath formed and broke,
Emerged and submerged in the ocean of heart,
Then someone of us set a bush on fire,
We all then ran, made the torches of the sticks,
And soon the whole forest was on fire,
We all wished the entire world be burnt,
For we had lost our dear Dhaka.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wildy Ones

The sheep are in the silver wood,
The cows are in the broom;
The goats are in the wild mountain
And won't be home by noon.

My mother sang that olden tune
Most every night,
And to her newest she would croon
By candle light;
While cuddling in the velvet gloom
I'd dream of cows
That sought each dawn 'mid golden broom
To gently browse.

Or I would glimpse the silver wood,
The birchen glade,
Where pearly sheep in quiet mood
Cropped unafraid;
But how I loved in lapsing drowse
The mountain wild!
The goats were more than sheep and cows
To one wee child.

For cows and sheep are shelter-wise,
And love the lea;
While goats have starlight in their eyes,
In cragland free . . .
And now on edge of endless sleep
Wryly I note
How less I'm kin to kine and sheep
Than rebel goat!

poem by Robert William Service
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The Second Visit (After the Nuclear War)

Oh! Where have gone children, men and women,
The fair featured descendants of Adam and Eve,
I might have come on some disaster-prone planet,
With grim sooty mountains, sterile barren plains,
The treeless valleys extend before my amazed eyes.

Oh! It is the same spot, I vividly summon up,
Though deformed, distorted with horrible looks.
It is the land where the shepherds grazed,
Their sheep, goats and cows from morn to eve.
These were the farms where lush wheat swayed,
And butterflies hovered over the sweet-scented,
The yellow blossomed amphitheatre of sarsoon 1.
The rustic damsels singingly weeded the farms,
Gathering herbs to nourish the bleating goats.

This is the dry banyan tree stands like a ghost,
Where at noon in summer we all took rest,
In its cool shade and played hide and seek,
The older men played cards sitting in circles.
Amid the chirping of sparrows, crowing of crows,
Cooing of doves, and transporting songs,
Of the nightingales and seasonal cuckoos.

Oh! Who are these who drag the bodies,
Like reptiles remotely resemble the human race,
Hairless heads, faces without beards and moustaches,
Shaved brows, sans lashes beady gummy eyes,
The bag-like loose bellies fall on the knees;
Flexible noses hang like lurking beaks.
Arms like jointy-sticks with overgrown hands,
Legs like thick bendy rope made of black polythene.

Here is the rivulet where along with the age fellows,
We took bath in the opaque, muddy water of Saawun 1,
Now I see sitting in lines along the grassless banks,
The post-war generation, outcome of devilish intellect,
Pounce on the crabs, toads and frogs when they
Up rise from the water and some breathless chase
The rodents when they come out of their holes.
And chatter like the swarm of cackling wild-goose,
When the hunter appears from behind the rock,
And with precision points the hunting gun at them.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Silent Forest

Today amid the thick forest,
I am here again on the high mound,
The central seat to administer
The cattle left loose around.

It is the same peak where we all
In the days of my childhood sat,
The reverend shepherds rested
Gossiped about the olden times
Narrated they life long experience,
And some twisted the fibers of jute
On the rotators to make cots.

Different noises of life gurgled
From all sides around,
The goats bleated, the hounds barked,
The sheep moved lazily after being fed,
The camels ate tassels of the trees
The donkeys brayed at the noon,
The bulls fought entangling horns,
The birds chirped in the shadowy branches.

Here are the patches where the old women
Of the village came to scythe grass green,
I see my mother too, carrying the stuffed sack,
Going back to home in the long queue.

At noon the damsels or the elderly ladies
Of the village brought our lunch
With pickle, or onions or sugar
Home baked bread smeared with butter,
And milk in the earthen pots.

We all excitedly waited for the moment,
Then gentle winds made us all sleepy,
We slept sweet sleep on the bare ground,
While the cattle sat, rested and chewed.

When evening encroached, we measured
The stretched shadows with our feet
To know the time of return,
And we moved exhausted to homes
Behind the trails of surfeited lazy cattle.

Ah! It is the same old forest
That often makes me nostalgic,
Melancholic memories begin to assemble
Forcing the tears to dropp into dust.

Sounds of life come from neither side,
The trees stood dressless like ghosts,
Or like bony skeletons that haunt in dreams,
As if flesh of nature has been eaten away
By the callous scavenger modernity.

