Duino Elegies: The Fourth Elegy
O trees of life, oh, what when winter comes?
We are not of one mind. Are not like birds
in unison migrating. And overtaken,
overdue, we thrust ourselves into the wind
and fall to earth into indifferent ponds.
Blossoming and withering we comprehend as one.
And somewhere lions roam, quite unaware,
in their magnificence, of any weaknesss.
But we, while wholly concentrating on one thing,
already feel the pressure of another.
Hatred is our first response. And lovers,
are they not forever invading one another's
boundaries? -although they promised space,
hunting and homeland. Then, for a sketch
drawn at a moment's impulse, a ground of contrast
is prepared, painfully, so that we may see.
For they are most exact with us. We do not know
the contours of our feelings. We only know
what shapes them from the outside.
Who has not sat, afraid, before his own heart's
curtain? It lifted and displayed the scenery
of departure. Easy to understand. The well-known
garden swaying just a little. Then came the dancer.
Not he! Enough! However lightly he pretends to move:
he is just disguised, costumed, an ordinary man
who enters through the kitchen when coming home.
I will not have these half-filled human masks;
better the puppet. It at least is full.
I will endure this well-stuffed doll, the wire,
the face that is nothing but appearance. Here out front
I wait. Even if the lights go down and I am told:
"There's nothing more to come," -even if
the grayish drafts of emptiness come drifting down
from the deserted stage -even if not one
of my now silent forebears sist beside me
any longer, not a woman, not even a boy-
he with the brown and squinting eyes-:
I'll still remain. For one can always watch.
Am I not right? You, to whom life would taste
so bitter, Father, after you - for my sake -
slipped of mine, that first muddy infusion
of my necessity. You kept on tasting, Father,
as I kept on growing, troubled by the aftertaste
of my so strange a future as you kept searching
my unfocused gaze -you who, so often since
you died, have been afraid for my well-being,
within my deepest hope, relinquishing that calmness,
the realms of equanimity such as the dead possess
for my so small fate -Am I not right?
And you, my parents, am I not right? You who loved me
for that small beginning of my love for you
from which I always shyly turned away, because
the distance in your features grew, changed,
even while I loved it, into cosmic space
where you no longer were...: and when I feel
inclined to wait before the puppet stage, no,
rather to stare at is so intensely that in the end
to counter-balance my searching gaze, an angel
has to come as an actor, and begin manipulating
the lifeless bodies of the puppets to perform.
Angel and puppet! Now at last there is a play!
Then what we seperate can come together by our
very presence. And only then the entire cycle
of our own life-seasons is revealed and set in motion.
Above, beyond us, the angel plays. Look:
must not the dying notice how unreal, how full
of pretense is all that we accomplish here, where
nothing is to be itself. O hours of childhood,
when behind each shape more that the past lay hidden,
when that which lay before us was not the future.
We grew, of course, and sometimes were impatient
in growing up, half for the sake of pleasing those
with nothing left but their own grown-upness.
Yet, when alone, we entertained ourselves
with what alone endures, we would stand there
in the infinite space that spans the world and toys,
upon a place, which from the first beginnniing
had been prepared to serve a pure event.
Who shows a child just as it stands? Who places him
within his constellation, with the measuring-rod
of distance in his hand. Who makes his death
from gray bread that grows hard, -or leaves
it there inside his rounded mouth, jagged as the core
of a sweet apple?.......The minds of murderers
are easily comprehended. But this: to contain death,
the whole of death, even before life has begun,
to hold it all so gently within oneself,
and not be angry: that is indescribable.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Elegy IV
O trees of life, oh, what when winter comes?
We are not of one mind. Are not like birds
in unison migrating. And overtaken,
overdue, we thrust ourselves into the wind
and fall to earth into indifferent ponds.
Blossoming and withering we comprehend as one.
And somewhere lions roam, quite unaware,
in their magnificence, of any weaknesss.
But we, while wholly concentrating on one thing,
already feel the pressure of another.
Hatred is our first response. And lovers,
are they not forever invading one another's
boundaries? -although they promised space,
hunting and homeland. Then, for a sketch
drawn at a moment's impulse, a ground of contrast
is prepared, painfully, so that we may see.
For they are most exact with us. We do not know
the contours of our feelings. We only know
what shapes them from the outside.
Who has not sat, afraid, before his own heart's
curtain? It lifted and displayed the scenery
of departure. Easy to understand. The well-known
garden swaying just a little. Then came the dancer.
Not he! Enough! However lightly he pretends to move:
he is just disguised, costumed, an ordinary man
who enters through the kitchen when coming home.
I will not have these half-filled human masks;
better the puppet. It at least is full.
I will endure this well-stuffed doll, the wire,
the face that is nothing but appearance. Here out front
I wait. Even if the lights go down and I am told:
"There's nothing more to come," -even if
the grayish drafts of emptiness come drifting down
from the deserted stage -even if not one
of my now silent forebears sist beside me
any longer, not a woman, not even a boy-
he with the brown and squinting eyes-:
I'll still remain. For one can always watch.
