En.Citatepedia^®.ro

When I enrolled to my old school

Yes it's still situated in the same place.
And it's very hard to find.
Surrounding almost changed.
They have flatten with bulldozers all and made skyscrapers around.
A concrete city! But it's situated in the same place.
My old teachers were not there and the belfry hall is very old.
Thatched roof converted to tin sheets and there were few more class rooms.
Mango and Jack-fruit trees no more.
Where were my old friends?
The Principal is my friend's son
Who was surprised?
When I asked that I want to enroll.

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Progress (a concrete jungle)

Cloudy green
Lush Forest, made
of the stuff
dreams are made of,
a jungle of
culture and
heritage-

now a
city.
Dull grey
buildings, wailing
cries of bustling
cars in the
distance.

Skyscrapers, Skyscrapers
scrape
the
sky.

and the ever-
progressing society
labels it a
Jungle. All
these trucks
and bulldozers,

all part of
the immutable
progression of
Time,
of the long
and dreary
process we call
Development.

And
Skyscrapers, Skyscrapers
they
scrape
the
sky.

poem by Ballerina With Fins
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Matters Of Observation

it is me lying on a bench
reading a book halfway through
the pages

for a break i close the book
earmark a page
and look at the jack fruit treetop
just beside the house

i am on the second floor
and no one is in the house

my wife is visiting a friend
who just arrived from the U.S.

there is no other creature except
a white butterfly hovering
on a sampaguita flower
in the small garden

the tree has more leaves
but it is not bearing any fruit
at all

i am reminded of those years
joys forgotten and now i am reading
a book about some shadows
of doubts
there is this systems that works
of patronage
refunds

i am situated in a plateau
and my Jesuit professor who dropped by
last night with a
'how are you? ' through the YM
must have understood that an
introvert like me has no
place outside
the books

i understand and frankly
i do not have to tell him how i feel about it

inside the pages
the stories are too many
my hero is dead.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To Find A Friend

In the mid dle of his life
He left his wife
And ran off to be bad
Boy, it was sad
But he bought a new car
Found a new bar
And went under another name
Created a whole new game
And the days went by like paper in the wind
E verything changed, then changed again
Its hard to find a friend
Its hard to find a friend
Meanwhile then
His wifes boyfriend moved in and
Took over the house
Everybody was as quiet as a mouse
And it changed their lives
Changed their plans
Slowly they grew apart
Boy, it woulda broke your heart
And the days went by like paper in the wind
Everything changed, then changed again
Its hard to find a friend
Its hard to find a friend
A nd the days went by like paper in the wind
Everything changed, then changed again
Its hard to find a friend
Its hard to find a friend
And the days went by like paper in the wind
Everything changed, then changed again
Its ha rd to find a friend
Its hard to find a friend

song performed by by Tom Petty
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Frank O'Neill

I remember when we were young
Barely taller than our heavy school bags
We used to feel the weight of our lessons
Piling one by one on each of our shoulders
School was tough for us, but there were little things
Such little things that made school fun and exciting

I remember when we were young
We used to wait for the last day of school
Before we would all leave for our Christmas holidays
But it wasn't just to get away from school, no
Because on the last day, we were all treated a show
A show about a genie, which would make us laugh till we cried
Oh how we would talk about this genie
All throughout the year, waiting for this special day
All throughout the ride home, sharing the laughter with friends

I remember when we were young
It was hard to meet up after school with friends
After all, we were just seven-year-olds
But this was made easy for us
Because every season we would have a camp planned for us
Oh I do remember the laughter we've all shared at these camps
The pranks that he would play on us
Waking up in the middle of the night
Marking our faces with ink
Oh the laughter we would all have
To the surprise of seeing all the pictures of our friends
Who were pranked with ink all over their faces
Or the day all our shoes were taken from our rooms
And hidden in a place we just could never find

I remember when we were young
We used to have art lessons - But not any average art lesson
They were lessons where we could be creative
And not just on pencil and paper
But we were taught how to bring any plain object to class
And turn it into wonderful art
In which we would always display our work in the hall

