A wearisome toothless crippled horse in watercolour
I quit my habitual smoking,
Not that I do not like it or health wise
Because I am not in a position to afford
And I dreamed of my new job in the land of opportunity.
I myself keep on standing nearby a decayed post office as a mail box
And my pale scrappy tongue oust as a moisturizer for stamps and envelopes.
Precious time runs like an unicorn and end of the month the weighty rent creeps like a venomous serpent.
Light, water and gas bills
This and that taps my head like a woodpecker.
What a sad brief sleep and a long non-stop run to earn?
Oh! I am almost tired my dearest
And this 'Work horse' really needs a rest either in a rickety stable.
*I humbly dedicate this poem to all my poet friends and the Attorney-at-law Mr.Surjit.Singh who appears for my political asylum case.
Postscript
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in life, the days are no more!
(Alfred, Lord Tennyson[1089-1892])
-Tears, Idle tears-
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The Princess: A Medley: Tears, Idle Tears
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a summering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tears, Idle Tears
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Post Box
Dear friends,
The post box holds our dreams,
our hopes, our ambitions, our worries,
It take messages to far off places,
pays bills, consoles loved ones
in foreign parts.
Once inside, that little envelope
cannot be withdrawn or cancelled,
it will fly off in the arms of the
Royal Mail to its destination,
quickly, efficiently.
Thousands like it,
little white envelopes,
little brown envelopes,
small and large and buff
envelopes
and a few small boxes
squeezed into that red pillar box
where dreams slumber
and worries fester
and gifts glitter.
Dear George,
My most precious friend, I'm so sorry for you loss
Dear Sir,
I'm happy to accept the position
Dear Ann,
I'm so sorry I won't be able to come
Dear Mum,
I'll be home for Christmas
Dear Tom,
Please accept my condolences
Dear Jane,
I feel it's time for me to retire
Dear Santa,
So many messages, so many lives……..
poem by Ruth Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wild At Heart
Sometimes I wish there were two of me
One to stay at home, the other runs free
One man to hold you, the other's long gone
Chasing the girls, laughing til dawn
Chorus:
I'm just wild at heart
This battle is raging inside
This double fantasy tears me apart
I'm wild at heart
I'm wild at heart
I can't fill this hole in my life
The bottom is endlessly deep
You're the lucky one 'cause you know who you want
And I wrestle demons alone while you sleep
(Chorus)
Love your way and the things that you say
But this loneliness creeps in my mind
I should be happy to live out this life
But it feels like I'm running out of time
(Chorus)
song performed by by Edwin McCain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The fading tattered figure of my far away old friend
Dearest friend Nimal,
I too feel the cool breeze of Christmas through the broken windows in an isolated hospital here.The sickness wasn't diagnosed yet; but I am sick once again.I dreamed a Santa Claus that resembles you my dear, but in reality, I understand the distance between us.Please try to respond to this letter soon at least in few lines as my days are numbered it seems.I enclosed here a poem that I am sure you grab as a keepsake.
Thanks & best regards
sincerely,
a friend in tears
Postscript
[ This is a Chinese old poem written by an unknown poet translated into English by Arthur Waley]
A man went to war when he was fifteen years of age.When he returned home he was eighty.On the way he met a man from his village and asked him where his house was and who was at home.He showed him the house a deserted place all covered with trees and bushes.
Rabbits had run in at the dog hole
And pheasants flew down from the beams of the roof.
In the courtyard was growing some wild grain; And by the wells some wild mellows.
Plucked the mellows and made soup.
But there is no one to eat them with.
While tears fell and wetted my clothes.
*A report to my silent friend Dave Tanguay
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Sonnet-Time is Most Precious
The time given by god is most precious;
One can’t afford to waste by any means;
Yet, God has been to everyone gracious;
He watches always all the earthly scenes.
There is no time to feel jealous or fight;
There is no time to waste in gambling games;
There is no time to sleep enough at night;
There is no time to achieve many aims.
There is no time to love your neighbor/ hate;
There is no time to wonder why or find;
There is no time to earn enough or mate;
There is no time to work or rest your mind.