Now I being engrossed in the pensive mood
Hear nothing but the dirge of doleful silence
While air passes through stiff dry grass.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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I said Don’t Tell Me

Don’t tell me of a world of masterful politicians
Don’t tell me of a world of embattled coalitions
Don’t tell me of a world of the spin doctors slurs
Cannot perceive the blindness as the vision blurs

Don’t tell me of a world of the dominance in hate
Don’t tell me of a world in riches for who last ate
Don’t tell me of a world of trades in bloodied furs
Cannot perceive the blindness as the vision blurs

Do tell me of a world where a heart seeks allures
Do tell me of a world for when tranquillity conquers
Do tell me of a world empowered as rebellion stirs
Cannot perceive the blindness as the vision blurs

Don’t tell me of a world of violent augmentation
Don’t tell me of a world in servitude of aggression
Don’t tell me of a world of pennies before the cures
Cannot perceive the blindness as the vision blurs

Don’t tell me of a world of the lost and the listless
Don’t tell me of a world of a dying disciple so lifeless
Don’t tell me of a world infested by human aggressors
Cannot perceive the blindness as the vision blurs

Do tell me of a world that the politician fought for freedom
Do tell me of a world where we dropp the food not the bomb
Do tell me of a world when making love new life occurs
Cannot perceive the blindness as the vision blurs

Do tell me of a world for grain that fed the thousand starving
Do tell me of a world when a day broke in a child’s laughing
Do tell me of a world where I can drink from purest streams
I can start to perceive though to only make sense in dreams

poem by Vision Ghost
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Sonnet: The Flocks Need More Shepherds

Shepherds are turning scarcer, day by day!
Fragmented flocks have lesser sheep in fold;
With many lost, many sheep go astray;
Devils on rampage trouble, young and old.

Meadows have lesser grass that's succulent;
More sheep want better grass, water to drink;
The climes these days are turning turbulent;
The few shepherds are old-aged, on death's brink!

Shepherdless stay some flocks for many days;
They do not know the shepherd or his call!
The shepherd does not know his sheep by face;
From wolves' attack, there is no staff to stall!

Yet, God will find the shepherds in strange ways;
All righteous find their way through earthly maze!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 15-07-12

poem by John Celes
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Hyperboles and Such

A bubble floats,
Will pass on by,
The cows and goats
Begin to cry.
The balloon falls dead.
The whip cracks dawn.
The frog prince hopes.
The jungle kings yawn.
Until then, the till now plows.
And earth now weeps for goats and cows.

poem by Jesse Swedlund
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Foolish Boys With Their Toys

Foolish boys with their toys
Written by Wilfred Mellers, Friday, November 23,2012

You are a foolish boy with your toys
You own the world and everyone in it
The hearts and souls you can't ever win it
Information access you spin it
You are a foolish boy with your toys

You spit hate and say you are great
You turn a blind eye when others die
Sure you can blow up the world if you want to
Tell me, then what will you do?
You are a foolish boy with your toys

When you see the world to its end
Will that mean that you are men?
Arrogant and so unwise
Surrounded by stooges to fill your heads with lies
How foolish can you be?

Masters of the world and ruler of none
Life you took solely for fun
The gun took everything you claim to own
What will you do when you are left here all alone?
You're a foolish boy with your toys

Coding your messages to the grassroots
Fictitious fantasy filled with pure untruths
So foolish and unwise
You can't even see you own demise
Foolish boys with your toys

You've gained the world yet lost your soul
The very land you stand on you stole
This very world you're going to destroy
No steeds left to herd by the cowboy
You've been very foolish boys with your toys

poem by Wilfred Mellers
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The Whale

The Whale is found in seas and oceans,
Indulging there in fishlike motions,
But Science shows that Whales are mammals,
Like Jersey cows, and goats, and camels.

When undisturbed, the Whale will browse
Like camels, goats, and Jersey cows,
On food that satisfies its tongue,
Thus making milk to feed its young.

Asking no costly hay and oats,
Like camels, Jersey cows, and goats,
The Whale, prolific milk producer,
Should be our cheapest lactic juicer.

