3%
3%
My shirt is torn I’m bloodied by thorns of anger. The bushes by the narrow track
are almost covering It, I tried to fight my way trough, the maze but lost. I have to
leave this territory to its own device; it will not listen to my 3% growth rate as
they expand at will. Born free, just like the Taliban. I could have made a nice
suburban garden here, one with rules, respect for law & order with democratic
trimmed hedges, soft lawn and palm trees, palms tend to decorate resorts, they
lend dignity to places that charge a lot of money so city dwellers can enjoy tame
nature with their Martinis. Palm trees have good genes, perfect education, Eton,
the rest of us are trained apes, we pick the coco nuts stand in awe, we admire
our exploiters. I walk in our town’s park now, gardeners keep, it trim, it’s as lovely
as unwritten postcards bought at a tourist route that has a growth rate of 3 %.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Related quotes
Palm trees
There’s palm trees that grows in a row
down Nelson Mandela drive
and I wonder how they survive
and are full of life and vibrance,
while the one or other pest
destroys the rest of the palm trees
and eats them from the inside
and my neighbour’s palm
is yellow brown and dead.
poem by Gert Strydom
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America's growth historically has been fueled mostly by investment, education, productivity, innovation and immigration. The one thing that doesn't seem to have anything to do with America's growth rate is a brutal work schedule.
quote by Fareed Zakaria
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Free Yourself and Let It Go
Deflated ego?
You think I say the things I do to you,
To deflate your ego?
I am hoping my assistance,
Helps you get rid of it.
And seeing no benefit in being limited.
And that's what your ego has done!
Made you believe you are number one.
And everything you do is correct.
Without a self examination...
Needed to allow you to live your best yet.
Deflated ego?
I may say some things to you that upsets.
I may even criticize something you do,
You accept as your best.
I might even attempt to strip,
That façade you charade.
Since it's your ego that has you 'tripped'...
When you see it for what it is,
You will realize your greatness has nothing to do with it.
In fact it is keeping you,
Inflated with bs and other nonsense.
Deflate your ego?
You think I do that,
From a threat I feel.
To diminish you in some way...
So I would have a greater appeal?
And deflating your ego would give me thrills?
You need to free yourself and let it go.
If you believe that keeping it,
Inspires a greater you with heights to reach!
Free yourself and let it go.
That ego you've got stunts your growth!
Free yourself and let it go.
That ego you've got stunts your growth!
Free yourself and let it go.
That ego you've got stunts your growth!
Stunts your growth!
Stunts your growth!
That ego you've got stunts your growth!
Stunts your growth!
Stunts your growth!
That ego you've got stunts your growth!
Stunts your growth!
Stunts your growth!
That ego you've got stunts your growth!
Stunts your growth!
Stunts your growth!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Growth Rate
Two-digit growth rate
Is essential for
Least developed countries
To come out of
Vicious circle of poverty
Within a short timeframe
But it’s not the only precondition
For higher standard of living
Of the people
Since if a LDC achieve
Two-digit growth rate
But its majority of people remain poor
The country is considered
Under-developed
Therefore
The LDCs should try their best
To eliminate unemployment
And pseudo-unemployment
As much as possible
And as soon as possible
Moreover
The LDCs should establish
Enough educational institutes
And vocational training centers
In order to meet
Requirement of skilled laborer
In home and abroad
poem by Asif Andalib
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God's Garden
God made a beatous garden
With lovely flowers strown,
But one straight, narrow pathway
That was not overgrown.
And to this beauteous garden
He brought mankind to live,
And said: 'To you, my children,
These lovely flowers I give.
Prune ye my vines and fig trees,
With care my flowerets tend,
But keep the pathway open
Your home is at the end.'
Then came another master,
Who did not love mankind,
And planted on the pathway
Gold flowers for them to find.
And mankind saw the bright flowers,
That, glitt'ring in the sun,
Quite hid the thorns of av'rice
That poison blood and bone;
And far off many wandered,
And when life's night came on,
They still were seeking gold flowers,
Lost, helpless and alone.
