Whirling Death
I am maddened by the
Death-knock.
In a frenzy I run,
for the many chores to be done...
From the stillness of mountains and lakes
to hear ancient songs,
to unravel mysteries of tales from the past,
of trees to enquire after
the business of growth,
to watch the ever-changing
shapes of clouds,
through sweet-voiced, goodly birds
seek the source of divine fruits,
touch flowers of a blushing creeper,
make conversation
with doorways and walls.
So many visitors still wait;
a long list of unseen vistas
beheld in the eyes, pounds
in the veins,
exploding them any moment,
but I am busy,
in a flurry to carry out the chores...
The ocean calls,
islands and coastlines
for aeons have longed for me.
They haunt me, the fishermen
singing songs as they return
to their abodes;
some day I'll pay them a visit...
Enchanting lands
restively wait
to reveal their many treasures;
paths are not unknown to me,
in the old wooden trunk, lie safe
the maps;
I can also discern the melody of gods,
but I am busy...
So much to be done for the children.
Books and notebooks,
school uniforms, new bags,
toys, bats and rackets
and so much more that is
yet unsaid,
will make them happy
if I buy for them,
but I am busy,
have to see through so many chores...
Faster now, blood rushes
through the veins;
life is possessed by the frenzy of Death.
Busy I am,
hurriedly scribbling poem after poem,
maddened by the Death-knock.
(Translated from the original Urdu into English by Yasmeen Hameed)
poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Busy
I am busy
you are busy
we are busy
but the old woman needs help
to find her way home.
I am busy
you are busy
we are busy
but the dove is too slow
to fly out of the way.
I am busy
you are busy
we are busy
but the children crossing the street
are too many.
I am busy
you are busy
we are busy....
I am busy
you are busy
we are...
busy.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Busy Bodies
So you think that you have seen her
When youre lying in between her
And you tell me that you dont care
Busy bodies getting nowhere
Evrybodys getting meaner
Busy bodies
Caught in the concertina
You check her outline
Break her regulations
You watch her legs through several
Service stations
Busy bodies
Very busy
Getting nowhere
Nowhere, nowhere, nowhere
Now youre ready for the merger
With the company youre part of
And you do the dirty business
With your latest sleeping partner
Youre becoming
Automatic
Busy bodies
Out playing with the traffic
You want attention
You try my patience
With the best intentions you are nothing but a nuisance
Busy bodies
Busy busy
Getting nowhere
Nowhere, nowhere, nowhere
Now youve given your performance
Though the matinee was idle
And you find that a wave of her right hand
Could seem so tidal
Just a second
Satisfaction
Busy bodies
Temporarily out of action
You wash and brush up
You want to dress up
You want to kiss her
But shes busy with her makeup
Busy bodies
Very busy
Getting nowhere
Nowhere (x6)
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Can Wait
As you are growing older,
The time just flies with fate,
Some normal chores can be done
While other chores can wait. Try to have fun every day,
Plan for another state,
Yet slow down for more pleasure
Because the rest can wait. Pleasure becomes important,
and golf may be the bait,
Enjoy the fun of playing,
Since other things can wait. Trips can be quite wonderful,
When you surprise your mate,
Other plans will change quickly,
But they can surely wait. Try to write a new poem,
Then plan completion date,
Enter it in the contest,
Everything else can wait.
poem by Eleanor M. Dirksen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Diction Addiction
Busy wizzy likes to move it
Busy wizzy likes to prove it
‘I want to make a figure to hail
I want to make a mast to sail
To sail and sing a hymn or chant
I’ll evenly rhyme or slightly slant
Cause I’m busy wizzy I like to move it
I’m busy wizzy I like to prove it’
Busy wizzy likes to paint it
Pedant precise with a masking tape
You think it’s cool, so cool ain’t it
To sit on a die with an ode to an ape?
‘I’ll rape some locks Alexander style
Fairy full cushions for a dame or two
Just sit on a die and wait a while
With verses and cations sitting too.
Cause I’m busy wizzy I like to move it
I’m busy wizzy I like to prove it’
Busy wizzy likes to make it
To look so nice anyone can get it
But it’s not cool not cool to fake it
So please if busy don’t be at it.
©Miroslava Odalović
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Barreness Of A Busy Life
Beware the barrenness of a busy life.
(Socrates)
bored as barren
a body that is bone-dry,
a walk in the desert,
dry as dust,
moistureless existence
lips parched,
a thirsty soul,
a life waterless
busy, busy, busy,
that is what you are.
beware, for soon
in seeking life
busy, busy, busy,
you lose it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Fifth Loner
Beginning in the eyes
dreams end up at soles of feet.