Am I not right? You, to whom life would taste
so bitter, Father, after you - for my sake -
slipped of mine, that first muddy infusion
of my necessity. You kept on tasting, Father,
as I kept on growing, troubled by the aftertaste
of my so strange a future as you kept searching
my unfocused gaze -you who, so often since
you died, have been afraid for my well-being,
within my deepest hope, relinquishing that calmness,
the realms of equanimity such as the dead possess
for my so small fate -Am I not right?
And you, my parents, am I not right? You who loved me
for that small beginning of my love for you
from which I always shyly turned away, because
the distance in your features grew, changed,
even while I loved it, into cosmic space
where you no longer were...: and when I feel
inclined to wait before the puppet stage, no,
rather to stare at is so intensely that in the end
to counter-balance my searching gaze, an angel
has to come as an actor, and begin manipulating
the lifeless bodies of the puppets to perform.
Angel and puppet! Now at last there is a play!
Then what we seperate can come together by our
very presence. And only then the entire cycle
of our own life-seasons is revealed and set in motion.
Above, beyond us, the angel plays. Look:
must not the dying notice how unreal, how full
of pretense is all that we accomplish here, where
nothing is to be itself. O hours of childhood,
when behind each shape more that the past lay hidden,
when that which lay before us was not the future.
We grew, of course, and sometimes were impatient
in growing up, half for the sake of pleasing those
with nothing left but their own grown-upness.
Yet, when alone, we entertained ourselves
with what alone endures, we would stand there
in the infinite space that spans the world and toys,
upon a place, which from the first beginnniing
had been prepared to serve a pure event.
Who shows a child just as it stands? Who places him
within his constellation, with the measuring-rod
of distance in his hand. Who makes his death
from gray bread that grows hard, -or leaves
it there inside his rounded mouth, jagged as the core
of a sweet apple?.......The minds of murderers
are easily comprehended. But this: to contain death,
the whole of death, even before life has begun,
to hold it all so gently within oneself,
and not be angry: that is indescribable.
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Duino Elegies: The First Elegy
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure and are awed
because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Each single angel is terrifying.
And so I force myself, swallow and hold back
the surging call of my dark sobbing.
Oh, to whom can we turn for help?
Not angels, not humans;
and even the knowing animals are aware that we feel
little secure and at home in our interpreted world.
There remains perhaps some tree on a hillside
daily for us to see; yesterday's street remains for us
stayed, moved in with us and showed no signs of leaving.
Oh, and the night, the night, when the wind
full of cosmic space invades our frightened faces.
Whom would it not remain for -that longed-after,
gently disenchanting night, painfully there for the
solitary heart to achieve? Is it easier for lovers?
Don't you know yet ? Fling out of your arms the
emptiness into the spaces we breath -perhaps the birds
will feel the expanded air in their more ferven flight.
Yes, the springtime were in need of you. Often a star
waited for you to espy it and sense its light.
A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past,
or as you walked below an open window,
a violin gave itself to your hearing.
All this was trust. But could you manage it?
Were you not always distraught by expectation,
as if all this were announcing the arrival
of a beloved? (Where would you find a place
to hide her, with all your great strange thoughts
coming and going and often staying for the night.)
When longing overcomes you, sing of women in love;
for their famous passion is far from immortal enough.
Those whom you almost envy, the abandoned and
desolate ones, whom you found so much more loving
than those gratified. Begin ever new again
the praise you cannot attain; remember:
the hero lives on and survives; even his downfall
was for him only a pretext for achieving
his final birth. But nature, exhausted, takes lovers
back into itself, as if such creative forces could never be
achieved a second time.
Have you thought of Gaspara Stampa sufficiently:
that any girl abandoned by her lover may feel
from that far intenser example of loving:
"Ah, might I become like her!" Should not their oldest
sufferings finally become more fruitful for us?
Is it not time that lovingly we freed ourselves
from the beloved and, quivering, endured:
as the arrow endures the bow-string's tension,
and in this tense release becomes more than itself.
For staying is nowhere.
Voices, voices. Listen my heart, as only saints
have listened: until the gigantic call lifted them
clear off the ground. Yet they went on, impossibly,
kneeling, completely unawares: so intense was
their listening. Not that you could endure
the voice of God -far from it! But listen
to the voice of the wind and the ceaseless message
that forms itself out of silence. They sweep
toward you now from those who died young.
Whenever they entered a church in Rome or Naples,
did not their fate quietly speak to you as recently
as the tablet did in Santa Maria Formosa?
What do they want of me? to quietly remove
the appearance of suffered injustice that,
at times, hinders a little their spirits from
freely proceeding onward.