O, cease to heed the glamour
That blinds your foolish eyes,
Look upward to the glitter
Of stars in God's clear skies.
Their ways are pure and harmless
And will not lead astray,
Bid aid your erring footsteps
To keep the narrow way.
And when the sun shines brightly
Tend flowers that God has given
And keep the pathway open
That leads you on to heaven.
poem by Robert Frost
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Nature's Friends
Their protests loggers and sawmillers don't please
But to those noble souls who fight to save the trees
One well might say respect is overdue
On Nature's behalf such great work they do
The loggers and sawmillers have been known to say
That all tree huggers in jails should be locked away
For when they come to protest in the State owned wood
They are interfering with their livelihood.
Still for their livelihood there's a huge price to pay
As most of the old growth forests have been cut away
And if the loggers say that they too for Nature care
Then they ought to go and search for work elsewhere.
For with the balance of Nature they interfere
As due to loss of habitat wild life disappear
And many species of animals and birds becoming rare
And of Nature's ways far too many unaware.
And though the loggers and sawmillers they don't please
I salute all of those who fight to save the trees
They are Nature's friends and respect to them is due
But sad to say that their numbers far too few.
poem by Francis Duggan
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To M.H.
Our walk was far among the ancient trees:
There was no road, nor any woodman's path;
But a thick umbrage--checking the wild growth
Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf
Beneath the branches--of itself had made
A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn,
And a small bed of water in the woods.
All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink
On its firm margin, even as from a well,
Or some stone-basin which the herdsman's hand
Had shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun,
Or wind from any quarter, ever come,
But as a blessing to this calm recess,
This glade of water and this one green field.
The spot was made by Nature for herself;
The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain
Unknown to them; but it is beautiful;
And if a man should plant his cottage near,
Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees,
And blend its waters with his daily meal,
He would so love it, that in his death-hour
Its image would survive among his thoughts:
And therefore, my sweet MARY, this still Nook,
With all its beeches, we have named from You!
poem by William Wordsworth
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Lost Trees
The cutting of trees is distinct for we play,
Escape routes exist to last for generations.
A growth arises in the muddy waters,
Slaves seem to decay as the land alters.
A sane person was a town for the trees,
Pavements in places sensed the crowd;
Tracks for the routes dismayed our coasts,
For travel became a lost cause, a lost religion.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Listen To The Eight Track
(mick, Ive got a...)
There must be one million stories in new york city, the naked city, and this is one of em
I live out on the island, and I got problems
My mom dont like me, cause she says I know sultan(? )
Sitting in the cark park, in my old buick skylark
Getting high, getting high,
Getting high on the eight track
Oh, listen to the eight track
Oh, listen to the eight track
Oh, listen to the eight track
Oh, listen to the eight track
Oh it aint easy, when you gotta survive
Keep on giving death, just to survive
Oh get out into the car park, sitting in my own buick skylark in the dark
Oh, n Ill listen to the eight track
Oh, Ill listen to the eight track
Oh, listen to the eight track
Oh, listen to the eight track
Yeah, cant wind it back
Listen to the eight track
In between the seats, in the cracks
Listen to the eight track
Oh sometimes I get a woman in here
And I put on bruce springsteens new double album
And then, just when everythings getting hot
I start turning the volume right down low
Baby, let me snuggle right next to you
You turned to me sweetly, you know what she said,
She said, turn up the eight track
Oh listen to the eight track
Oh listen to the eight track, aint no winding it back
Listen to the eight track
Listen to the eight track
Listen to the eight track
There must have been about a million stories in new york city, the naked city, and this has been one of them!
song performed by by Ian Hunter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Green Fingers
People have gardens, both large and small,
Whilst flat dwellers have no garden at all.
Some people love to surround their homes
With comical-looking, little garden gnomes.
A few gardens boast fantastic water-features,
Or a large array of stone, woodland creatures.
