A Retail seller
A cottage by a riverside there lives a lass
and a small shop she runs
selling yogurt, peanuts
kindness, happiness, politeness and emptiness.
The townsfolk call this man
Sir, master, boss, lord or minister
but some address him secretly
'a dirty wolf'
he is like a clown
wears a red cap, green shirt and a blue trouser
comes on a bicycle (Racing)
for his vacation to this village.
he carries a leather bag
full of notes and coins(forged)
and distributes to the children who run after him.
(nobody knows the election gradually drew nearer)
He stopped at the cottage to have a cup of yogurt
on the counter left a leaflet
and vanished.
it says'you have a bright future that's in my hands'.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Related quotes
Victory Bakery
save me a spot
please............................... .........................
i will die should i have to sit without food...
i am a big girl..............................
food a need......
oh and....
i am allergic to 'nuts', shellfish, strawberries (at times) as well as...do not try to 'trick' me into eating YOGURT or other foods that might have touched shell fish-just to 'see'.
My epi-pens have become quite an expense...
oh theme song
'yogurt, yogurt'
poem by Necessary No Name
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Please stay away, our people have to survive!
A curd woman carries a pot of yogurt that drips on her moon forehead
The crystal white droplets drench the old soul, shouts, "yogurt,
Fresh yogurt, churned butter, anyone wants to buy? ",
Vegetable man pushes his cart, full of colorful vitamin vegetables,
Shouts as usual, "Vegetable, Vegetable, Green vegetables".
Fruits seller and fish monger carry their bounties in the baskets,
Pots, pans, spoons and brooms are sold on streets,
Sweat, tear, longing and desperation in discreet,
What place do the multinational whole sale retailer hit,
On the soil of poor people, where people live as dogs and cats.
Please stay away from us and we are not the good market,
as the habit of descendant will not let you see the profit.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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The difference between Los Angeles and yogurt is that yogurt comes with less fruit.
quote by Rush Limbaugh
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fairyland Today (Somewhere In Fantsayland)
Fairyland is more alive
today, than ever.
Upon returning, the
little houses are warming
in the sun.
My friends are overjoyed
to see us. and we are so
glad to be home again.
Oh, to be home again, my
eyes are misty, my heart
full.
The walls once again echo
hugs and kisses. Mistletoe
whispers notes of love.
The lilies of the valley
stand in full bloom.
Our small village is growing
rapidly. The great story-
teller lives in our midst
now. A tall, dark stranger,
quite handsome stopped by
inquiring about our rules.
Interested in purchasing the
cottage next door to mine. I
am thrilled to have him as my
neighbor.
He will be a lovely addition
to our community.
Tonight we will celebrate the
new arrivals.Our fairy dance
will begin at dusk, and last
all evening. My fairy man will
meet me there.
poem by Heather Burns
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As Time Goes By
In our town there were many small shops, one selling
buttons the other socks; and a hardware store should
you need a hammer and nails to hang up a picture of
your mother -in- law, in the living room.
There was also a shop selling scarves, another selling
ladies hats, and a third one, quite posh, selling suits and
ties. I mustn’t forget the shoe shop, leather footwear
black or brown and white tennis shoes.
In our street of trade most shops have shut, those still
open are run by the Orientals where you can buy all
you need for a very small price. If your shoes wear out,
no point going to the old cobbler, buy Chinese instead.
Red lanterns sway in the fiscal breeze of decline where
wistfulness has no price tag. But you must remember
this, a shop is just a shop, yet, for us sentimental fools,
are remembered as a sweet memory of times gone by,
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Strange fits of passion have I known
Strange fits of passion have I known:
And I will dare to tell,
But in the lover's ear alone,
What once to me befell.
When she I loved looked every day
Fresh as a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath an evening-moon.
Upon the moon I fixed my eye,
All over the wide lea;
With quickening pace my horse drew nigh
Those paths so dear to me.
And now we reached the orchard-plot;
And, as we climbed the hill,
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot
Came near, and nearer still.
In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
And all the while my eye I kept
On the descending moon.
My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopped:
When down behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright moon dropped.
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a Lover's head!