So, make the best use of your precious time;
Love God, His creatures; make your life sublime.
poem by John Celes
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Sonnet: Time Is Most Precious
The time given by God is most precious;
One can’t afford to waste by any means;
Yet, God has been to everyone gracious;
He watches always all the earthly scenes.
There is no time to feel jealous or fight;
There is no time to waste in gambling games;
There is no time to sleep enough at night;
There is no time to achieve many aims.
There is no time to love your neighbor/hate;
There is no time to wonder why or find;
There is no time to earn enough or mate;
There is no time to work or rest your mind.
So, make the best use of your precious time;
Love God, His creatures: make your life sublime.
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wild Horse
(r. stewart/a. taylor)
Born and raised
In a motel in new orleans
I ran away
With a hobo and his gypsy friends
We rode a freight train up to cleveland
Across the utah plains
Proud men, troubadours torn and frayed
Sleeping under the stars
While gently strumming guitars
Played the songs of woddy guthrie
And the open road
I knew right then I could never go home
Cause the wild horse runs free forever
Oh yeah, a wild horse runs free forever
And ever and ever
I met a girl
From a family of position and wealth
What a hand
This rambler had been finally dealt
A beauty six years and ten
I felt the walls closing in
Like a swollen river
Bout to overflow
Like a losing gambler I kept on rolling
And a wild horse runs free forever
Yeah yeah yeah
A wild horse runs free forever
The wild horse runs free forever
Yeah yeah yeah
A wild horse runs free forever
Play the guitar
So understand I must go
But Ill drink you one last toast
Oh heres to the heart
And the hands of a man
That come with the dust
And are gone with the wind
May the wild horse run free forever
Yeah the wild horse runs free forever
The wild horse runs free forever
Yeah the wild horse run free forever
Wild guitar, baby, come on, wild
I know, I know, I know, I know
Play it for me, come on.
Yeah, hit it. yeah yeah. let me hear it, yeah.
The wild horse run free ...
song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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October the Post Office Cat
Some thought she was a stray
That had come for scraps along the way
That might be left from the lunch
Of the post office staff; a kindly bunch.
But others knew her for what she was,
October the Post Office Cat.
She had a duty like any employee
To be on time and serve the public daily
And as any other as all know,
Had an official position just so.
October the Post Office Cat.
As soon as the walks were swept
And the doors were opened for the daily visits,
She found her space upon the walk
A bit removed so that none would balk
As they came to do their task or mail whatever.
October the Post Office Cat.
She often times was given the duty
Of minding some child whose custodian
Had business to attend
In dealing with the letters or packages within,
So she laid there carefully in the sun
Till end of day when her work was done.
October the Post Office Cat.
She was known by all who came along that way
Parking carefully throughout the day
Making sure that she was not disturbed
As she, her duties did perform.
Watching and listening to the sounds of pleasure
That only can be bestowed on one to treasure.
Yet adults knew not how to measure.
October the Post Office Cat.
On the post across the way
A yellow sign was placed on display
By the lady who ran the insurance office
Who wanted to be sure that others notice
That this was the path taken each day
As the cat came to begin her official stay.
October the Post Office Cat.
There came a time when she did not appear
And it was certainly a time to fear
That something had befallen this special one
Who worked so hard to please everyone
And the sign was removed so that all would know
That she wouldn't be there anymore.
October the Post Office Cat.
Then mysteriously the sign reappeared
On the post for all to read
Which proclaimed that this was the crossing
Reserved for the cat that all were missing.
And it's said that she comes each day
Although never seen by adults on their way
But the children know that she is there.
October the Post Office Cat.
poem by Sidi J. Mahtrow
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The Princess: A Medley: As thro' the land
As thro' the land at eve we went,
And pluck'd the ripen'd ears,
We fell out, my wife and I,
O we fell out I know not why,
And kiss'd again with tears.
And blessings on the falling out
That all the more endears,
When we fall out with those we love
And kiss again with tears!