I remember when we were young
Such little things that made school fun and exciting
Its moments like these you keep remembering for the rest of your life
The friendships made - The Laughter shared
Memories forever imprinted in the back of your head
Frank O'Neill was and remains a Great teacher - And a Great man
He has taught for 35 years at our beloved school and served them well
Teachers like him are hard to find, and are what make a school unforgettable
So I would like to take an opportunity to thank Frank O'Neil
But I am not alone, as so would the rest of the school, ex-students and ex-teachers
In which we would like to thank him for making our experience at Stella Maris College
May you enjoy your retirement - A well deserved relaxation for your hard work!

poem by Gabriel Gauci Maistre
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I Asked Him to Blow On It! (My First Kazoo)

I remember when I got my first kazoo,
In those days so slow paced...
I was bored to tears at recess,
When in elementary school.
We were made to think like fools then.
I am convinced of that.

So I brought my kazoo to school.
And sent to the principal's office.
And as I sat,
Watching the principal play with my kazoo.
I asked him to blow on it!
And he proceeded to believe,
I had asked him to do something else.
I had always been perceptive.
That's why in those days I was bored to tears.

So I cried!
Hating the thought of being sent,
To the principal's office!

I told one of my friends about that.
And within days...
I saw my friend's father,
Not shake...
But hold the principal's hand!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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To The State...

the distance between two decisions
is heaven and earth
i am situated between these two extremes
i belong to that spot
where compromises are made
i am but
a compromise too
my nature speaks a lot about this and that
and this space in between
i live here
in this place where people wear two faces
we have four hands
and four feet
but we do not display them
we fear you.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In View of the Biblical Zoo

Over the tree line towards the valleys end
Abed Abed-Rabbo raises a hand
The farm he surveys, his father's before him
Has been past down for generations in keeping with custom

In view of the Biblical Zoo
A farm of olives trees is a refreshing contrast
Against an imposing backdropp of urban concrete
And an ever expanding city complex

But because of the need for living space
This established ecosystem is being replaced
And Abed Abed-Rabbo is now forced to abdicate
His precious Olive farm, with its one room sleeping cave

Against urban sprawl and concrete walls
Alone one man can not possibly stand
And any amount of compensation cannot match
The resulting environmental impact

Even if it appears we live comfortably
In reality it is, pseudo-security
Without air or water quality
In an ever expanding city

© Calac

Abed Abed-Rabbo – A Palestinian farmer,48, inherited his farm full of olive trees overlooking the Jerusalem Biblical Zoo from his father and his grandfather.
The property in the village of Wallajeh, is situated on the southern edge of Jerusalem.
A decision to annex his farm full of olive trees into the city has been proposed due to the demand for apartment living space

poem by Chris Lane
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This city has many public squares, in which are situated the markets and other places for buying and selling.

quote by Hernando Cortes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Beautiful Balmerino

Beautiful Balmermo on the bonnie banks of Tay,
It's a very bonnie spot in the months of June or May;
The scenery there is charming and fascinating to see,
Especially the surroundings of the old Abbey,

Which is situated in the midst of trees on a rugged hill,
Which visitors can view at their own free will;
And the trees and shrubberies are lovely to view,
Especially the trees on each side of the avenue

Which leads up to the Abbey amongst the trees;
And in the summer time it's frequented with bees,
And also crows with their unmusical cry,
Which is a great annoyance to the villagers that live near by.

And there in the summer season the mavis sings,
And with her charming notes the woodland rings;
And the sweet-scented zephyrs is borne upon the gale,
Which is most refreshing and invigorating to inhale.

Then there's the stately Castle of Balmerino
Situated in the midst of trees, a magnificent show,
And bordering on the banks o' the silvery Tay,
Where visitors can spend a happy holiday.

