Related quotes: Short life For the poet...

Jean Venturini, Great French Poet.

Short life
For the poet

Born in Nabeul
Dead sea

Twenty one

17th June 1941.

poem by Nicolas Grenier
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Related quotes

Twenty Four

Twenty four oceans
Twenty four skies
Twenty four failures
Twenty four tries
Twenty four finds me
In twenty-fourth place
Twenty four drop outs
At the end of the day
Life is not what I thought it was
Twenty four hours ago
Still I'm singing Spirit take me up in arms with You
And I'm not who I thought I was twenty four hours ago
Still I'm singing Spirit take me up in arms with You
Twenty four reasons to admit that Im wrong
With all my excuses still twenty four strong
See I'm not copping out not copping out not copping out
When You're raising the dead in me
Oh, oh I am the second man
Oh, oh I am the second man now
Oh, oh I am the second man now
And You're raising these twenty four voices
With twenty four hearts
With all of my symphonies
In twenty four parts
But I wan to be one today
Centered and true
I'm singing Spirit take me up in arms with You
You're raising the dead in me
Oh, oh I am the second man
Oh, oh I am the second man now
Oh, oh I am the second man now
And You're raising the dead in me
I want to see miracles, see the world change
Wrestled the angel, for more than a name
For more than a feeling
For more than a cause
I'm singing Spirit take me up in arms with You
And You're raising the dead in me
Twenty four voices
With twenty four hearts
With all of my symphonies
In twenty four parts.
I'm not copping out. Not copping out. Not copping out.

song performed by by Switchfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Am A Poet Of Short Lines

I am a poet of short lines-
Of lines that are phrases,
Of lines that are small and broken-

I am a poet of short lines-
Of impatience and small breath,
Of hurrying and not taking time-

I am a poet of short lines-
Of condensation and conciseness,
Of maximum meaning in minimum space-

I am a poet of short lines
Short ones.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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I received my parents' permission and went into the Navy on June 3, 1941.

quote by Jack Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Am A Poet

Iam a poet
ı was born a poet
ı feel that frommy childhood
why the storks
chatter on the chimneys
and nest there
their young beak black
their eggs catch cold in winter
ı am a poet
but sometimes ı am misunderstood
that upsets me
very
sometimes people scold me
why the hell you look at me
strangely
they say
do ı resemble someone
do you recognise me
ı am just a poet
ı cannot say
ı s ı t my fault
to be born poet
ı wanna write a poem about you
so ı look and try to understand
your attitude
why does this bother you
ı was born so
ı watch a little child
leaving her mother
throwing herself to the water shower
in the pool in spring
then ı ask the child to return to mother
cause she is looking eagerly looking AFTER
does not like a stranger
she does not know what a poet is too
and lives plain and direct
ı am a poet
ı wish
ı were not born so
ı long for a humble and simple life
living may be in poverty
cause understands me nobody
even the closest around me

poem by Metin Sahin
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Life is too short

Life is too short for any vain regretting;
Let dead delight bury its dead, I say,
And let us go upon our way forgetting
The joys and sorrows of each yesterday
Between the swift sun's rising and its setting
We have no time for useless tears or fretting:
Life is too short.
Life is too short for any bitter feeling;
Time is the best avenger if we wait;
The years speed by, and on their wings bear healing;
We have no room for anything like hate.
This solemn truth the low mounds seem revealing
That thick and fast about our feet are stealing:
Life is too short.
Life is too short for aught but high endeavor—
Too short for spite, but long enough for love.
And love lives on forever and forever;
It links the worlds that circle on above:
'Tis God's first law, the universe's lever.
In His vast realm the radiant souls sigh never
'Life is too short.'