For when we came where lies the child
We lost in other years,
There above the little grave,
O there above the little grave,
We kiss'd again with tears.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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First Thoughts
So here I go
Im just going to write whatever comes to mind
The first thoughts in my head
Is dame its like 5: 30 in the morning
And I havent gone to sleep yet
Thank god I dont have to work tomorrow
My eye lids are getting tired
I keep on yawning it just wont stop
I can see the sky now
I sun is starting to rise
Aww the fresh smell of morning dew
The birds are cherping
The newspaper is thrown at my door
Startles my dogs they bark twice
Lay back down and lay there head to rest
Oh how that looks so comfortable
I just want to lay down
Yet I cant get the motivation to get up
Maybe ill just sleep right here
Rest my head on my desk
While this music runs through my head
I can barely move this pen now
I cant think of anything to say now
So here I go
It's off to day dreaming land
5-14-06
Ashley O
poem by Ashley Olson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Here Comes The Tears
Once I dreamed that love would come and sweep me up away
Now it seems lifes passed me by, Im still alone today
Here come the tears
Looks like itll always be the same
No one here to comfort me
Here come the tears
All alone, no one cares.
So much to give to you all out there.
Take me now, in your arms.
Let me rest, safe from harm.
Ohhh.... I want to be loved...
I need to be loved...
Wont somebody love me....
(solo)
Here they come, here come the tears...
Here they come, here come the tears...
Here they come, here come the tears...
Here they come, here come the tears...
Here they come, here come the tears...
Here they come, here come the tears...
Here they come, here come the tears...
Here they come, here come the tears...
Here they come, here come the tears...
Here they come, here come the tears... *
(* repeat two more times in background)
Here come the tears...
Here come the tears...
Here come the tears...
Here come the tears...
Here come the tears, ohhh
Here come the tears, ohhh
Here come the tears
song performed by by Judas Priest
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mail-Box
As you arrive in the morning
To your office, my dear
And check your mails
Without doubt you know
I’ll be there for you
Waiting to give you
The mail of the day.
May be a poem
Or a prose -
A quote or a photo
That touches me…
And I would wish to
Share with you.
Or as ever before
Like I write everyday
My Diary of yesterday.
You may read in a hurry
As you always do
For you may have
Many other
Errands to run to.
Yet, my dear
Let me say it to you
That all my letters
And words to you
Are written with care
And the precious time
That I love to spend
Writing to you…
It’s been like this
For the past many years
And I hope it would be
For many, many years
When you open your
Mail-Box
And find in it
Amongst all your mails
A letter from me.
Everyday, every morning
For all those years
Till the day you retire
From your daily
Commuting…
To that very same Office
Of your 20 years.
And the day you retire
After your service
Of two decades more
You’ll have some nice
Memories
Of working together
With your colleagues
Many sour ones too
Of those meetings
That failed
Those deadlines
That derailed
And some good savings
Of your life of work
And a repertoire of friends
That stayed with you
Through all these years…
May be in one of those
Bitter-sweet memories
You might remember me
That mail-box girl
Who used to write to you
So very diligently
Every day of her life
To feel close to you
To be as near you
As much as she could
From many miles away
With a lonely, longing heart
And so many words to say.
For she couldn’t be your wife,
Neither your mistress
Nor be at your side
As you struggled and you hobbled
Through your life’s major strifes.
She could only be
A mute witness -
To all what you endured.
She could feel the stresses
And the strains
Of those sleepless nights
That eating outside
Those early morning wake-ups
Of your tours and travels
Like a vagabond
Trying to balance it out
Between work and home.
And they say: You are Married.
Married to your wife
Or your company, I guess.
For most of your time
Is taken away
By those tours
And your travels
Of a working life
Sans your wife
Beside you…
On many such nights
And busy days too
When you would rather
Be a husband to your wife
Than be a work-horse
All your Life.
And slog and slog and slog…
Thinking you are indispensable
For your company.
Yet that day would dawn on you
As it comes for every man
When he realises
That the company whom he
Worked for
Cared for more than his family
That very same company
To survive and thrive
In this world of the Fittest
Goes seeking young-blood
And leaves you aside.
And at the end of the day
You then do realise
Was it really worth
Giving those extra hours
Everyday
To your office over-time
And missing out on
Your wife’s
Diary for the Day
Or all what your son
Had to Say
To a Daddy-Dear
He could hardly get to see.
As a friend of yours,
A well-wisher too
And in this one of my
Many mails
That I write everyday
To you…
I would suggest you:
Take care of your wife
Be with your son
For these are the days
You would miss very often
When you grow old
And look back
In retrospection
And find that those
Glorious days you spent
Upgrading your career
Position and status
In the Office.