Of course, it is strange to inhabit the earth no longer,
to no longer use skills on had barely time to acquire;
not to observe roses and other things that promised
so much in terms of a human future, no longer
to be what one was in infinitely anxious hands;
to even discard one's own name as easily as a child
abandons a broken toy.
Strange, not to desire to continue wishing one's wishes.
Strange to notice all that was related, fluttering
so loosely in space. And being dead is hard work
and full of retrieving before one can gradually feel a
trace of eternity. -Yes, but the liviing make
the mistake of drawing too sharp a distinction.
Angels (they say) are often unable to distinguish
between moving among the living or the dead.
The eternal torrent whirls all ages along with it,
through both realms forever, and their voices are lost in
its thunderous roar.
In the end the early departed have no longer
need of us. One is gently weaned from things
of this world as a child outgrows the need
of its mother's breast. But we who have need
of those great mysteries, we for whom grief is
so often the source of spiritual growth,
could we exist without them?
Is the legend vain that tells of music's beginning
in the midst of the mourning for Linos?
the daring first sounds of song piercing
the barren numbness, and how in that stunned space
an almost godlike youth suddenly left forever,
and the emptiness felt for the first time
those harmonious vibrations which now enrapture
and comfort and help us.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Timeless
All time that we face down here, whether that time is far or near,
Will just become a period behind, as the future comes to mind,
Here, the present, future and past, are periods that will not last,
As all the time we come to see, are just spans towards Eternity.
Eternity is what we have in view, when time will be eternally new,
When we leave our earthly place, where life is in time and space,
As we move into Heaven sublime, with no limit on space or time,
When past and future is no more, and present will forever endure.
A time we now can’t comprehend, but, where we’ll forever spend.
Within an endless realm with Christ, as we enter into Eternal Life,
And timeless will be that place, which we’ll enter by God’s Grace,
Far away from this earthly sphere, of time and space, down here.
That place, that is prepared for us, was prepared by Christ Jesus,
The world’s only timeless man, the architect of God’s eternal plan,
A scope of which we can’t conceive, even those who truly believe,
And never seen by a mortal’s eye; all God has made for you and I.
So I’ll continue in the present time, on hills and valleys yet to climb,
As I move on to that destination, afforded to me through Salvation,
And at times I will contemplate, life with no space or time constraint,
Until I’m changed by God’s Grace, to enter Heaven’s timeless space.
(Copyright ©12/2010)
Life, Death, Devil & Angel
Life is full of love
Life is full with pain
Life is full of friendship
Life is war
Life is peace
Life is hate
Life is messed up
Life is fun
Life is music
Life is candy
Life is girlfriend
Life is boyfriend
Life is family
Life is alive
Death is hurtful
Death is painful
Death is tears
Death is losing the one you love
Death is the one thing people don't wanna go thru
Death is a lot of things
Angel are loving
Angel are caring
Angels are nice
Angel are peaceful
Angel are in Heaven
Angel is the one you wanna fall in love with
Angel are the best thing ever
So if you are an angel stay like that forever because god will love you
Devils are mean
Devil are rude
Devils are hateful
Devil are in Hell
Devil are ghost
Devil are the worst thing to be so don't ever be mean to someone because god is watchin and when it come to judgment u will end up in hell
But all ma gyals and boiis are ma angel and devil and ma life till death
poem by Nikki Singh
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Elegy I
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure and are awed
because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Each single angel is terrifying.
And so I force myself, swallow and hold back
the surging call of my dark sobbing.
Oh, to whom can we turn for help?
Not angels, not humans;
and even the knowing animals are aware that we feel
little secure and at home in our interpreted world.
There remains perhaps some tree on a hillside
daily for us to see; yesterday's street remains for us
stayed, moved in with us and showed no signs of leaving.
Oh, and the night, the night, when the wind
full of cosmic space invades our frightened faces.
Whom would it not remain for -that longed-after,
gently disenchanting night, painfully there for the
solitary heart to achieve? Is it easier for lovers?
Don't you know yet ? Fling out of your arms the
emptiness into the spaces we breath -perhaps the birds
will feel the expanded air in their more ferven flight.
Yes, the springtime were in need of you. Often a star
waited for you to espy it and sense its light.
A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past,
or as you walked below an open window,
a violin gave itself to your hearing.
All this was trust. But could you manage it?
Were you not always distraught by expectation,
as if all this were announcing the arrival
of a beloved? (Where would you find a place
to hide her, with all your great strange thoughts
coming and going and often staying for the night.)
When longing overcomes you, sing of women in love;
for their famous passion is far from immortal enough.
Those whom you almost envy, the abandoned and
desolate ones, whom you found so much more loving
than those gratified. Begin ever new again
the praise you cannot attain; remember:
the hero lives on and survives; even his downfall
was for him only a pretext for achieving
his final birth. But nature, exhausted, takes lovers
back into itself, as if such creative forces could never be
achieved a second time.
Have you thought of Gaspara Stampa sufficiently:
that any girl abandoned by her lover may feel
from that far intenser example of loving:
"Ah, might I become like her!" Should not their oldest
sufferings finally become more fruitful for us?
