Everything Small
feet will be short and hands so fragile that may even break with
the force of your whisper everything small like tight buds a voice in between two silk cloths tightly folded in ten layers of
silence and indifference
unreadable
syllables, that to you sound so cute and so lovely
small soft thought ike fingers of a new born brother
your father walks to and fro
in the house 27 years ago, like a pendulum counting time
wasting thought
going nowhere, when he died, he said
did you doubt him? that boy he never looks like me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
A Little Girl's Prayer
Grant me the moment, the lovely moment
That I may lean forth to see
The other buds, the other blooms,
The other leaves on the tree:
That I may take into my bosom
The breeze that is like his brother,
But stiller, lighter, whose faint laughter
Exhoes the joy of the other.
Above on the blue and white cloud-spaces
There are small clouds at play.
I watch their remote, mysterious play-time
In the other far-away.
Grant I may hear the small birds singing
the song that the silence knows...
(The Light and the Shadow whisper together,
The lovely moment grows,
Ripples into the air like water
Away and away without sound,
And the little girl gets up from her praying
On the cold ground)
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Grand-Father's Clock
My grand-father's clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor;
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a penny weight more.
It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born,
And was always his treasure and pride;
But it stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.
Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.
In watching its pendulum swing to and fro,
Many hours had he spent while a boy;
And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know
And to share both his grief and his joy.
For it struck twenty-four when he entered at the door,
With a blooming and beautiful bride;
But it stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.
Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.
My grandfather said that of those he could hire,
Not a servant so faithful he found;
For it wasted no time, and had but one desire --
At the close of each week to be wound.
And it kept in its place -- not a frown upon its face,
And its hands never hung by its side;
But it stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.
Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.
It rang an alarm in the dead of the night --
An alarm that for years had been dumb;
And we knew that his spirit was pluming for flight --
That his hour of departure had come.
Still the clock kept the time, with a soft and muffled chime,
As we silently stood by his side;
But it stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.
Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp'd short never to go again
When the old man died.
poem by Henry Clay Work
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democracy in the Philippine islands
there is this little boy
who is practicing to ride a big bike
his feet are short
and so are his hands
and always
in this predicament
does he fall and tumble
the years passed
and it is the same boy again
practicing to ride his
big bicycle
sometimes i am just curious
what is this boy
eating and drinking
since his feet are still short
and his hands are still small
he never had the guts
riding his bicycle to the full
it is the same situation all over again
he falls and bleeds
and cries that the bicycle is always too big for his
short feet and small hands
he falls and he tumbles
he bleeds and he fails
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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No Better way
He used to sandpaper the tips
of his fingers until they
caught no silk.
He brushed his teeth,
then he combed his hair,
parted it on the wrong side.
Forty-five years
and three hundred and sixty days
he still has no better ways
to say, 'I love you'.
He goes for walks around the pasture
by the pond and up the bank
and past the dead pine tree
struck by lightning
whose branches have fallen off
and lay around the ground
He walks by without a sound
wishing he could walk on and on.
His soul walks by without a sound.
poem by Midnights Voice
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I Dread the Silence
I need noise when I’m awake
I dread the silence when I am not asleep
It’s either pounding my eardrums with songs, music or any mp3s
or razzing it to an audio book or MTVs
Noise has been a means to cover up the reality
I dread the silence for it prods a cognizance that I’m alone despite the crowd.
I dread the silence fearing that I wake up from my self-created imaginary world
I dread the silence for fear that it made me question about my existence
I dread the silence fearing that I will hear the inner voice
clamoring and wanting to escape from this dragging circumstances
That still small voice which prefers peace
that still small voice wanting to get away from this kind of place.
that still small voice, crying from this senseless pace.
that still small voice, wanting a break from this pointless race.
poem by Champs Ulysses Cabinatan
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Hey
I thought about you just last saturday
My voice got cracked I didn't know what to say
Down in the shade or maybe in the sun
And if you need it I think I got one
Where are you
And what's on your mind
Where are you
Am I wasting my time
Where are you
And what's on you mind?
