A Red Cow Speaks with Deeds!
Passing the slaughter house
The barber stops for a while
And he feels his previous birth
That he's a cow!
Now I cut the hair
From a child to an adult
Never do a sin
And the mirror knows
But no way to express her emotions?
When I use the razor for shaving
I'll be very patient
Specially on butcher's throat
As still I feel that enormous pain
And what he did in my previous birth?
(For Dorothy A.Holmes apwlts2 in gratitude!)
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Haircut.
The Barber came to cut my hair,
I told him that it wasn't fair.
My hair had done him no harm,
Without it I would loose my charm.
The Barber he grinned a silly grin,
Said to cut my hair would be no sin.
That I should face it like a man,
But I'm a coward and away I ran.
Do you like sitting in a Barbers chair,
With him chopping away your lovely hair.
Once my head was full of curls,
Covering my face with twisty twirls.
But then the Barber came my way,
I was a child, I had no say.
Off came my curls one by one,
The Barber seemed to have great fun.
Now I'm old and very grey,
I'm nearly bald, my hairs gone away.
But when I see a Barbers chair,
I feel the loss of my curly hair.
You know I truly rue the day,
When that first Barber came my way.
poem by Bernard Shaw
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Birth Love
My love is like a birth
Happens once, once for a soul
Cute face and tiny structure
Loved by all as a child
Even I got the care and love
All the joys and happiness on earth
But only for somewhile and sometime
As a man passes his infancy and gets adult.
All I know is my love remains in me
As an infant child of innocence
As the essence and childhood memories
It comes before me when I think
Think of myself with them and her.
Going with Keat's and his dogma
Beauty is truth, truth beauty
Love is birth, birth love
This is all you know about birth
This is what you need to know of love.
poem by Abhimanyu Kumar.s
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Mirror Struggled
The mirror struggled; reflecting beauty such as hers
Prescribed a glory in the challenge – a fairytale
Or such as like! To shimmer back hypnotic hues
From auras of her skin – how do mirrors cope?
Hoary tales of pretty adolescent buds
Could never hope to match the tomes of dreamy
Pulchritude apprising us of such a belle as she.
The mirror shone; and as it worked itself, a moment –
Did it overlook the hidden melancholy?
Were melting eyes bedewed–? Florid lips imbued
With mournfulness? The hindrance of the silver glass!
Oh! to seek – to know the meaning of the sorrow!
She (with tearful hair, an image out of heaven)
Never opened up her heart. The mirror struggled.
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Harmony dies
A pinch will cause pain;
Previous kisses
Cannot sooth the pain.
A slap will cause sore;
Previous pats
Cannot sooth the sore.
This is the way how
A harmony dies.
02.305.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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I Feel Pain
I Feel Pain from the generations of mistreatment
I Feel Pain that you may not
I Feel Pain from years of suffering
I Feel Pain. From the discriminating plot
Some people think that I am crazy
Some people think that they follow in my ways
Some want no part in my actions
Some could care less about the previous days
I Feel Pain from everyone who almost did something
I Feel Pain from everyones hate
I Feel Pain from all who have lost
I Feel Pain from the ones who's help came to late
There is a lesson to be learned from all of my troubles
A lesson some might think is insane
You need to be aware of what you do to others
Because of you, I Feel Pain
poem by Patrick Cusick McKay Jr.
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Morning At The Barbershop
This morning at the barbershop,
a barber is busy with the hair
of a much older grey haired man
that he is trimming neatly
and a young man
sits in one of the barber’s chairs.
When I sit down to wait
the young man rises
turning to me
and asks if he can cut my hair.
I was happy to get attention immediately
while the other barber was finishing
with the older man,
as he looks to finely tuned to me.