Those will go one day
And someone else
Would take your place
And the company would
Still survive without you
As it has done
With people coming and going
In all such big MNCs
Yet once your wife
Grows old
And your son grows up too,
You’ll miss these “good old” days
When you missed seeing your son
Growing up
Into the young lad
He would become one day.
And your wife would also feel
As If -
She has grown too old, too soon
For neither youth was on her side
Nor the time
She wished to cherish
With you, in her conjugal life.
So her youth and her time
Both awaited you
As the hope of life
Awaits a dying woman
On her Death-Bed.
As for me, My Love
I’ve never had the Fate
To live with you
And would probably never have
The Destiny
To share with you
My Life.
And yet, the woman out there
Your betrothed wife
Is a woman like me
And your son out there
Is also like the son
I’ve borne in me…
So, I would always love you
To have a happy family
Take care of them, my love
And be with them
As often as you can.
For a job may come,
A job may go…
Yet a wife once lost
Or a son gone forever
Won’t come back to you
However much you repent
Or regret
Later on…
Thinking of the Whys and Hows
Of the jobs that you did
The tours and the travels
And the over-time
Your company Fixed
For you.
Always Remember…
You are married to your wife
And not to your company.
And your son needs
The “Daddy-Dear” in you
Even if he may not tell you
Often, every day.
So Care, Share
And Be There
For Them…
Trust Me – You’ll get many more returns
And far more contentment
As you look back
Over the years…
Of all those precious moments
You spent with your family
Than going for power, position
Fame and money
And being a lap-dog to your Company
By running after them.
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Facebooking
had the chance of meeting Kaye
still at the agriculture department
no promotion yet happy
nothing new really except
this meeting
me too, nothing new, except
this conversation
of who what where when
then we stop
as it is time to go
the office closes at five pm
and we have to find
our way home
it will be dark
and there will be dinner with the family
then we watch tv
after being tired we turn it off
sleep
then dream and then we wake up
early the next morning
back to work
such routine such boredom
yet we still like to live more days
this is life perhaps
nothing new except
the meetings of old friends
then back to work again
i know you are bored reading this
precisely, precisely, now you must feel the same too
at least
in this boring poem
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Last Love Song
Precious Family... Dearest Family...
Love's... sweet.... message....I impart....
May loves's.. spirt...pure... and fervid.....
Enter...every... troubled heart.........
Carry there...love's swift conviction....
Turning back...those... tear filled life's....
Precious Family... Dearest Family.....
May love....In our souls.. abide..........
Precious Family.... Dearest family....
I am weak...... but love..is strong..........
Love.. has.....infinite compassion.......
To stem the tides... of pain's.... and wrong's.....
Love keep's... its arms.... around me........
Love keep's..... me... in the narrow.. way......
Precious Family....Dearest family........
Let us never... from love... stray............
Precious Family... Dearest Family....
Love will bind.....those broken.... hearts.....
So let..not sorrows... over.. whelm..us.....
Dry the bitter tears.... that smart.....
Love curbs the winds.. calms the bil....lows
Oh bid.... this angry tempest... cease......
Precious Family.... My Dearest Family
Love gave me... everlasting.....peace.....
One day if my family should ever read this, or if anyone else should?
I want them to know that, only with true love, can we turn back those life's of abuse...! You see abuse has held my family in a prison, that has no bars! No cells! No doors! So....
Maybe one day they will understand
This dream of mine
How great and glorious, love complete
They'll find
For redemption, forgiveness
It is true love's grand design
For when and where
Justice, love and mercy meet.