The river is yet without a bridge.
For the earth is to become a path, a route,
centuries, a journey must endure.
Racing with water and wind
time overtakes me
and I, the lone
traveler of earth,
lagging way behind you,
holding close, the
left-overs of life,
from the farthest edge
of my expanse
wait for the universe to shrink.
They clay-lamp's flame
frightens the ghost of night.
The sky-canopy is too small;
the light more abundant than my heart.
But drams have a life, longer than all distances.
In seasons divine,
when stars, like flowers will bloom
and around sun-fire will hover, butterflies,
your moon-face will appear
through branches of eternal dusk.
If you'll have the strength
to endure and wait,
then, with a new arrangement of elements,
I'll come for you ….!
Poem by: Naseer Ahmed Nasir,1994.
Translated from the original Urdu into English by Yasmeen Hameed.
Copyrights (C) All rights reserved.
poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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The funeral
My death would be a piece of news,
Or utmost a surprise or a relief
And in no way a pain or a grief.
Inmates would be busy for my dispatch,
Some would weep and some would be gloomy
As they are there supposed to.
Heirs would be busy in sorting my things.
To see me off, all are busy;
Thank God, I am not there to see.
08.02.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Seen A Lot Of Floors
Seen a lot of walls, seen a lot of halls
Got a lot of calls, late at night
Seen a lot of doors, seen a lot of floors
Done a lot of chores, late at night
So don't come in here walkin'
So innocent and talkin'
Tryin' to make conversation
Cause I know and you know
That I know what you're here for
Don't tell me 'bout your father
Your sister or your mother
Your great big brother
Not tonight
Don't want to hear about your hang ups
Don't want know your favorite movies
Don't want to hear about other rock bands
Not tonight
So don't come in here walkin'
So innocent and talkin'
Tryin' to make conversation
'Cause you know and I know
That I know what you're here for
Seen a lot of floors
Seen a lot of doors
Done a lot of chores
Late at night
song performed by by Bob Seger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jekyll And Hyde
JEKYL AND HYDE
He is my friend! An old friend!
With a different kind of mind
For dinner, I invited him
He laughed, “Only Sunday for a chum”
“You know? I’m a busy man”
Yeah! He is busy! Very busy! !
Always in a bureaucratic frenzy
Throwing files and
Scowling at menials
Wielding power and
Shielding misdemeanor
Making rulings and
Raking under the table dealings
Drooling and squealing
Like a swine in sewer stinking
For him it is the Elysium
A corrupted mind’s addictive opium
Honesty’s grand mausoleum
I said with concern, “Yes Mr. Hyde
I wait for Jekyll, till week end”
poem by Sathya Narayana
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for Mr. Ron Mengzi
there is no one in his house
in the tropics who really know how to speak English
so he tries making monologues for himself
talking about his latest affairs
but it gets boring you know
and those in the neighborhood who hear
that he is talking to himself
think that he must have gone crazy
i want to talk to him but i am busy
always busy he complains
for i am the only who knows how to talk in English
but i am busy and so one day
Mr. Ron Mengzi walks towards the pond
and talks to the fish that he brought
from California
and there he had a nice English conversation
with the fish
all in figurative and
codified bubbles.
Some people who read this
do not think about Mr. Ron Mengzi at ll
They now talk about me
asking about my own sanity.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I’m a busy man, I earn as I can
I’m a busy man, I earn as I can
Never bother who created man
I enjoy life as I can
People tell me, Get up early
I sleep late,
So go to hell
I’m a busy man, I earn as I can
Somewhere I read,
pray to god
I don’t have any time for that
I’m a busy man, I earn as I can
Mother says take care of health
I say most important is wealth
I’m a busy man, I earn as I can
Preachers preach,
Never be phony, Live honestly
I say fool as many
Being honest is being lousy
I’m a busy man, I earn as I can
My goal is money
Even if have to kill somebody
Life without money
Is bee without honey
I’m a busy man, I earn as I can
I met with an accident
Nobody lent a helping hand
I realized, I was disliked
I thought with all the might
To make life happy
One has to live rightly
Greed is worst for life
With it one can never rise
I’m a changed man
Contentment is my ambition
Now, I never earn as I can
poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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Too Busy
Too busy rushing to get to the next 'high'.
Kept addicted and detached.
To busy too disconnect,
From anything associated with accountability.
Too busy entertaining delusions kept met,
With no regrets of dismissing a seriousness.