My hair was smartly cut
with a pair of scissors
and the young barber
held his fingers
to determine the length
and I wanted it shorter
than just cutting off the ends
while the other barber
first took a hair blower
from a drawer,
sprayed something over his own hair
before he started to blow it in the mirror
and he then said
that he cannot go
to the bank to wait in line
with a head looking like Tut’s ass
and I saw my locks
falling dark brown
with dots of grey around me
and saw the other barber
combing his long hair
and smiled at myself
about the vanity of humanity
while I looked at myself
and were starting to look much better.
poem by Gert Strydom
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My life comes down to three moments: the death of my father, meeting my husband, and the birth of my daughter. Everything I did previous to that just doesn't seem to add up to very much.
quote by Gwyneth Paltrow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Forgotten house
This great house was abandoned to decay
Forgotten unloved but here it does stay
Sun bleached wood cracking in the heat of the day
Paint simply peeled completely away
This great house a shadow of it former self
Golden stonework hint at its previous wealth
Ivy growing and spreading over the surface with stealth
Stone flaking blackened show its bad health
This house has great dark blackened windows
No inner light to give its previous known golden glow
No movement for here ice has fallen its soul has froze
In this house forgotten once golden now noone knows
Roundel
She's passing fair; but so demure is she,
So quiet is her gown, so smooth her hair,
That few there are who note her and agree
She's passing fair.
Yet when was ever beauty held more rare
Than simple heart and maiden modesty?
What fostered charms with virtue could compare?
Alas, no lover ever stops to see;
The best that she is offered is the air.
Yet- if the passing mark is minus D-
She's passing fair.
poem by Dorothy Parker
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A Life Pops Out
A life pops out
When the mother is giving birth
Today
And at the same time she is feeling the pain of giving birth
Birth doesn't come without pain
Because pain is the part of giving birth
poem by Aldo Kraas
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A Life Pops Out Song
A life pops out
When the mother is giving birth
Today
And at the same time she is feeling the pain of giving birth
Birth doesn't come without pain
Because pain is the part of giving birth
poem by Aldo Kraas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sail Through Your Emotions, Don't Sink
Life, people say, a journey
Indeed, it is a journey through emotions
Life turns dry
If it is without that
Emotions steer the course of life
It drives you take directions
As in a journey there are stops or stages
We too come across in this
Inevitable life journey
A number of junctions
With an emotion stopping us
To take the appropriate direction
A journey could be smooth
And less cumbersome
With emotions not stopping us for long
And demanding tough decisions
Emotions are not absolute
Their nature and extent
Varying with previous journey experiences
As a kid the emotions go unregistered
And the stops do not long last
Journey goes on smoothly for most of us
As we advance in the journey
The emotions become strong
And they get registered
Making us spend long time
In identifying the so called right directions
Checking emotions and not yielding to them
Is indeed a wisdom
And not many are successful
In making this happen
It is well advised
Not to allow your emotions drown you
But to develop in you a float
So that you sail over them
Seeking divine guidance
Developing a taste for artful creations
Looking for opportunities in challenges
Schooling your mind against
Wild and negative thoughts
Heartfully laughing in testing circumstances
And out-of-the-box thinking
Are the prescriptions
For sailing over emotions
So that you will enjoy living
Save yourselves
Sail over emotions
Sink not into them
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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New house
Stepping onto the hard floor,
no memories to be shared here,
thoughts are neutral no emotion,
the unnerving stench of staleness,
and unlived in state feels so impersonal,
so uncomfortable,
memories piled high in our old home,
and stored like books in my head,
it feels so cold here,
unexplainable feeling of fear,
no aroma of delicious food flowing through the house,
the rooms are not personalised,
just stripped bare,
dust flies through the air,
it can't be called a home yet,
it's just a house with inhabitants,
it can only be called mine,
but i will continue to see our previous house as home,
it'll take getting used to,
it'll take time,
i'll try and make it feel like mine now,
living in the new house.