'O mercy!' to myself I cried,
'If Lucy hould be dead!'
poem by William Wordsworth
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A Girl Who Sells Peanuts
She floats on the saffron shore,
Holding a bamboo basket.
Her heart beats
Within the shelter
Of peanut shells.
Toys and text books;
Picnics and pamperings;
All collided on a wall,
But death dropped her to be tossed.
The girl in a dirty frock –
She sells parched peanuts
For coins and eye pricks.
“Peanuts”, “Peanuts” – her withered call
Haunts her parents in the dungeon of grave.
Her pale figure walks away with Time Teacher.
poem by Fabiyas M V
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Lactose Intolerant
I lack the enzymes
To properly digest lactose
I cant drink cows milk
I cant drink milk from a goat
Yogurt, cottage cheese
Make me throw up
Please no cream in my cup
My stomach is swelling
I am lactose --- intolerant
My throat is constricting
I am lactose --- intolerant
song performed by by Cyndi Lauper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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song of Father Gabriele Amorth
The Daily Mail, UK and Herald Sun (Australia) report on how
Father Gabriele Amroth of the Vatican teaches that yoga and
Harry Potter and the ‘oriental religions’ are
the works of the Devil...the following poem expresses my outrage
at such stupidity and parochialism that still exists
amongst some groups of Europeans even today in their relations
with the East
O yoga yoga
baby baby
sings Father Gabriele Amorth
in the Italian town of Terni
O yoga yoga
no go no go
to yoga yoga
baby baby
all you innocents
and pure
all blessed
and destined for Heaven
no go to yoga yoga
yoga yoga
yogurt is fine
sugar in your yogurt is fine
strawberry and apple
in your yogurt is fine
so eat eat your
yogurt yogurt yogurt
but yoga yoga
O yoga yoga
no go no go no go baby
baby baby
sings Father Gabriele Amorth
in the Italian town of Terni
and also no go to Harry Potter
baby baby baby
no go no go
no go to yoga no to yoga
and no go no go
to Harry Potter
baby baby baby
now say after me:
“yoga yoga yoga
baa baa baa
bad bad bad”
and say after me:
“Harry Potter Harry Potter
moo moo moo
bad bad bad”
O baby baby baby
at our next conference
I’ll teach you
how the Dragon is bad
and how the Chinese got it all wrong
all these centuries
with their Chinese Dragon, Dragon, Dragon
but that’s for next time
next time next time
baby baby baby
for now just repeat after me
your most reverend
Father Gabriele Amorth
in the Italian town of Terni:
O yoga yoga
no go no go
to yoga yoga
baby baby
And say after me
all ye faithful
all ye blessed:
“Harry Potter Harry Potter
moo moo moo
bad bad bad”
poem by Raj Arumugam
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Jazz and The Hobo
It was a Saturday morning
And you were 19
and you were racing along
Victoria Street having just left
Victoria Railway Station
on your way to Dobell's
Jazz Record Shop
moving quickly
through the sea
of humanity
thinking of jazz
and what record
you were going to buy
at the shop that day
imaging yourself
fingering through LP sleeves
taking a mental note
of which one
you might buy
a John Coltrane or Miles Davis
an Art Blakey or maybe
a Dizzy Gillespie
a jazz record being played
over the loudspeakers
in the shop
you mingling with others
in the crowded place
when this hobo stopped you
taking hold of your jacket gently
and said
have you got some small change
for a sandwich?
no
you replied
I haven't
and rushed on
through the crowd
fingering in your pocket
loose change
silvery coins
and his voice
in your head
as you raced along
and your conscience
nagging you
maybe the voice
of the believed in Christ
so you stopped
and turned around
and made your journey back
through the people
passing by
your fingers taking hold
of the coins
the silvery loose change
and there he was
the hobo asking others
the same question
and they too went by
shaking their heads
or saying
no sorry no change
and you took his hand
and put in the loose silver
into his open palm
and said
here go buy yourself
a sandwich or whatever
and you turned
and left looking over
your shoulder
and he stood there
staring at his palm
and the coins shining
in the morning sun
and then you looked ahead
thinking of the record shop
and the LPs and the jazz music
being played
but deep down
in some other part of you
you knew you'd given
to one who maybe
was hungry
and had unconsciously
prayed.
poem by Terry Collett
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Cottage or Apartment
The roses' and the vines' fragrance,
Mingled with my cottage air.