I just want to know if I'm wasting my time
I snuck out of work to see her smile
I'll hold her hostage for a little while
I wrote a letter I thought I'd let you know
I'm right behind you any time you go
Where are you
And what's on your mind
Where are you
Am I wasting my time
Where are you
And what's on you mind
I just want to know if I'm wasting my time
My mind got busy around 3 a.m. or so
Crawled in you room through the back window
Hoped when you woke up you wouldn't be too mad
I hope I never wake up your old man
Where are you
And what's on your mind
Where are you
Am I wasting my time
Where are you
And what's on you mind
I just want to know if I'm wasting my time
song performed by by Goo Goo Dolls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Small Talk
Its not the chapters he reads when youre feeling low down
Its not the touch of his skin when you kiss him goodnight
Its not the money he spends when you want to buy a daydream
And not that miracle smile that makes the sky bright
Its not the way his hands behave
When youve turned out the light
Its the small, small small talk that makes it all happen
Small, small small talk that makes you want to fly, yes it does
Its not the way he believes in you like a religion
Its not the thrill that you get when hes holding you tight
Its not the way his eyes persuade
You to stay the night
Its the small, small small talk that makes it all happen (just like that)
Small, small small talk that makes you feel like flying, yes it does
Information, heart and soul, a whisper, a word
Confessions that have to be heard
Small small talk
Come on now, come on now
Come on - you make it rock so heavenly
Come on now, come on now
Come on - you seem to talk so heavenly
Big words...
Small talk...
Its not the way his eyes persuade
You to stay the night
Its the small, small small talk that makes it all happen
Small, small small talk that makes you feel like flying, yes it does
song performed by by Roxette
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Big Time
(ian hunter)
One more town on the merry-go-round
One more room with no view
One more punk eatin nothing but junk
Trin to make a phone call to you
Well maybe Ill never, get myself together
But somethings in the back of my mid
It only takes one call-you can laugh at em all
Youre never too small to hit the big time
One more slob feeling sick as a dog
After one more night on the booze
One more dive more dead that alive
Tryin to get my message through
Now, maybe Ill never get my self together
Maybe its the end of the line
But Im having a ball-bouncin off the walls
Youre never too small to hit the big time
Youre never too small, youre never too small
Youre never to small to hit the big time
They can make you crawl, they can make you fall
But youre never to small to hit the big time
Youre never too small, youre never to small
Youre never too small to hit the big time
If youre fat, if youre bald it dont matter at all
cos youre never to small-i said youre never to small
To hit the big time (yes indeed)
(the big time(- limousines)
(the big time)-you can have it all
(the big time)- I say youre never too small
One more crowd shoutin-turn it up loud
One more rose at my feet
One more ring from that cute little thing
One more reason to cheat
Well, maybe Ill never get myself together
Maybe its the end of the line...
song performed by by Ian Hunter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Day
That day, that day
What a mess what a marvel
I walked into that cloud again
And i lost myself
And i'm sad, sad, sad
Small, alone, scared
Craving purity
A fragile mind and
A gentle spirit
That day, that day
What a marvelous mess
This is all that i can do
I'm done to be me
Sad, scared, small, alone, beautiful
It's supposed to be like this
I accept everything
It's supposed to be like this
That day, that day
I lay down beside myself
In this feeling of pain, sadness
Scared, small, climbing, crawling
Towards the light
And it's all i see and
I'm tired and i'm right
And i'm wrong
And it's beautiful
That day that day
What a mess
What a marvel
We're all the same
And no one thinks so
And it's okay
And i'm small
And i'm divine
And it's beautiful
And it's coming
But it's already here
And it's absolutely perfect
That day, that day
When everything was a mess
And everything was in place
And there's too much hurt
Sad, small, scared, alone
And everyone's a cynic
And it's hard and it's sweet
But it's supposed
To be like this
That day, that day
When i sat in the sun
And i thought and i cried
'cause i'm sad, scared, small
Alone, strong
And i'm nothing
And i'm true
Only a brave man
Can break through
And it's all okay
Yeah, it's okay
song performed by by Natalie Imbruglia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Dear Brother
LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT MY FATHER
LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT MY MOTHER
THEY ONLY HAD TWO CHILDRENS A SISTER AND A BROTHER
BUT FATHER HAD PASS AWAY NOW
MOTHER ALSO WHENT ONE DAY TO
THAT JUST LEFT ME AND A BROTHER
AND WE WHENT ARE SEPARATE WAY TOO
10 YEARS HE CHOOSE THE JAIL LIFE
IHE NEVER CAME BACK HOME
NEW JERSEY FOR MY BROTHER
WE WERE BORN TO ROAM
WITH LETTER AND WITH PICTURES
WE ALWAYS KEEP IN TOUCH
MISSING GROW UP TOGETHER
AND THINGS THAT MEANT SO MUCH
MAYBE WRITTING DOWN THIS POEM
IN MY OWN AND SIMPLE WAYS
WILL TELL HIM ABOUT MY FEELINGS
I NEVER GOT TO SAY
BUT HOW YOU PUT ON A PAPER
THAT U REALLY MISS HIM,
OF ALL THE TIME THAT PASS WITHOUT YOUR BIG BROTHER
FROM IN MY HEART I FOUND THIS POEM
AND HOPE HE KNOWS ITS TRUE
WITH ONLY FOUR SMALL WORDS
BROTHER 'I LOV3 YOU! ! ! '
Lost Innocence
The small boy sits in the corner
waiting for his father into return.