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Twenty Three

I got to tell you that he waited all his life
For someone like you to come make the wrong things right
I know he didn't have the answers all the time
But you can't tell me that you've never told a lie
We're almost twenty-three and you're still mad at me
So much that I said to you and I want to take it back now
Twenty-three and it's so sad to me
You tell the world I'm dead to you
But I know you want me back now
Was it fun for you to watch him fall apart? (Watch me fall)
And suffocate him while you held him in your arms (in your arms)
I swear to God I wish he never let you in (let you in)
And I just hope we never hear from you again
We're almost twenty-three and you're still mad at me
So much that I said to you and I want to take it back now
Twenty-three and it's so sad to me
you tell the world I'm dead to you
But I know you want me back
Wasted on you (wasted on you)
Wasted on you (so much time I've)
Wasted on you (wasted on you)
Wasted on you
On you
On you
Twenty-three and you're still mad at me
So much that I said to you and I want to take it back now
Twenty-three and it's so sad to me
You tell the world I'm dead to you
But I know you want me back now

song performed by by Yellowcard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Twenty Three

song performed by by Yellowcard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Am I 53 or 54? I think I'm 54. I was born in 1941. So this year I'll be 55.

quote by Charles Keating
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Snowstorm In June

This day will remain a special day
But it won't repeat again any soon
The day when the sun
Was taken from everyone
The day of the snowstorm in June

It was the 17th of June, they say
When a cold breeze swept through the air
A dropp here on my nose,
My flip-flops sand toes
Snowflakes sprinkled my hair!

The kids on the block went out to play
Then they first started to see
The snow had piled on the ground
Summer was nowhere to be found!
And they all said, 'This cannot be! '

So they smiled a bit, to their dismay
For the most bizarre snow was in September
And they laughed a little, too
Was this weather new!
It seemed June was now December!

I put a snow family on display
To show summer can be 'cool'
Drivers parked their cars and stared
The weatherman was scared
Some people didn't bother to exit their pool

The bugs didn't even fly away
But rather stayed to see
People playing in the snowy sun
A snow-filled summer can be such fun!
I guess this was just meant to be...

People stayed in their short-sleeves all day
And built snowmen in their yards
I skipped around town
In the magic abound
Believing in this day was sure hard!

We drank hot cocoa and lemonade
And set up lawn chairs in the snow
We watched the snow fall
All afternoon long
But eventually night started to come...

It was certainly a magical day
But it ended way too soon
It ended in laughter
A 'Happily Ever After'
The day when it snowed in June

poem by Brielle Intorcia
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Grand-Father's Clock

My grand-father's clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor;
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a penny weight more.
It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born,
And was always his treasure and pride;
But it stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.

Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.

In watching its pendulum swing to and fro,
Many hours had he spent while a boy;
And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know
And to share both his grief and his joy.
For it struck twenty-four when he entered at the door,
With a blooming and beautiful bride;
But it stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.

Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.

My grandfather said that of those he could hire,
Not a servant so faithful he found;
For it wasted no time, and had but one desire --
At the close of each week to be wound.
And it kept in its place -- not a frown upon its face,
And its hands never hung by its side;
But it stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.

Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.

It rang an alarm in the dead of the night --
An alarm that for years had been dumb;
And we knew that his spirit was pluming for flight --
That his hour of departure had come.
Still the clock kept the time, with a soft and muffled chime,
As we silently stood by his side;
But it stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.

Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.

poem by Henry Clay Work
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I was opposed to World War II, and indeed on June 22, 1941 when Hitler invaded the Soviet Union I suddenly found myself the lone supporter of peace since everybody else had, because of their communist beliefs, shifted over to become supporters of the war.

quote by Douglass North
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Before a Poetry Reading

'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I'm feeling nervous but I mustn't show it!

'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I hope to heaven that I won't blow it!

'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I mustn't reveal that I'm a second-rate poet!
I'm only a rhymer, but they don't know it!
If you've got no talent you'll have to grow it!

'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '

poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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307

well she starts with hello how are you
i say, i am fine how about you?

she is not, perhaps, she has a quarrel
with her boyfriend
and they will soon be married this september
then to be changed this june

is she confused? i ask myself as i type
my messages, she says, maybe,

then we shifted to movies,
wings, chicago, as good as it gets,
the corny titanic, and i recommended

il postino, i tell her, watch it tonight
and you will like neruda
and this postman and this love

how a poet makes love
more open and visible and
expressable
to the lips of a seasick man in an island
that does not move with time

slow, and almost forgotten
until, the son of a dead man
who thanked the poet
talks to him

his father gone
but the love still lingers
in the island
where some poems were born
because
one must love
and be loved and the poems must give the tongue

for that expression.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Chat With A Friend Whose Name You Need Not Know