Is it not time that lovingly we freed ourselves
from the beloved and, quivering, endured:
as the arrow endures the bow-string's tension,
and in this tense release becomes more than itself.
For staying is nowhere.
Voices, voices. Listen my heart, as only saints
have listened: until the gigantic call lifted them
clear off the ground. Yet they went on, impossibly,
kneeling, completely unawares: so intense was
their listening. Not that you could endure
the voice of God -far from it! But listen
to the voice of the wind and the ceaseless message
that forms itself out of silence. They sweep
toward you now from those who died young.
Whenever they entered a church in Rome or Naples,
did not their fate quietly speak to you as recently
as the tablet did in Santa Maria Formosa?
What do they want of me? to quietly remove
the appearance of suffered injustice that,
at times, hinders a little their spirits from
freely proceeding onward.
Of course, it is strange to inhabit the earth no longer,
to no longer use skills on had barely time to acquire;
not to observe roses and other things that promised
so much in terms of a human future, no longer
to be what one was in infinitely anxious hands;
to even discard one's own name as easily as a child
abandons a broken toy.
Strange, not to desire to continue wishing one's wishes.
Strange to notice all that was related, fluttering
so loosely in space. And being dead is hard work
and full of retrieving before one can gradually feel a
trace of eternity. -Yes, but the liviing make
the mistake of drawing too sharp a distinction.
Angels (they say) are often unable to distinguish
between moving among the living or the dead.
The eternal torrent whirls all ages along with it,
through both realms forever, and their voices are lost in
its thunderous roar.
In the end the early departed have no longer
need of us. One is gently weaned from things
of this world as a child outgrows the need
of its mother's breast. But we who have need
of those great mysteries, we for whom grief is
so often the source of spiritual growth,
could we exist without them?
Is the legend vain that tells of music's beginning
in the midst of the mourning for Linos?
the daring first sounds of song piercing
the barren numbness, and how in that stunned space
an almost godlike youth suddenly left forever,
and the emptiness felt for the first time
those harmonious vibrations which now enrapture
and comfort and help us.
poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Counter to counter
"What did you do as father to us"?
We have almost come off age and trust
You are saying "No" to all our demands
This has been your permanent stand
I just looked at their outburst
Both children talked about bond or trust
It took me by total surprise
Were my children asking more as price?
How would you feel when they question about their existence?
How were they brought on this as earth and to sight it as single instance?
I shall not blame them either for they were unaware of facts
How was I come up to this stage by laborious acts?
I felt bad and insult by that outrageous query
It made me feel bad and felt so much sorry
How can they suddenly come to such conclusion?
Why is the future course for them with full of confusion?
As every child wants to enjoy his time
Parents find it as burden to satisfy sometimes
They have no clue as to how parents may meet their requirements
What will be their next move to pass of that moment?
There is generation gap and conceptually wide differences
They take half hearted decisions and contain full of misses
If such lapses are pointed out to them, they may get easily offended
"You are out of date" they may argue and favor the role is to be naturally defended
In our time, I too felt the same as parents we pointing out
We had no one to correct our action and talk about
Sometimes father and mother both may be illiterate
There was no comparison at that time to equate
But one quality from them was quiet reassuring
Their move was with precision and to the point measuring
They may predict what can prove wrong in coming days
May be they had third sense to smell and push the ways
We all are outdated today
Science has come off long way
Daily we find new concept and inventions
Counter to counter measures and preventions
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The Step Mother
Well I recall my Father's wife,
The day he brought her home.