He is afraid to move about,
He might be punished for that also.
He believes his father
will bring him something good.
But when his dad walks through the door,
all he has is the bottle in his hand.
He runs to embrace his father
and receives a blow to the head.
When the fragile child awakens,
He is in much pain.
His drunken father lies on the couch,
without a care in the world.
He returns slowly and quietly
To his darkened corner,
And says to himself
'Wouldn't it be great if my father loved me,
More than the bottle in his hand.'
(Views Taken from a short story in hindi.)
poem by Mahfooz Ali
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Small Town
Well I was born in a small town
And I live in a small town
Probly die in a small town
Oh, those small communities
All my friends are so small town
My parents live in the same small town
My job is so small town
Provides little opportunity
Educated in a small town
Taught the fear of jesus in a small town
Used to daydream in that small town
Another boring romantic thats me
But Ive seen it all in a small town
Had myself a ball in a small town
Married an l.a. doll and brought her to this small town
Now shes small town just like me
No I cannot forget where it is that I come from
I cannot forget the people who love me
Yeah, I can be myself here in this small town
And people let me be just what I want to be
Got nothing against a big town
Still hayseed enough to say
Look whos in the big town
But my bed is in a small town
Oh, and thats good enough for me
Well I was born in a small town
And I can breathe in a small town
Gonna die in this small town
And thats probly where theyll bury me
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Hero
'Jack fell as he'd have wished,' the mother said,
And folded up the letter that she'd read.
'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something broke
In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
She half looked up. 'We mothers are so proud
Of our dead soldiers.' Then her face was bowed.
Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy.
He thought how 'Jack', cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white hair.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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The Hero
'Jack fell as he'd have wished,' the mother said,
And folded up the letter that she'd read.
'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something broke
In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
She half looked up. 'We mothers are so proud
Of our dead soldiers.' Then her face was bowed.
Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy.
He thought how 'Jack', cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white hair.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Hero
'Jack fell as he'd have wished,' the Mother said,
And folded up the letter that she'd read.
'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something broke
In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
She half looked up. 'We mothers are so proud
Of our dead soldiers.' Then her face was bowed.
Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt.
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy.
He thought how 'Jack', cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white hair.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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A Small Elegy
My friends have left. Far away, my darling is asleep.
Outside, it's as dark as pitch.
I'm saying words to myself, words that are white
in the lamplight and when I'm half-asleep I begin
to think about my mother. Autumnal recollection.
Really, under the cover of winter, it's as if I know
everything---even what my mother is doing now.
She's at home in the kitchen. She has a small child's stove
toward which the wooden rocking horse can trot,
she has a small child's stove, the sort nobody uses today, but
she basks in its heat. Mother. My diminutive mom.
She sits quietly, hands folded, and thinks about
my father, who died years ago.
And then she is skinning fruit for me. I am
in the room. Sitting right next to her. You've got to see us,
God, you bully, who took so much. How
dark it is outside! What was I going to say?
Oh, yes, now I remember. Because
of all those hours I slept soundly, through calm
nights, because of all those loved ones who are deep
in dreams---Now, when everything's running short,
I can't stand being here by myself. The lamplight's too strong.
I am sowing grain on the headland.
I will not live long.
poem by Jirí Orten
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Small Minds!
small minds
create small gods,
limited thought,
limited expression.
lack of commitment,
limited responsibility,
passes the blame
to untouchable judgement.
a small bird
thought he was an eagle,
till the eagle came,
and killed him in flight!
we worship our fears
out of convenience,
drunkenly beat our chest
with talons of repentence.
small minds,
see only black and white...
never tasting, never knowing,
the color and the sound!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Reunited
When I received a letter from my Dad,
Saying he didn't want to meet,
I decided to go and confront him.
I wasn't going to admit defeat.
'I told you in my letter not to come.
I thought I made that perfectly clear!
It would never work. I don't even know you, '
Were not the words I'd hoped to hear.
'It's too late, ' he told me.
'You've got your life. I've got mine.'
He was shocked when I told him
I'd lost my Mum in an accident when I was nine.
My brother, Luke, asked me to stay in touch.
He was begging me to stay,
But there seemed nothing between me and Dad,
And I thought it best for me to go away.
When I was small, we went for walks.
It was always Dad's hand I wanted to hold.
It kept me from falling.
It kept me from the cold.
I was sitting in the car ready to leave,
But took one last look out the window.
Dad was stood there. I went to him.