Our milk should all come from the sea,
But who, I ask, would want to be—
And here the proposition fails—
The milkmaid to a herd of Whales?

poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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Sounds of Life

Goats do make a sound of music,
Every animal sounded like sheep;
May God keep each creature in the air,
In ears of men who talk to women about hearing
And speech, and laughter, and relaxation.
Talking to musical animals kept grace,
Much of the time there is a weapon of brutality
But when this left a sound we found music.
Goats and sheep are alike, their noises feel
To the human soul even as simple.
A sound of music is of the soul, the sheep
Have a small sound, much of the time.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Sonnet: God's Warning to Shepherds!

‘My sheep lie scattered and not tended well.
I'll find new shepherds who will do this job;
To ones who failed their duty, ‘twill be hell;
From me, my sheep, no one can ever rob! '

‘Disaster to shepherds who don't take care
Of my loved sheep, who leave my pastures green;
I'll get new shepherds, fearless and will dare,
Preventing sheep, from getting lost from scene! '

‘In prophets, priests, now Godlessness prevails;
They do not preach to people what's God-say;
They tell own versions and their made-up tales,
Deluding people, leading sheep astray! '

‘So, prophesy what comes from Yahweh's mouth.'
The Lord declares, ‘Just speak the Gospel's truth! '

poem by John Celes
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‘To the Slaughter-house’- A Cattle-song!

To the slaughter-house! To the slaughter-house!
Here we cows all go;
We gave men milk and butter, ghee;
They want our beef now;
We’ve no other go.

To the slaughter-house! To the slaughter-house!
Here we oxen go;
We tilled their lands and milled oil-seeds;
They want our hide now;
We’ve no other go.

To the slaughter-house! To the slaughter-house!
Here we sheep all go;
We grazed their meadows, eating grass;
They want our mutton now;
We’ve no other go.

To the slaughter-house! To the slaughter-house!
Here we cattle go;
We served mankind as God said so;
Selfish men want our flesh now;
We’ve no other go.

To the slaughter-house! To the slaughter-house!
Here we animals go;
Jostled, huddled, unfed, crowded;
Men want our lives now;
This is our last ride, we all know;
We’ve no other go.

Copyright by Dr John Celes 1-20-2008

poem by John Celes
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Cain and Abel

Western Version

Cain and Abel were brothers born.
(Koop-la! Come along, cows!)
One raised cattle and one raised corn.
(Koop-la! Come along! Co-hoe!)

And Cain he farmed by the river-side,
So he did not care how much it dried.

For he banked, and he sluiced, and he ditched and he led
(And the Corn don't care for the Horn)--
A-half Euphrates out of her bed
To water his dam' Corn!

But Abel herded out on the plains
Where you have to go by the dams and rains.

It happened, after a three-year drought,
The wells, and the springs, and the dams gave out.

The Herd-bulls came to Cain's new house
(They wanted water so!--)
With the hot red Sun between their brows,
Sayin' "Give us water for our pore cows!"
But Cain he told 'em--"No!"

The Cows they came to Cain's big house
With the cold white Moon between their brows,
Sayin' "Give some water to us pore cows!"
But Cain he told 'em--"No?"

The li'l Calves came to Cain's fine house
With the Evenin' Star between their brows,
Sayin' "'Give us water an' we'll be cows."
But Cain he told 'em--"No!"

The Herd-bulls led 'em back again,
An' Abel went an' said to Cain: --
"Oh sell me water, my brother dear,
Or there will be no beef this year."
And Cain he answered--"No! "

"Then draw your hatches, my brother true,
An' let a little water through."
But Cain he answered: -"No!

"My dams are tight an' my ditches are sound,
An' not a drop goes through or round
Till she's done her duty by the Corn.

"I will not sell, an' I will not draw,
An' if you breach, I'll have the Law,
As sure as you are borne! "

Then Abel took his best bull-goad,
An' holed a dyke on the Eden road.

He opened her up with foot an' hand,
An' let Euphrates loose on the land.

He spilled Euphrates out on the plain,
So's all his cattle could drink again.

Then Cain he saw what Abel done--
But, in those days, there was no Gun!

So he made him a club of a hickory-limb,
An' halted Abel an' said to him: --

"I did not sell an' I did not draw,
An' now you've breached I'll have the Law.

"You ride abroad in your hat and spurs,
Hell-hoofin' over my cucumbers!

"You pray to the Lord to send you luck
An' you loose your steers in my garden-truck:

"An' now you're bust, as you ought to be,
You can keep on prayin' but not to me!"