His children looked for years of strife,
And troubles sure to come --
Ungraciously we welcomed her,
A thing to scorn and blame;
And swore we never would confer
On her, a Mother's name
I see her yet -- a girl in years,
With eyes so blue and mild;
She greeted us with smiles and tears,
How sweetly too she smiled --
She bent to kiss my sullen brow,
With woman's gentle grace;
And laid her tiny hand of snow
On my averted face --
"Henry -- is this your son? She said --
"Dear boy -- he now is mine --
What not one kiss? --" I shook my head,
"I am no son of thine! --"
She sighed -- and from her dimpled cheek
The rosy colour fled;
She turned away and did not speak,
My thoughts were with the dead --
There leaped from out my Father's eyes
A jet of swarthy fire;
That flashed on me in fierce surprise --
I fled before his ire
I heard her gentle voice entreat --
"Forgiveness for her sake" --
Which added swiftness to my feet,
A sad and strange mistake --
A year had scarcely rolled away
When by that hated bride;
I loved to linger half the day,
In very joy and pride;
Her voice was music to mine ear,
So soft its accent fell;
"Dear Mother now" -- and oh, how dear
No words of mine can tell --
She was so gentle, fair and kind,
So pure in soul and free from art;
That woman with her noble mind,
Subdued my rebel heart --
I just had learned to know her worth,
My Father's second choice to bless;
When God removed her from the earth,
And plunged us all in deep distress --
Hot fever smote with burning blight
Stretchd on a restless bed of pain;
I moaning lay from morn till night
With aching limbs and throbbing brain --
Four weary weeks beside my bed,
She sat within a darkened room;
Untiring held my aching head,
Nor heeded silence -- cold and gloom --
And when my courage quite gave way,
And fainter grew my struggling breath;
She taught my stricken soul to pray
And calmly meet approaching death --
"Fear not God's angel, sent by Him,
The weary spirit to release;
Before the mortal eyes grow dim,
Floats down the white winged dove of peace" --
There came a change -- but fingers small,
No longer smoothed my matted hair;
She sprang not to my feeble call,
Nor helped to lift me to my chair --
And I arose as from the dead,
A life for her dear life was given;
The angel who had watched my bed
Had vanished into Heaven! --
poem by Susanna Strickland Moodie
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My Angel (In The Darkness)
I know I haven't really been a good friend,
and I know I could of tried a little harder,
but you see I can't tell you,
how I feel about you,
the world would reject me if I did,
but I'm willing to try,
and go over the edge,
and show you how I Feel about you,
when we meet,
I was in such bad shape,
my life was crumbling all around me,
until I meet you,
my life was engulfed in darkness,
I was engulfed in my own self-pity,
I had an inescapable demon,
living inside of my head,
I had pain inside of heart,
I felting nothing but pain,
for months and months,
I thought it was inedible,
until I meet you that day,
not really suspecting anyone that would,
really care about me,
not suspecting that anyone that would even love me,
love me,
like the way that you do,
My Angel (In The Darkness)
My Angel (In The Darkness)
My Angel (In The Darkness)
I couldn't believe what I was seeing,
nor what I was saying or what I was hearing,
the world had rejected you for what you are,
and what you've done,
but do they have the eyes that I do?
was it insane of me,
to see you as the angel,
that I know you are,
and not the demon that they all make you out to be,
was I insane to see the goodness inside of you,
and was it crazy that you took the darkness outside of me,
My Angel (In The Darkness)
My Angel (In The Darkness)
My Angel (In The Darkness)
We spent each day,
and we spent each know confessing,
our sins to each other,
like it was alright,
and we knew we'd listen to each other,
but I must confess,
that’s not all that I need,
that’s not all that I want,
all that I need,
and all that I want is your love,
and your sweet choice,
the way that you would look at me and smile,
and tell me everything was going to be alright,
and just help me hold on a little bit longer,
hold on a little bit longer,
My Angel (In The Darkness)
My Angel (In The Darkness)
My Angel (In The Darkness)
she told me its okay,
to let your feelings go,
and tell people how you feel,
and if you love them,
but I couldn't really do that,
there was only one person that I've loved,
one person I could only love unconditionally
and love without temptation,
She’s My Angel (In The Darkness) ,
The only Angel I'm going to love,
My Angel (In The Darkness) ,
the only Angel I trust
My Angel (In The Darkness)
as she was there for me,
I'm going to be there for her,
I'm know her Angel In the darkness,
I am know the one that will love her unconditionally
and without temptation,
I just wanted her to know,
how much I love her and cherish her,
I love you,
My Angel (In The Darkness)
poem by Robert Rumery
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A birth and death
Several deaths in single birth and death cycle
all religious books speak the same including Bible
who can deny the existence death probability
that has been made permanently the continuity
Human beings are always guided by emotions
they emerge in the form of innumerable questions
it may strike as everything is at stake for the future
life is uncertain and nothing can be taken for sure
This leads to imagination as how the life would shape
life would move on smoothly or prove as trap
at every stage it may appear as if the end of journey
you may feel very poor even after having enough of money
No one may comfortably say that he is not afraid of death
he may not be in position to proclaim he is weary of wealth
he too may say falsely that he can withstand any type of wrath
he can do all with the simple reason that he does not believe in faith
It has been clearly laid down that death is complete surety
it has to be faced by child, poor, rich or even mighty
it is of no use to loose the ground at every stage
it may be countered if life at every page
Birth is reality and we have been ushered in new world
the life may be shaped by others who will continue to hold
all cards and bring us up in the realistic atmosphere
even though it is full of challenge, agony, pain and fear
it is realized and understood that life can't be brought to an end
we have to adjust to the scenario with little or some amends
how could one thing of bringing it to stage of collapse?
even if he has to face so much hardship and remain tense
It is not bead of roses that you may be heavenly gifted
it is sheer your efforts that may help the standard to be lifted
not all may be lucky to survive the onslaught of fate
some may get the fortune early of life or very late
It is futile to think of death at every moment
you should not fall prey to defeatist tendency or movement
when we know that life is destined for something new
you have to make concerted efforts and renew
One one birth and one death in complete life span
no second thought or idea must work as plan
it will be cowards death every time
this is drawback and will be considered as biggest crime
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Love Before the Fall
If ever there was one you lost
Either to the sun or to the frost,
Know this, a secret bliss of mine
That everything you ever loved
Alongside everything you ever will
Are one and one in the same.