Maine's preponderance of pines,
Surrounded my cottage fair.
The heavenly light ray,
Pierced through the fir tree.
It made my life there,
A nature fantasy.
That wooden kyake parked on the Sound,
Spoke to me of learning the sea.
Twittering birds and wild turkeys,
Spoke to me of how life should be.
But the human in me, never quite satisfied,
Yearned for alterations,
Of happiness that could have been,
A still happier life, that could have been.
But I started to focus on tiny details,
Of a flutter of a bird's wing.
Of the way these birds could sing.
Of the way these birds flew.
All these things my heart could not do.
It just could not do.
I now wanted to live in an apartment,
Dissatisfied with my cottage,
Dissatisfied with nature and God's forest,
And trees, and what could be.
Then I realized, how far I had strayed,
From my own childhood happiness,
That spontaneous happy ignition,
Where happiness resided.
But I never opened that shiny door,
Where this happiness was stored.
Well, I now smelled the pine tree needles,
The freshness of that inviting river,
That babbling brook of my Maine,
Where my cottage stood,
Way in the undergrowth,
Where my feet wanted to trod.
Down that way to that awaiting happiness,
Given to each of us, free by God,
That lay deep, so deep in our heart.
That I would never from this cottage part.
To any move to any apartment, anywhere,
To seek some fantasy happiness,
But uncapturable again,
Since once again, depending on outside appearances.
Godly happiness, once more ignored.
So both the cottage and the apartment failed you.
Childhood happiness, once more ignored.
No cottage nor apartment living, could your happiness find.
poem by Vera Sidhwa
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Banished Wolf
Banished wolf chased off from her home
Banished wolf left with no place to roam
Banished wolf lies in the cold rain
Banished wolf tries to ease her pain
Banished wolf begins to cry
Banished wolf wants to die
Banished wolf tries to stop her tears
Banished wolf drowns in her fears
Banished wolf felt her world grow black
As her lover cried death just before the attack
Banished wolf licks her wounds
While her whole world is falling to ruins
Banished wolf cleans her cut
And as she does so her pain ease somewhat
Banished wolf wears her scars
Through a life full of years instead of hours
Banished wolf let the past be the past
Banished wolf left the gloom that it cast
Banished wolf lives her life today
And she would not have it anyother way
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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The Allegory Of Good And Evil
i made a cottage
of nipa and bamboo
and rattan
by the side of the
sea
it is not that
luxurious
any common man of this
village may come and
rest
i put the sign that any
tired man may sleep there
any traveler may use it
for free
i was away for three days
when i visited it
the vandals drew a big penis and
a vagina as big as a platter
poured black paint on the floor
and scattered drift wood
in the center of the floor
how unkind are these unknown
vandals?
but we cannot be outdone
we clean it again
repaint it with green and beige
to cover the obscenity
i guess, what devil destroy
God is never tired repairing
because we have promised
to be instruments of good
then we must all comply
now the cottage stands clean again
welcoming still a tired traveler.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A small cottage wherein laughter lives is worth more than a castle full of tears.
The Village Green
ON the cheerful village green,
Skirted round with houses small,
All the boys and girls are seen,
Playing there with hoop and ball.
Now they frolic hand in hand,
Making many a merry chain;
Then they form a warlike band,
Marching o'er the level plain.
Now ascends the worsted ball,
High it rises in the air,
Or against the cottage wall,
Up and down it bounces there.
Then the hoop, with even pace,
Runs before the merry throngs;
Joy is seen in every face,
Joy is heard in cheerful songs.
Rich array, and mansions proud,
Gilded toys, and costly fare,
Would not make the little crowd
Half so happy as they are.
Then, contented with my state,
Where true pleasure may be seen,
Let me envy not the great,
On a cheerful village green.
poem by Ann Taylor
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The Village Green
On the cheerful village green,
Skirted round with houses small,
All the boys and girls are seen,
Playing there with hoop and ball.