To make their garden nice, some folk really do try,
Whilst other gardens really are a sight for sore eyes.
Some folk really wish their garden was just not there,
And, about them, they, very obviously, just do not care.
Without a garden, some people would feel really lost,
And they keep them looking nice, whatever the cost.
Some people are blessed: they have green fingers,
And, in their gardens, for hours, they love to linger.
When some people pull on their gardening gloves,
They tend their gardens with such heartfelt love.
People love to spend their time sowing seeds,
Trimming their hedges, and pulling up weeds.
Some tend flower beds, upon bended knee.
Some grow delicious fruit upon their trees.
The gardener's nightmare is the garden pest:
To eradicate them all, they do their best.
Some people love to escape to their sheds,
Where they can think, and clear their heads.
In their gardens, people love to spend time,
But they like it best, when the weather is fine.
When all of their gardening chores are done,
Some people love to sit and relax in the sun.
Time spent in the garden, always really flies;
The benefits of gardening cannot be denied.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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The palm-trees
Palm-trees become frequent victims
Of thunderbolts!
Don’t grow tall like palm-trees;
Sprout and spread your branches …
poem by Asif Andalib
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We all know that China is industrializing at a growth rate of 8 to 10 percent per year. China is on track to pass the U.S. as the largest economy in the world in 20 to 25 years, and China is determined to give its people a chance at this high standard of living that we enjoy.
quote by John Olver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Palm-Tree
Is it the palm, the cocoa-palm,
On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm?
Or is it a ship in the breezeless calm?
A ship whose keel is of palm beneath,
Whose ribs of palm have a palm-bark sheath,
And a rudder of palm it steereth with.
Branches of palm are its spars and rails,
Fibres of palm are its woven sails,
And the rope is of palm that idly trails!
What does the good ship bear so well?
The cocoa-nut with its stony shell,
And the milky sap of its inner cell.
What are its jars, so smooth and fine,
But hollowed nuts, filled with oil and wine,
And the cabbage that ripens under the Line?
Who smokes his nargileh, cool and calm?
The master, whose cunning and skill could charm
Cargo and ship from the bounteous palm.
In the cabin he sits on a palm-mat soft,
From a beaker of palm his drink is quaffed,
And a palm-thatch shields from the sun aloft!
His dress is woven of palmy strands,
And he holds a palm-leaf scroll in his hands,
Traced with the Prophet's wise commands!
The turban folded about his head
Was daintily wrought of the palm-leaf braid,
And the fan that cools him of palm was made.
Of threads of palm was the carpet spun
Whereon he kneels when the day is done,
And the foreheads of Islam are bowed as one!
To him the palm is a gift divine,
Wherein all uses of man combine,--
House, and raiment, and food, and wine!
And, in the hour of his great release,
His need of the palm shall only cease
With the shroud wherein he lieth in peace.
'Allah il Allah!' he sings his psalm,
On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm;
'Thanks to Allah who gives the palm!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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After Rain
Today
I'd like to be a nun
And go and say
My rosary beneath the trees out there.
In this shy sun
The raindrops look like silver beads of prayer.
So blest
Am I, I'd like to tell
God and the rest
Of heaven-dwellers in the garden there
All that befell
Last week. Such gossip is as good as prayer.
Ah well!
I have, since I'm no nun,
No beads to tell,
And being happy must be all my prayer.
Yet 'twould be fun
To walk with God 'neath the wet trees out there.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Christchurch
It’s a small town.
It’s only a suburb.
But it’s a nice suburb.
Sometimes a suburb
can be a nice place to see.
Flowering free kiwi city
of botanic elfin trees.