Every time you love you shall love
All you have loved in the past,
Whether they be places or faces
Lost to memories archives,
They are there, in the trees,
In the sapling, in the valley
Whole they breathe, living still
To receive the love you allow to
Flow throughout your soul.
All you have loved exists beyond
The reach of Death's shadow cast.
All you have loved exits beyond
And shall forever last. So sit,
Sit upon the ground, upon the hill,
Still and embrace the faith you
Could so easily wear upon your
Sleeve in a world without suspicion.
Search the clouds for your loved
Ones smile, swim the ocean sky
For a while and know that though
They may be a thousand miles away
In a different world they remember
You as a soul they left behind.
Those that know are constantly shown,
Revealed to them is the secret concealed,
Healed are they of mourning
Just as peeled are the mysteries of deaths blanket.
All you love is one, and those that
You have lost whether to the hand of death
Or to the foreign soil of a distant land
Well just know that they are all that
Makes you smile upon this plain,
They are the girls you will kiss in
Every future life you bless with your
Presence and never forget that you are
As they to those that love you
And forever a thousand souls shall
Smile your way when they gaze upon
Far distant mountain ranges for though
You have changed and been known strange
To the senses in a thousand forms
So you have been the most familiar kiss
So you have been one in all with bliss
Thus is the love of all,
Thus is love before the fall.
poem by David Lacey
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Four Seasons
First snowfall this morning.
Ground covered in white.
Flowers have died.
Birds are in flight.
End cycle of life
Death turns into birth
Old becomes new
Renewing our earth
Seasons, like Jesus
Restoring the dead
The blood of the Lamb
And breaking of bread
My seasons, have changed.
I've lost my old ways
Pure white I now sit
From the One whom I praise
I Fall to my knees.
In winter I died.
In spring, I'm reborn.
Summer; alive.
He waits til our fall,
And then helps us rise.
His death for us all,
We see through His eyes.
He is my four seasons.
His will is my goal.
After my death,
He breathes life in my soul
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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A girl of my life
The girl of my life
Turned me on
Made me stun
Told me hon.
The girl of my life
Said me be man
Come with me you will get fun
Never leave you hon.
Never make you alone
The girl of my life
Changed my feelings
Care my feelings
Loved my feelings
And described how valuable the feelings
The girl of my life
Who came with a spring in my life
Who made me feel that every season is spring if she is in my life
Who just show me how much innocence is in my life
What should i do in my life
The girl of my life
Who was a blessing for me
Who was not a girl a goddess for me
Whose voice was so adorable than every singers
Whose only word makes me feel the heaven
Whose one cute smile make the best for her
Whose one word hurt me so much that i deleted some of mine internet accounts
The girl of my life
Whom i love so much
Whom i wanna marry
Whom i wanna make mine forever
And ever and ever and ever
who is the one except who i cannot think anything
Who is my destiny
THE GIRL OF MY LIFE
MY RYTHIM OF LIFE
MY LOVE OF LIFE
MY HEART OF LIFE
MY POEM OF LIFE
MY SONG OF LIFE
MY DESTINY OF LIFE
MY AIM OF LIFE
MY DREAM OF LIFE
MY ANGEL OF LIFE
MY ANGEL DREAMY OF LIFE
THE SWEETEST THING OF MY LIFE
THE ONE AND ONLY POSIBILITY OF MY LIFE
THE GIRL OF MY LIFE
THE REAL LIVE OF MY LIFE
THE FUTURE OF MY LIFE
THE UNSAID WORDS OF MY LIFE
THE NE AND ONLY BODY LANGUAGE OF MY LIFE
THE DEPATURE AND BREAK WAS THE SADDEST PART OF MY LIFE
THE GIRL OF MY LIFE
A GIRL OF MY LIFE
poem by Rajnish Jena
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Life Or Death?
Every day we live, we always face death
We get closer to it, every time we take a breath
Life is special but death brings peace
Life brings reality and things you believe
Death is hard for everyone around
Death is quiet, no more bad sounds
Life is also hard, all the things we go through
Life can never be easy, no matter what you do
Death is sad, for those who cry
Death is meaningful, for those who die
Life is a work of art, it's nice to look
Life is full of teachings, like an open book
Death is the new life, might as well be dead
Death is a lot more, for what's up ahead
Life brings new things, always something new
Life brings surprises, something out the blue
Death is scary, nothing we want to see
Death is negative, a place we don't want to be
Life is full of love, with the ones close to you
Life is full of money, for those who sue
Death is empty, nothing compared to this
Death is a lot of things, too long of a list
But life is everything; don't wait till there's nothing left
Death can wait, so don't waste your last breath
So just pick your choice, which one? Life or death?
poem by Triauna Hall
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Lois House
Air -- "Saphrona's Farewell"
Come all ye young people of every degree,
Come give your attention one moment to me;
It's of a young couple I now will relate,
And of their misfortunes and of their sad fate.