Now they frolic hand in hand,
Making many a merry chain;
Then they form a warlike band,
Marching o'er the level plain.
Now ascends the worsted ball,
High it rises in the air,
Or against the cottage wall,
Up and down it bounces there.
Then the hoop, with even pace,
Runs before the merry throngs;
Joy is seen in every face,
Joy is heard in cheerful songs.
Rich array, and mansions proud,
Gilded toys, and costly fare,
Would not make the little crowd
Half so happy as they are.
Then, contented with my state,
Where true pleasure may be seen,
Let me envy not the great,
On a cheerful village green.
poem by Jane Taylor
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A Sunday Prayer 15
Oh Merciful Lord I come to you today
and ask you to look down on our children,
the future of Mankind.
Each one needs your guidance
if they are not to stray
and your protection just in case they do.
The future of this world
lies within their tiny hands.
Therefore, I come to you My Lord
to look out for these children of many lands.
Point the way to kindness and humility,
guide them safely there
so they can learn and see.
Teach them that this mother earth
is not just theirs alone.
It is shared by countless other creatures,
large and small,
that we must protect it
not only for just ourselves,
but also for all the other living things that inhabit it to.
Therefore, my Gracious Lord
will grant this prayer for me today.
Amen
18 November 2007
poem by David Harris
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A Little Cottage
A little cottage nestled in the hills,
its roof is thatched
and it windows carry Georgian squares.
In its garden pretty flowers grow;
while in the fields,
seeds of corn are sown.
Snug within its stonewalls
lives a family,
husband, wife and their two sons.
Sadness filled the cottage one day
when the sons were called to war.
Candles were lit; prayers were said
for their safe return.
Years rolled by, paintwork peeled,
but the little cottage was still a home
with its fire warm.
Day after day, year after year
they waited for their sons return.
Then came what they dreaded most,
letters laced with black
to say that their sons had fallen
in fields far away
and would not be coming back.
A wreath of black hangs on the door
for their soldier boys
who will come home no more.
Sorrow again gripped the walls.
As years followed,
the little cottage fell into disrepair.
Within this once happy home
only sadness rang.
The husband and wife
grew old in their years,
but always held the memory
of two young lost lives.
Slowly they too faded away.
Now the little cottage
stands silent for all to see.
Falling down from lack of repair,
but always holding memories
of happiness once there.
poem by David Harris
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Racing to another world
One afternoon in Bedfordview, Johannesburg
we were leaving to go to a restaurant
and were in the parking lot at work,
when a black man on a bicycle
came down the hill
in Kirkby avenue,
pedalling as if possessed
and racing to another world.
He passed the motorbike
of a Links Pharmacy delivery man
and went as fast
as a racing bicycle could go
and at the t-junction
with oxford street
took a forty five degree turn
at great speed.
The man had a blazer on
and was still pedalling
as he took the turn
and the jacket opened
on his sides like wings,
before he hit the
stone edge of the road
and went straight
into a sign warning
about a stop street up ahead.
With arms spread out
like a human scarecrow,
or a shop mannequin,
he hanged with the jacket
on the sign,
as if dead
while the bicycle somersaulted
before landing against
some white stemmed blue gum trees.
Kids playing in the park were astounded
and and the people with me
and I laughed,
while he stayed motionless
hanging in the air
and other people gathered there.
l’Envoi
Within minutes an ambulance stopped
and I started feeling guilty about laughing
while they laid him down,
tried to help him in vain,
pulled a grey blanket over his body and head
and took the bicycle along
on the ride to the morgue.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Tycoon's Testimony
It's a registered mail few days ago,
Oh! What a surprise?
A Philanthropist Tycoon has mentioned my name in his last will.
The poor scribbler struggles much and I leave my Manor by the riverside for him
I have no idea to give some money as his rusty wallet seems to be allergy for currency notes,
He could write more poems facing the river and I wish him best of luck for his future endeavors.
I took the letter and showed it to my next door widowed attorney,
She said; ' Please do not keep much hopes as this could be a racket, anyway you have a bright future that I noticed.'
And she squeezed my fingers secretly.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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