Cathedral garden
city of New Zealand.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Among the Trees
I wonder lost among the trees
Looking for the one my heart calls for
I wonder lost among the trees
I see your light amongst the dark
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light is brighter then the rest
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light is out of my reach
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light comes closer
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light is bright like an angel from the sky
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light fades away and leaves me alone
I wonder lost among the trees
Without a hand to guide the way
I wonder lost among the trees
Looking for my guiding light
I wonder lost among the trees
I wonder lost, alone
I wonder afraid of the world
Around me I look for the one
I wonder lost among the trees
I wonder lost and alone forever...................................
poem by kelly Martini
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The Peppercorn Tree
Such a nice work of Nature and pretty for to see
And pleasant for to scent it's leaves the peppercorn tree
To look at not unlike the weeping willow it's branches hanging down
A thing of natural beauty in a garden of the town,
The beautiful peppercorn trees have a style of their own
And only natural beauty in Nature's World known
Had i the gift of poetry of Nature i would write
Of things such as the rich green peppercorn tree lovely in the noon sunlight
It never loses it's leaves it is an evergreen
Such lovely things in Nature we take for granted to be seen
The strong though pleasant peppercorn like aroma blown out by the freshening breeze
That blow up from the coastal lands through the peppercorn trees
Such a nice work of Nature or so 'twould seem to me
It does have it's own beauty the peppercorn tree.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Can't leave The Song
(To Tuesday’s gossips)
*
The comparison between Lattakia
and Paris
will not be in favor of Paris!
Not because I am greedy
and there is no limit to my contentment
but because
as you say
to love...
is something
and to fall in love is
Something else.
\
When soil becomes more red
and trees with much riper fruits
If we look through
the window’s break
not from behind
the dimly glass.
Let it rain
and rain
and rain
our hope that the sky would dry up
two minutes away
when we will move down
checking the growth of pillars
and the ascending stairways
to upper floors
in the air.
\
Souvenir photos were taken for us
standing
with our muddy feet
on the trunks of palm trees
uprooted from their far-flung origins
and laid down here
like preys caught alive
snatched straight from traps
Wrapped in wet clothes still
ready to be raised
to save time
like natural columns
with crowns of fronds
in any garden
behind any fence.
...
Wonder what on earth
could we collect
if we climbed their long necks
and tore their earrings!
The city I was born in
and never left
equals - without any bias -
the city I didn’t set my foot in
I have never travelled to any of them.
Because tenderness is
something
and pity is
something else
even when they do nothing except
fill up that narrow space
in which waves were able
to submerge me up to my head,
starting by wetting the sole of my shoes
with heavenly blue water
if I take a little bit of
in the palms of my hands
I see it
blue
blue
however shallow it was.
The judgment will not be
in favor of Paris
or any other city
on the map of our dreams
because it looks like a secret word
Known only to those who
without asking them
are permitted to pass
beneath the arches of its
breasts.
where straight line is almost a miracle
for all what I see
leaned
and twisted
and slipped down
side by side with raindrops
plunging downwards
without finding an escape
on the surface of the glass- lake
that tries its utmost
to avoid me
their images
Nor their voices.
But
in their paleness
They fade away
and with every step
they look back
calling and pointing to me
to follow them.
I who how tightly closed the window
found myself
plastered to car's seat
deep down in my numbness
can not
Leave
the
song..
________________ _________12/6/1998
poem by Monzer Masri
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Images
(1964) nina simone, waring cuney
She does not know
Her beauty,
She thinks her brown body
Has no glory.
If she could dance
Naked,
Under palm trees
And see her image in the river
She would know.
But there are no palm trees
On the street,
And dishwater gives back no images.
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What a Writer Has to Say
It baffles my understanding.
Why would one writer
Ask from another
To give an opinion of what has been created?
It baffles my understanding.
How separate experiences...
With no connection,
Can be thought related?
It baffles my understanding.
When a request is made...
To have another writer read,
And rate
What a writer has to say!
As if what is said...
Would change thoughts
In another's head.
Or expand a point of view.
Isn't that what readers often do...
When they wish to expand their insights too!
But when a writer writes...
Shouldn't those visions,
Be the ones writers pursue?
As narrow or as broad...
With an imagination left,
Unrestricted to cruise!
I am baffled by this...
'Read me, please!
And rate me', business...
Persisted and enlisted.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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