One was a young damsel, both blooming and fair,
The other a young man, his beauty was rare;
He loved this lady as he loved his own life --
If God had not called her he would made her his wife.
He courted her a long time in triumph and glee,
But little did he think that she would soon leave,
Leave him in sorrow, forsaken, alone,
To mourn her departure, for she was going home:
Going home to her Father, that dwelleth on high,
Who gave her her life and who caused her to die,
And leave her true lover, one whom she could trust,
To moulder her fair form a while in the dust.
Lois House and Joy Morris were their names, I believe,
They loved each other dearly and never deceived,
But God he did part them, one which he laid low,
The other He left with his heart full of woe.
Joy laid her dying head on his bosom once more,
Pressed her to his heart as he had oft done before,
Saying, "Dear Lois, are you going to leave me?"
"Yes, Joy, I can no longer stay here with thee! "
"Oh! Joy, can't you give me up, dearest," said she;
"If you will say yes, love, I can leave in peace;
In heaven, love, I will be waiting for thee --
Be true to our Savior -- you'll soon follow me."
"If I must say yes, love, for you to leave me --
God will do better by you, Lois, than me;
Oh! it's hard for me, dearest, hard to say yes,
It leaves me alone, love, in sad woefulness."
"I want your picture, Joy, placed in my cold hand,
And let it be buried with me in the ground;
It's all I can carry with me to the grave --
Grant it to me, love, it's all that I crave."
They called for her father and mother most dear,
She kissed them and bade them farewell thro' their tears;
They called for her brother and sisters again,
To kiss their sister while life still remain.
"One kiss from you, Joy," she whispered so low,
That no one in the room heard her, you know;
She gasped for her breath once or twice more,
When lo! her spirit left her, and Lois is no more.
They placed her fair form in the coffin so cold,
And placed there Joy's picture as they had been told;
They bore her to her grave, all were in sad gloom,
And gently laid her down to rest in her tomb.
poem by Julia A Moore
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I'm trying to be open, but the past keep creeping in
i'm only human,
don't get mad,
i don't feel normal,
but i'm doing the best i can,
what you want is this perfect girl,
i don't think i will ever be her,
i'm a girl who numb her feeling,
just so i won't have to feel the pain,
the problem is not really you,
nor is it me,
i was delt a bad hand,
in this thing we call life,
i want to be what you see in me,
it just hard,
when my feelings over take my mind,
i freeze up,
but it's hiding behind my smile,
i don't let you see,
becuz i'm afraid that if i do,
you won't look at me,
the way you have been,
that look you get in your eyes,
is what makes me want to be a better person,
you see, what i'm too blind to see,
and yet, i'm worried that you might judge,
judge me for a past, i had no control over,
it makes me sick to think,
a grown guy can do that to a child,
turn them into their sex puppet,
it makes me sick just thinking about it,
but in my eyes i'm looking at you,
as if you are my abuser,
you are nothing like him,
and yet i'm so afraid to let you in,
let you get close,
i tell myself things that are not true,
just so i have a way out,
a way out of feeling the thing from the past,
but no matter what,
i'm pulled back into your charm,
who can resist?
i love your personality,
but it's what triggering my past memories,
i feel like i'm not normal,
becuz i'm afraid of anything sexual,
it shouldn't have to be this way,
but sadly it is,
i guess all i can say is,
i'm only human,
i don't always have to be perfect,
i can only be me,
it wasn't my fault,
what happened in my past,
all i can do is move on and learn.
poem by Mona Martinez
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O, death
O death, come and grip
We shall not weep
Miss you always but not skip
As you are there to pick
We know our limitations
Every thing ends with relations
The moment soul is taken away
Body remains here to give the way
The candle light goes off swiftly
With little air from window rightly
No one blames air or wind
The death does the role of blind
“I am prepared to go anytime”
Many may boldly assert sometimes
Yet the fear grips mind at last moment
Curse the whole life and lament
God has made cycle for renewal
Old goes and new cries on arrival
Cry is same but with difference
Compels us to think sometimes
Only brave smiles at its knock
As he is prepared before lasts stock
Both hands towards sky
Eyes shine as soul prepared to fly
At no stage it may stop
There may be enough of stop gap
One may endure more or less
The noble leading may prove the case
Smile at the last leg of journey
You are leaving behind treasure and money
All relatives may feel sad not at you
But what is left behind for them to view
They may want their share
But in your life time may not dare
They may silently watch your departure and stare
Enough of attention towards your treatment and care
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Nothing Greater Than Love
(9/9/12)
There is nothing greater than love
Not the earth, the moon, the stars above
GOD decided to make the heavens and the earth
To be there when to man he would give birth.