Its a harmony - So- devine
And fact is
Love is the only dream of mine
So love marks my path and leads my way
For my pains and tears, at every point
Love re-de-fines
To light and life and endless summer days
Love is this dream... of mine....
poem by Clyde Bryson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tired
(toby keith/chuck cannon)
My name is jackson, I was named after my father
Followed in his footsteps, down here to this factory
I aint complainin, wouldnt waste my breath to bother
This work aint hard, its only borin as can be
Married rebecca back in seventy-seven
I still love her and I guess she loves me too
We go to church on sundays cause we want to go to heaven
Me and my family, aint that how youre supposed to do
But Im tired, lord Im tired
Life is wearin me smooth down to the bone
No rest for the weary, ya just move on
Tired, lord Im tired
Ive only missed six days in nigh on twenty years o work
The money went to taxes and these bills Ive paid on time
The raise I got two months ago dont meet the cost o living
Selling my body for these nickels and these dimes
The smell of beckys coffee rolled me out of bed this morning
I showered and shaved and dressed and pulled my work boots on
Walked in the kitchen, she was starin out the window
The way she said good morning made me ask is something wrong
She said Im tired, woke up tired
Life is wearin me smooth down to the bone
No rest for the weary, ya just move on
I guess you just keep goin till your gone
Tired, lord Im tired
Tired, lord Im tired
song performed by by Toby Keith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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God is GOOD.
somehow it is not all
about love, it will be sometimes a shame
if you
know all about these
i must tell you since i am about to burst
and i can be a disaster
i do not want a world annihilated
by my silence
i will say a word and i will not stop right there
i will describe a place there is a bridge there
between us
the boat is in my hand i will carry it to you
you will sleep like the water
i love it and i see it i am mesmerized
it sees me but it does not feel it keeps on doing what it does
it stops finally like a movie
and i the fanatic haVE to arrive at my senses and sing my song
the wall hears it and wants to shed tears
it is a very lonely song that even the wood can easily understand
i must stop telling you
my lips are shameless and my head is about to crack
there is an understanding and it is inside the heart of
our solitude
now you understand but i am not walking away
i am staying in the name of life and its colors
let the man in black wait
as i begin to count my fingers for the last days of my life
the boat is ready and the weather is fine
the afternoon is cold like wood with misty dress
i am writing a letter to my best friend who died
a month ago
and i am telling him i am staying for a while
i put the famous postscript that i keep on reminding him
when he was alive stormed in so much depression
life is beautiful
God is good.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Most Famous I Am Poem
The most famous I Am poem was penned by John Clare
When he was in Northampton mental asylum and burdened by care
A poem from all others that set him apart
For life's poor and forsaken a cry from the heart,
A poem by an aged poet lost in the lost years
The most famous I Am poem move many to tears
A poem written by one who knew about despair
That poem his reality such poems are rare
The most famous I Am poem tells of an Earthly Hell
Known by the fringe dwellers the mentally unwell
The song of an old poet forsaken and gray
The truth in his words is still living today
And though the renowned old wordsmith to the reaper long gone
His famous I Am poem it is living on.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Poem Is Just A Poem
a poem is just a poem and if it is just a poem
it must be just a poem just like another poem
a poem is nothing but just a poem otherwise
it cannot be my poem; it may speak about
anything, or something, or about everything,
but my poem is just a poem just like anybody's
poem, which is just but a poem, like any other
poem, for a poem to be a poem it must just be
a poem: it has nothing to do with my love, and death
my life, or bliss, but as i have told you, once, twice
thrice, eat some rice, and be that wise, a poem is
just a poem, just like your poem. Why do you insist
on asking, what is happening to me? I am not a
poem, for i am but just the composer of the poem,
need i tell you again, that a poem is just a poem?
just like any other poem, which is just a poem
it is just a voice in my head that i have heard
someone comes and speaks and i listen so
this poem is not actually my poem but the poem
of someone else's: theirs not mine, from a mind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This is a poem....
This isn't a poem of one direction,
This is a poem about perfection.
This isn't a poem about who won the election,
This is a poem about correction.
This isn't a poem of getting it right,
This is a poem of standing up to fight.
This isn't a poem of being lost like a kite,
This is a poem about trying to find the light.
This isn't a poem of running tears,
This is a poem about chasing your fears.
This isn't a poem of love and hate,
This is a poem of destiny and fate.
This isn't a poem of the end,
This is a poem of a heart unable to mend.
This isn't a poem of cruilty and pain,
This is a poem of a thng i need to gain.
This isn't a poem of shame,
This is a poem of fame.
Thsi isn't a poem of the life i let loose,
THIS IS A POEM OF THE TRUTH.
poem by Tammie LilAimo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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