As they view the castle and scenery around
It will help to cheer their spirits I'll be bound;
And if they wish to view Wormit Bay
They can walk along the braes o' the silvery Tay.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Our School

From rain and sun shielding
There is a grand building
It is our school
Situated beside a pool
It is always full
With we little fool
And teachers are very careful
With pomp and slendour
Our school is a wonder
We enjoy and make fun
From class to ground we run
Weather is cool
And we go to school
From our home
To play game
Sing hymn bell's chime
And learn rhyme
Shashikant Nishant Sharma 'साहिल'

poem by Shashikant Nishant Sharma
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The Unusual Cradle Of Fun

'school is fun', seemed
weird coming out of a
4th grader.
ask why and you'll have
it crisp, 'i have friends
and teachers are game'.
she reaches 8 grade and
fights over petty issues
then her friends come up
and provide her, with tissues.
think, this is cool?
but now thats the end
friends leave school
and she is left alone
they changed her class
they altered her interest
the one who cut classes
, now sat in those rooms
sans friends, sans fun
sans company, sans everything

from fun and learn,
it changed to bore and learn
inspiration is worth nothing
family gave her something,
probably the last hope to survive,
to learn and adjust;
now fun was only family;

'school is not fun', now seemed
weird coming out of a 10th grader.

poem by Taanya Khanna
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Jack

YOU'RE only a dumb little dog, Jack,
About ten or twelve pounds or so,
And your wits must be all in a fog, Jack,
If you have any wits, I know.
But you've two such soft brown eyes, Jack,
5
And such long grey silky hair;
And, what very much more I prize, Jack,
Such a warm little heart in there.
They say warm hearts are rare, Jack,
And I almost believe that it's true;
10
But there ar'n't many hearts can compare, Jack,
With that staunch little heart in you.
Of course, we that speak and can read, Jack,
Have plenty of friendships sweet;
But, in spite of them all, there's a need, Jack,
15
For a friend like the friend at my feet.
This planet must seem a queer place, Jack,
To your poor little limited mind;
For I fancy you never can trace, Jack,
The reasons for half that you find.
20

You're not bothered with questions like us, Jack,
About forces and morals and laws;
And you never get worried or fuss, Jack,
When you cannot discover a cause.
But you go your own little way, Jack,
25
With a wag of the tail for a friend;
And in spite of our talk, I dare say, Jack,
That we don't do much more in the end.

poem by Frederick George Scott
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Deceiving World.

Try to catch,
But couldn't catch,
Seen as small and big fish,
Then too strong for their hooks,
Swimming under the new city mall,
Swimming under silver bird gallery,
Swimming under the theatre gallery
Where it called to be situated,
In the island of Nigeria Africa.
Asked where is the world,
Deceiving world its means?
Answers in illusion and delusion,
Tried but hid in tenacious pretense,
pretense of long slavery,
Pretense in standard,
Pretense of self interest,
Pretense of wickedness,
Try to catch,
Too strong for the hooks,
Seen as small and big fish,
Swimming in the island,
Swimming under Museum center,
Swimming under cultured and tour-isms,
Where its called to be situated,
In the world of blacks and white,
In the island of Africa.
Asked where is the world,
Deceiving world its means?
ILLUSION, WICKEDNESS, GREED AND HATRED founds,
Appears answers for reality,
Reality of seconds, Movement, distractions, and player hitters,
Called and seen a deceiving world,
Asked where is the world of the deceits,
At levels of a canteen,
Deceiving world at classrooms,
Deceiving world world of movement,
Deceiving world of called percussionists,
Deceiving world indeed and not fiction called.

poem by Bunmi Orogun Samuel
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Weep In a Flowerless Place

I walk on the rubble
Hard city concrete
Amid spaced-apart
Solitary trees
In the sad, grey afternoon
Autumn rain,
My shoes are weary and worn
Going down the ancient avenues
Where I paced myself
Broken-hearted a hundred times before.

I’m hungry for love and hope,
But live on the pointless stale bread
Of defeated, lingering memories
And impossible dreams that resurface
With cackling voices of mockery.
If my special friend could find me today,
She would weep in a flowerless place
For what has become of me.

poem by Uriah Hamilton
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~~~Why divide....? ? ? ? ~~~

Moon illuminates
World with silver rays
Make no division
Thatched roof or concrete roof tops
Rich or poor; strong or weak.

T ender breeze
Refreshes the earth
No divisions
Thatched huts or concrete palace
Sandy desert or rain forest
Soothing living being
No divisions!

Harmony of the wild
With trumpets of tuskers
Cuckoos; bells of deers
To the rhythm of
Gibbering monkeys & croaking frogs
Has no restrictions
Rich or poor
Strong or weak

Nature has no restriction; No divisions
Yet, human being’s towards divisions
Continue to divide, endless divisions
Colours, ethnicity, north or South
Developed- 3rd world
Even divide “God”
My god is not my rivals’
What a pity?