All that he made - he knew was good
But he had to give something to man
That would be understood.
He gave it time for man to adjust to all that he had given
But needed something for them- to make life worth living
That is when he gave us his son
Greater than that - there could be none.
But with that greatness there was still something
That he had to give man "so he created love".
His son was the first to fully understand
What love was about
and held his father in his heart
Of that there is no doubt.
All trials and errors that he had been put thru
Could not shake the love that he had for his fellow man
Which is something that we've learned to understand.
From his GODLY father to his earthly parents
Who loved him more than life
Had made many a sacrifice.
JOSEPH took MARY his virgin wife
Because of an angel who showed him the light.
It may have been hard for him to accept that fact
But the love for GOD took care of that.
This was the beginning of infinite love
Created by GOD above
And showed through his only son
Who would affect everyone.
In his eyes there were no bad people
Just misled people, and with each of his steps
He turned it around - and in the streets
His followers could be found.
Because of this we learned that other things
Go hand in hand with love
We learned compassion, forgiveness, hope, and faith
And to truly love "this is what it takes".
Now I ask you this "look at the life you live"
Is there love in your heart?
I may not have it all, but I'll pick up
Everything that falls
And spread the love that GOD has given
And make my life "truly worth living".
© L.RAMS
poem by Louis Rams
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What Lies Ahead
It was a windy day that day
But the apple still fell near its tree
The clock struck zero
A cry filled the room
A son of the past
The father of the future
The distance between two feet
As the clock ticked life away
The ground was opened each day
And seeds dropped quietly in it
Days came and walked away
With the same plot and stale tale
All looked upon the future
Wondering what glory lied ahead
Will I walk on the sky or ask the ground to bury me?
The clock delivered the future as he promised
Each got a basket of past deeds returned
The acorn became a mighty oak
It was a windy day that day
Yet the apple refused to fall far from the tree
All that had gone around
Came around to say hello
The future was here and held glory for some
The future was here and turned off the lights of others
The future is the past hidden in a seed
Today is tomorrow
What do you want to lie ahead?
Dig your ground
Drop your seed
Stand your ground
It will be a windy day that day
But your apple will fall right in your life
And when all you've done around
Comes around to say hello
You'd firmly shake their hands
And say, I've been waiting for you
My whole life long, welcome.
poem by Jenim Dibie
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Just Me
The karmic debts have all been paid.
The ghosts to rest are laid.
The freedom's light as thistledown,
Drifting softly o'er the town.
I tightly hug my thoughts to me.
My mind it wanders free,
I scarce believe I'm here at last.
Mingled present, future, past.
I turn the jewel round and round,
As down life's path I sound
The trumpets, bells with Angel voice
All come together to rejoice.
To feel all times together true.
How simple, pure, the demons slew.
This space is mine alone to fill.
To be whatever I be, at will.
And if I feel the sadness stab,
Just now and then I feel it grab,
And try to take me hold once more.
"Oh no" I cry, "there is the door"
For only love and joy abound.
Unconditional love around.
The only truth that I can see,
Is for you to be you, and I must be me.
So fetters gone and shackles broke,
"I know this lifetime's mine" I spoke.
To live my truth in Eternity.
For all I am, is me, just me.
poem by Rosi Caswell
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I was too....
I was too busy to concentrate on daughter
With her funny ways I used to burst in laughter
Such was her sweet voice and innocent face
I was running behind her with little slow space
Days were riding on with high speed wind
Where was the time to think and find?
She was growing with faster pace
I too was too left out of the race
Alas! I could stop the time with imagination
She was lovely child borne out of good combination
Life was full of joy and she was our only hope
Suddenly I found myself walking on tight rope
It increased my pulse rate as it reminded me of something
She was opening up
as rose and I was ageing
What would be her fate or future in coming days?
What should I do for her to find the easy ways?
Her innocent days were just yesterday’s talk
It was gripping my mind when I used to go for walk
Was it not the genuine concern on part of father?
The thought itself was driving me further and further
She must be parted with very good education
At no stage in life she should feel alone or suffocation
She must have all the training as required
I immediately put my plan in action and enquired
She will come out as brilliant child
Intelligent, wise, beautiful and mild
She must be at heart very generous and kind
No one would think bad of her and mind
Normally what all parents think and do?
Wish that their kids prosper and pass through
Nothing should hamper their growth and future
They should get settled in their life tenure
I was no exception and thought the same
Her young age and maturity all off suddenly came
It left me thinking and in state of panic
It was not matter of joke or place for picnic
The Concern and fear made my nights barren
Change was unexpected and came all of sudden
I used to murmur in sleep and sake up at night’
“Must think and take steps” I thought it right
As wife had left amidst half way of the sea
She was only child of our love of tree
It was my only desire to see her in comforts
I had to concentrate my energy and double the efforts
I am very much sure of her golden days
She is humorous but must find ways
I have high hope in her to top and excel
Life should not contentious and pass well
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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