Then Abel saw it meant the life;
But, in those days, there was no Knife:

So he up with his big bull-goad instead,
But--Cain hit first and dropped him dead!

The Herd-bulls ran when they smelt the blood,
An' horned an' pawed in that Red Mud.
The Calves they bawled, and the Steers they milled,
Because it was the First Man Killed;
An' the whole Herd broke for the Land of Nod,
An' Cain was left to be judged by God!

But, seein' all he had had to bear,
I never could call the Judgment fair!

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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A Hundred Times Over

A hundred times over words have flowed through my fingers to the keys
A hundred times over I have released the freedom that is in my mind,
A hundred times over I have become one with my inter most longing,
A hundred times over I have taken a journey to show you my own world.
A hundred times over I have written of pain and life, of sorrow and joy,
A hundred times over I have used my art to show you what's in my mind
A hundred times over again I will show you.
A hundred times over I have cried for those, whose names are untold,
A hundred times over I have showed you their pain.
A hundred times over I have become their connection to you,
A hundred times over I have showed you the beauty of our world,
A hundred times over I have taken you somewhere you may never see,
A hundred times over my words have screamed the horror of darkness,
A hundred times over I have sung to you the beauty of light,
A hundred times over I have taken your hand to lead you to a new place
A hundred time over I have written for those who have no words to write
A hundred times over I have tried to show truth in a world of lies,
A hundred times over I have have tried to show the world's beauty,
A hundred times over again I will lead down these paths,
A hundred times over and over again I will show you reality,
A hundred times over and over again I shall show you my world,
A hundred times over and over again until you have memorised truth,
A hundred times over again until you can repeat what I have told,
A hundred times over again shall I create an art of words, time, of life.
A hundred times over again I shall do this,
A hundred times over again.
A hundred times over.

poem by Bethany Maxwell
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The Paragon (Mother)

A paragon of patience,
A model of sacrifice,
Clad in clothes,
Rough, drab and dull.
Uncomplaining, silent and bland,
Remains busy like a bee,
From morn to eve with no rest
For the pleasure of husband
Who often talks to her,
Harsh, hard, and rude.
She collects dry sticks,
And fire wood from the forest,
Toiling up the steeps,
Walks to the home drooping,
The burden upon her back,
For the stock,
She labours on the farms,
Feed the children from the chest,
With the marrow and sap of bones,
Shields them against hunting vultures,
Of poverty, hunger and illness.
Her cottage with a small yard,
With a few hens, ducks and sheep,
And half naked shouting children,
Playing about bare-footed,
Is her Eden, the whole she gets,
To which she devotes,
Her youth, joys and existence.
In the dolorous work of kitchen,
It is pity,
She often gets herself burnt.

Strenuous labour brings on the face,
Wrinkles deep and long,
The rosy cheeks, fair fore-head,
The delicate lips, begin decaying,
Like too soon withering flowers.

I pay homage to the deities,
Grand, great and reverend,
Who pass away unknown,
Leaving behind their fragrance,
And fruit of struggle to the posterity.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Give these Indians little farms, survey them, let them put fences around them, let them have their own horses, cows, sheep, things that they can call their own, and it will do away with tribal Indians.

quote by George Crook
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bible Stories: Job (Chapter I)

A man named Job, lived in Uz;
He was an upright, blameless man;
He was a God-fearing one too;
He turned away from all evil.

He was the greatest in the East;
He had a wife and children ten-
Three daughters and sons seven.

He owned a lot of animals-
Sheep- seven thousand,
Camels- three thousand,
Oxen in yoke- five hundred,
Female asses- five hundred,
Beasts of burden- many more!

His birthday was held by his sons;
Their sisters came to eat and drink;
Job blessed them all and sent away;
Next day, he offered burnt offerings;
He did this often telling God,
“Perhaps, my children have sinned, Lord! ”

When angels came before Yahweh,
Satan too joined them, one day;
The Lord asked him, “Whence do you come? ”
And Satan told, “By roaming earth,
And going on lands, back and forth.”

God asked, “Did you notice my servant Job?
There’s none like him upon the earth! ”
Satan said, “Does Job fear You for free? ”

“You placed a hedge around his house;
You’ve blessed his work in abundance;
Just touch his things; he’ll renounce You.”

God said, ‘You may test him but spare his life.’
So, Satan went from God to earth.