Trees produce oxygen
For all living being
We never breathe our own “oxygen”
Little realize I breathe what you exhale
Why we divide …
Why we hide …
The reality of life
Leaving the pride.

poem by Kolitha Lelwala
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A Place From Our Childhood

There is a place from our childhood;
we like to visit now and then,
to recapture our youth,
through the years that has slipped away.
A place that has a magic touch,
even through the years it has changed.
A place where sunshine,
still dances on the water
of rippling waves.
Where the wildlife still gather,
free from harm.
A place of solitude,
where you can find
a little peace of mind.
A place within a city that has not
been strangled by any human hand.
Somewhere you can while time away,
with dreams of another day.

poem by David Harris
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Death of My Childhood Place

I miss the place so much
where I could climb trees
ate star apples and green mangoes
from fruit trees near our house

bath in the river
made a raft
out from banana or bamboo trunk
go boating with my brother
and enjoyed swimming in the river

Where we made a makeshift dam
got some catfish
or played with the tadpoles
and shooed away the frogs

and on rainy day
played with my childhood friend
creating pots and anything from the mud
forming clay vases and figurines
and enjoy the drizzles of the rain

But father sold the place
and we moved to an urban zone
where trees don’t bear fruits
and fruits are not on trees but in groceries.
and clays are beneath the cemented road
and during rainy days
people will not go out
and everyone seems so busy on
their business and their job

so in grief of my childhood place
and gone with it is my childhood stage

poem by Champs Ulysses Cabinatan
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My Sweet School

School is where one learns,
Kowledge is what one earns,
Teachers, friends are a part of school,
Without them, a school, isnt a school,

A teacher's duty is to teach,
And a student's duty is to breach,
When parents get the complain,
The teacher's trust then, gets hard to retain,

Oh! It's recess,
But to her heart there is no access,
Boy tries to impress girl,
But oh! She's a knurl,

Recess is over and class has resumed,
Next exam, God! I am doomed,
I know I won't pass,
Coz I know Im a bass,

Walking back home in the evening,
It feels like my stress is lessening,
Im happy to be home,
Coz there is every place to roam,

Back to school, early in the morning,
I see it is snowing,
I'm back to a place of learning,
Knowlegde is what Im earning,

School is a source of knowlegde,
The best part in my life is being at this stage,
It includes everything,
And it lacks nothing,

Teachers, friends are a part of a school,
Without which a school isn't a school..............

poem by Sherbanu Molu
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My city hall

At the foot of my city hall lay stairs to nowhere
My city hall holds flags that have lost meaning
It’s become a place for bureaucrats to lay waste in my city
No open doors for citizens so where do I go
With my problems a glass bottle may work
But it won’t float where needed
But maybe the finder can do more than me
Because my city hall isn’t open to the public

poem by Ronald Speight
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Reminiscences of Our Alma Mater Silver Jubilee Meet of '87 Batch of PSGIMS&R

A quarter century has gone,
Since we had become medicos!
We can't believe the fleeting time
That changed us, and the world around.

Those years when we had joined this place,
It was not full of comforts much;
But now our Alma Mater is
A med-city within city!

How time has changed the landscape past!
New blocks have sprung up very fast;
A few teachers who taught us here
Remain slogging for students dear!

The knowledge they had shared with us
Has made us whatever we are;
We thank our teachers dear from heart,
Who lit the lamps in our lives then.

The campus brings us ev'rgreen thoughts
Of days when we were students here;
Despite the toil and struggles past,
We are better than what we'd thought!

We see our teachers somewhat old;
Whatev'r they told us was like gold;
We see our batchmates' kith and kin;
Our life on earth has been a win!

Our hearts are filled with emotions
Of pleasant thoughts of our stay here;
Though we may change akin fashions,
Our love for Alma Mater's clear!

We thank the Management, Trustees,
Who did so much to make us, Docs;
We thank those who helped treat disease,
And God, who made us priceless rocks!

Our job on earth is just begun;
We love to serve our sick brethren;
There are more good things to be done;
We want to make our earth, heaven!

poem by John Celes
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