Too busy they are protesting,
A reality of life just met and upsets.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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How doth the little buissy bee
How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower!
How skilfully she builds her cell!
How neat she spreads the wax!
And labors hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.
In works of labor or of skill,
I would be busy too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.
In books, or work, or healthful play,
Let my first years be passed,
That I may give for every day
Some good account at last.
poem by Isaac Watts from Divine Songs Attempted in Easy Language for the Use of Children (1715)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Silent Death
Silent death holds my breath
Stalks me from above the trees
There is no breeze
When death walks in my shoes
Silent, cautious, confident
A brilliant business man
Silent death’s cold embrace
Makes me dizzy
He is always busy
But has time for me
Silent death drowns my body
He isn’t sorry
Silent death looks at me
Underneath the water
My eyes dilated
Catch a glimpse
poem by Double A P SS
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No Poem Is An Original
No poem is an original
everyone who writes
poetry thinks their poem
was an original, it just so
happens that their poem just
surfaced to the top
of their mind first, so they
were able to write it.
Everyone has love, hate
compassion buried deep
in their soul.
Poets are able to bring
all of this to the surface,
to construct, add the words,
but it is not an original
idea, for the poet because
they wrote it now, it
becomes an original for them.
Who has not heard a song,
read a poem, story or book,
seen a movie and said,
to themselves, hey I had
that same idea.
Only thing is, someone else
brought it to the surface
of the mind, and wrote it first.
Even this poem I'm writing
now is not an original
someone out there
has this idea buried
deep in their soul.
So if you have an idea
for a poem, get busy
write it, don't wait,
or you won't write an original
start today,
don't delay.
wrote 2-2-07
Town Of Tuxley Toymaker - Pt. 1
Toymaker, toymaker, make me a toy
Thats what the children , they cry
Make me a soldier or castle so high
And to this we will buy
Busy busy making toys
Make a girl for evry boy
Make a man for evry wife
Live and live a lasting life
Town of tuxleys ,wheres I want to be
He said to all girls and boys
Tuxleys the town where Ill make my bread
And money speaks louder than toys
Little trains and railway lines
Satisfy the human mind
Make them big and make them small
Make them wide and make them tall
Break)
Toymaker, toymaker, make me a toy,
Thats what the children, they cry
Make me a soldier or castle so high
And to this we will buy
song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's Death Again
It's Death again - He's always there -
Watching, waiting - e'er the stare!
Every time I look behind
Or reach to pull the window blind,
I catch a glimpse of grubby hood -
A little clue to where he stood;
The glint of light that caught the scythe.
Perhaps if I could pay a tithe…
But O! no use, he'll never go.
The adamant phantom; don't you know
He will but wait until it's time
For me to hear His fateful chime? -
The toll that claims my destiny,
To Hail: 'You're next, it has to be…'
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
The Reign of Death
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Stuff We Can't Have
Canadian binding referendums are completely forbidden,
Our pompous politicians don't want to be overridden,
Just like death-with-dignity; we're going nowhere soon,
Politicians are too busy in their private party commune.
We never have a plebiscite and can't have propositions,
Our politicians are busy on various appointed commissions,
No proportional representation or compulsory voting for all,
And secret-list appointees will make the death-with-dignity call.
Appointed senators fill the Senate but none were elected,
Can't point the finger because this system is protected,
And Trudeau wrote the Charter for EVERYONE everywhere,
His son Justin now wants to lead the Liberals and compare.
poem by James Bredin
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Disingenuousness
Here lies another box for nature,
Carbon ready;
Black to eyes down here,
Where death is at its job.
Up there you’ll hear a rhythmic sob
Or two from living yet-to-dies –
A humming lacrimoso –
It all but cleans the eyes:
Forget it –
The dismal show of grief –
Life is only chemistry –
Our stay is only brief.
It’s we who hype it up!
Diaphragms jerk again;
The jet monotone of hearses
Feeds the disingenuousness
Of undertakers –
They seem to stare at something up ahead –
For them, it’s in the blood,
To taxi off the dead.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
The March of Death
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Continuity
Winds dance
Black clouds gather
Trace songs of blue rains
On wooden tablets of the golden sun
In azure limitlessness of the sky.
Birds remember the earth
Through signs
Seas come to an end
On shores
Somewhere whole isles
Sink in tear drops.
Hark, O children
For stories get interrupted
If you're inattentive.
(Translated from the original Urdu by Dr.Satyapal Anand and from English to Spanish by Dr. Teresinka Pereira)
poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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