'Don't go, ' he pleaded. 'Please, don't go! '
As he held my hand in his
For the first time in thirty years,
I found it totally impossible
To hold back the flood of tears.
I put my head on his shoulder,
And we held each other tight.
This was the moment I'd dreamed of,
And now I was convinced the moment was right.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Requiescit
I cannot tell his story. He was one
To whom the riddle of our human life
Was strangely put, and who, because of that
And that he could not read it, died. But a short hour
Before he passed, the woman who stood by,
Weeping as once she had wept to see him born,
Tired with her watching looked into his face
And saw the heavy eyelids dropping down
Loaded with sleep. And she, for all her tears,
Bent for the hundredth time to ease his bed.
And, as she almost touched him, smoothing out
The ruffled pillows, close into her ear
He whispered, never lifting up his eyes:
``No matter now. I shall be soon asleep.''
And then, as if he would pursue the thought
A little way as once he loved to do,
And yet too weak to catch it, he went on:
``And what a trouble it has been to keep
This pillow smooth! And in a little while
It will not want another touch; and then--
This aching head of mine will have done with thought.
Thought! Thought!'' But loud the aged woman sobbed,
``Poor soul, poor gentleman.'' So they remained
For a brief space, the goodwife standing there
Knotting her wrinkled hands and he hard by
Upon the bed and breathing heavily.
For he seemed sunk again in that dull trance
Through which men often pass away from life,
When death, as the lion does, has shaken his prey
And he lies numb and dumb and powerless.
She listened. He was telling slowly over
The names of those whom he had loved in youth.
Many were strange to her; and then there came
One she knew well. She started at the sound
She had not heard for years, and bending near
Heard him repeat it twice. She whispered hoarsely:
``Have you no word for her?''--yet stopped again
Because his eyes were open. Doubtingly
They wandered to her own and seemed to say
``Who, and what is it that you ask?'' And she
Spoke it again. He seemed to catch the name
And said it after her, but like a child
Which knows not what it speaks; and afterwards:
``Ah! Bridget, I have quite forgot that story,
And now, in half an hour, it is not long,
I shall have clean forgotten the name too.''
She cried, ``Oh Sir, it is a life too late.
Would God you had forgot it long ago!''
The tears stole slowly down her withered cheeks
And fell upon his hands. She did not move
While he went murmuring on: ``'Tis very well
Thus to forget. And what a wonder too
It now is''--and there came a sudden light
Into his eyes--``that one should ever care
To recollect a single day of life.
I used to think and plan and plot and scheme
How I might build my life in such a way
That I should take fine memories to my grave.
And now what a small matter 'tis to know
How the years went, when death in half an hour
Is all that is left of them! No matter now,
But only to sleep sound in any bed
And have no dreams.'' His eyes grew dim again
As he ceased speaking. And the woman knew
That he was dying. ``He is gone,'' she said.
And then she started muttering half aloud
``They cannot pass without the sacraments,
These gentle--folks.'' And so she hurried out.
The dying man smiled. When they came again,
She whispered in his ear, and looking down
Saw him still smiling; so she lit in haste
A candle by the bed and knelt aside.
They put the holy oils upon his hands,
Which closed upon the fingers of the priest.
The priest bent over him and laid his ear
To the half--open mouth and presently,
Thinking he heard some words, gave absolution.
But, when they would have gone on with the rest,
They found that he was dead. They buried him
With some small pomp to comfort the old dame,
Who said her master was a gentleman
And must be followed with a mourning coach
And mutes and weepers. There was no one else.
His name is cut upon a stone. His dreams
Were written on Time's hem; and Time has fled
And taken him and them. The grass is green
Upon his grave. I cannot doubt he sleeps.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Fragile
In the sacred hallways of heaven,
A crystal jewel so precious and rare.
Nestled amidst grass, thick and soft as down.
So soft and fragile, one must only whisper there.
Tis jewell, a beauty rare, so hard to find, unique.
So perfect and complete- but touch it and it breaks.
With our cracked, scarred hands, we are to hard.
So we visit there in dreams, that we forget when we wake.
Silence, untouchable it seems. To here a feat indeed.
To take hold, greater still, for the jewel's fragility
Is so great, we can but whisper it for fear it'll disappear.
This jewel is everything we wish that we could be.
Fragile-like a finch egg. A layer so thin you tremble in fear.
Like the water surface - feeling every vibration.
So perfectly delicate - like the blossoms just open - so fragrant.
To mishandle once brings condemnation.
Touch it gently, and pray to God that you don't break it.
And you may find something glorious beyond your dreams.
Break it, and you will find yourself screaming inside.
Each day and night, a tormented, tortured being.
poem by Joses Tirtabudi
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