One day, when job with family ate,
A messenger gave him bad news:
‘Sabeans took your asses, oxen,
Killed all servants, just I escaped’

Another told, ‘God’s fire fell down
And burnt the sheep and servants all;
Just I escaped to tell you this.’

A third one said, ‘The Chaldeans
In three bands took camels away
Killed all servants and sped their way,
Just I escaped to tell today.’

A fourth one said, ‘A fierce wind came
Flattened your house and left all dead,
Just I escaped to tell you this! ’

Job shaved his head and tore his robe,
And fell upon the ground, prostrate.
He worshipped God, his Lord and said,
‘Naked I came from mother’s womb,
Now, naked shall I too return.
God gave and took; Bless’d be His name! ’
Job didn’t sin nor God, did he blame.

poem by John Celes
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There Is This And There Is Also Always That

there is always a star
and there are always trees that want to reach it

there is a cliff that knows the void up there
there is always a river that sings for it

there are grasses that spread
too there are goats and cows to graze over them

there are seas that rage with big waves
there are rocks waiting for them at the shore

there are dreams that do not come true
there are those who listen and write about them

there are those that die
there those who are newly born

there are ends
and there are beginnings too

war sleeps and peace is awake
this world spins and revolves as the sun looks unblinking

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Oxfam Stands For Killing Oxen Causes Famine

Oxfam like Heifer International
is distributing animal flesh
to third world countries,
thereby causing animal agony,
spreading human death and disease,
enabling deforesting and continued
global heating, wasting energy.

Oxfam means.... killing oxen causes
famine.

*********

I WILL NOT SAIL WITH SHEEP

- W. H. Davies - (1870 to 1940)

When I was once in Baltimore
A man came up to me and cried
‘Come, I have eighteen hundred sheep,
And we sail on Tuesday’s tide.'

‘If you will sail with me, young man,
I'll pay you fifty shillings down.
These eighteen hundred sheep I take
From Baltimore to Glasgow town.’

He paid me fifty shillings down.
I sailed with eighteen hundred sheep;
We soon had cleared the harbour’s mouth,
We soon were in the salt sea deep.

The first night we were out at sea.
Those sheep were quiet in their mind.
The second night they cried with fear –
They smelt no pastures in the wind.

They sniffed, poor things, for their green fields.
They cried so loud I could not sleep:
For fifty thousand shillings down
I would not sail again with sheep.

poem by O. Anna Niemus
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The Free-Selector's Daughter

I met her on the Lachlan Side --
A darling girl I thought her,
And ere I left I swore I'd win
The free-selector's daughter.

I milked her father's cows a month,
I brought the wood and water,
I mended all the broken fence,
Before I won the daughter.

I listened to her father's yarns,
I did just what I `oughter',
And what you'll have to do to win
A free-selector's daughter.

I broke my pipe and burnt my twist,
And washed my mouth with water;
I had a shave before I kissed
The free-selector's daughter.

Then, rising in the frosty morn,
I brought the cows for Mary,
And when I'd milked a bucketful
I took it to the dairy.

I poured the milk into the dish
While Mary held the strainer,
I summoned heart to speak my wish,
And, oh! her blush grew plainer.

I told her I must leave the place,
I said that I would miss her;
At first she turned away her face,
And then she let me kiss her.

I put the bucket on the ground,
And in my arms I caught her:
I'd give the world to hold again
That free-selector's daughter!

poem by Henry Lawson
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The Poor Girl's Meditation

I AM sitting here
Since the moon rose in the night,
Kindling a fire,
And striving to keep it alight;
The folk of the house are lying
In slumber deep;
The geese will be gabbling soon:
The whole of the land is asleep.

May I never leave this world
Until my ill-luck is gone;
Till I have cows and sheep,
And the lad that I love for my own;
I would not think it long,
The night I would lie at his breast,
And the daughters of spite, after that,
Might say the thing they liked best.

Love takes the place of hate,
If a girl have beauty at all:
On a bed that was narrow and high,
A three-month I lay by the wall:
When I bethought on the lad
That I left on the brow of the hill,
I wept from dark until dark,
And my cheeks have the tear-tracks still.

And, O young lad that I love,
I am no mark for your scorn;
All you can say of me is
Undowered I was born:
And if I've no fortune in hand,
Nor cattle and sheep of my own,
This I can say, O lad,
I am fitted to lie my lone!

poem by Padraic Colum
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