poem by Emily Summers
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Baby vs Adult
Baby is dumb
Adult has wisdom
Babies are small and crawl
Adults are tall and fall
Baby demands
Adult commands
Baby yearns to walk
Adult learns to work
Baby weeps
Adult sleeps
You carry a baby
You marry an adult
Baby chokes
Adult smokes
Baby stays at home to play
Adult brings home the pay
Baby cries
Adult sighs
Baby spikes milk
Adults like silk
And I saved this for the last
Baby at birth
Adult at death
Baby vs Adult becomes a thing of the past
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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How Do You Think It Feels
How do you think it feels
When youre speeding and lonely, come here baby
How do you think it feels
When all you can say is if only
If only I had a little
If only I had some change, come here baby
If only, if only, if only
How do you think it feels
And when do you think it stops
How do you think it feels
When youve been up for five days, come down here mama
Hunting around always, ooohhh
cause youre afraid of sleeping
How do you think it feels
To feel like a wolf and foxy
How do you think it feels
To always make love by proxy, huh
How do you think it feels
And when do you think it stops
When do you think it stops
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death and Birth
Death leads to birth rather than birth, to death.
Birth is close to death and not vice versa.
Every birth is at the result of a death.
Death to birth, not birth to death, is the path.
The death of clay is the birth of a pot;
The death of the pot is the birth of clay.
Ice melts to water and water forms ice.
In each conversion, occur death and birth.
The death of a night is the birth of a day;
The death of a day is the birth of a night.
New Year means the death of the old year too.
In each transition, takes place death and birth.
The death of a seed is the birth of a plant;
The death of gametes is the birth of an embryo.
Salts die to form cells; cells die to form salts.
In each growth, form death and birth of matter.
The so called death and birth is nothing but
Deaths and births of forms made of matter.
The matter itself does not die to be born
But is converted to different forms.
Elements disappear to form plants.
Plants as food add to the animals’ flesh.
Plants and animals on death liberate
As elements, serving through worms and germs.
When a child is born, there’s no birth of life.
The embryo transforms into a child.
When a man dies, there is no death of life.
The body disintegrates to salts.
Matter, energy and life have no death
They have got one birth since when they’ve been.
They interact and come different stages
In which the pattern is death and birth.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Since Birth
When one 'is' who they are...
And has been who they are since birth.
Expressing what it is they do,
Because it is no fluke!
Or a passing whim.
The odds are against those,
Who bet the one dissected...
Will be changing anytime soon!
With many hats worn,
To express from the same creativity.
As has been done since birth.
So to ask,
'Larry?
Are you 'still' doing your 'thing'? '
That 'thing' might be considered breathing.
And thought to be a foolish question to ask.
Especially if one is seen doing it.
And the process of delivery has been the same,
Since birth!
With evidence all over the place as proof.
But many want to find,
A blemish to be flawed!
Like an identity one has,
With expectations of it to change!
Like a diaper some still wear.
Seeking the next step to development.
And some know exactly who they are...
Why and the how of it!
And that is what they do.
There is no notoriety sought for it.
If it is given...
Then something must be good,
About what it is that's done.
With devotion and dedication.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Mengcheng Cove
I have a new house, at the mouth of the Mengcheng.
The tree at the old one — the willow — feels more sorrow;
though someone new — I don’t know who — will come,
it still has just sorrow for the previous tenant.
poem by Wang Wei, translated by William P. Coleman
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Bathroom Barber
I'm not a bathroom barber I've learned
gave myself a hair cut with my own two hands.
When all of a sudden I heard a loud noise
which took my mind off what hair to cut I had.
Then SNIP, it went off my head!
a large patch bald of hair is missing.
The dog looked at me puzzled and barked
and the cat raised her back and was hissing!
I must admit I looked a fright
with that large patch of missing hair.
When I got up nerve to look in the mirror
I even gave myself a scare!
I was only trying to save a buck
and give myself what looked to be so easy.
But with this patch of hair now missing
my head feels a bit more breezy.
I guess I'll have to spend the money
go to someone, where to them it isn't harder.
And never again will I pretend, to be a Bathroom Barber!
poem by Linda Winchell
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