A Heap’s peak
Everyone has a heap,
Each heap has a peak,
Be it a mountain or an ant hill.
Priding on such heap one would die,
Each soul thus getting some respite.
15.06.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Related quotes
This magnificent butterfly finds a little heap of dirt and sits still on it; but man will never on his heap of mud keep still.
quote by Joseph Conrad
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No company can afford not to move forward. It may be at the top of the heap today but at the bottom of the heap tomorrow, if it doesn't.
quote by James Cash Penney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Up On The Hill
We come from a long line of lenders
Who get rich just exploiting you spenders
But now we just manage our blenders
Up, up, up on the hill
It helps to be charming and funny
Have cute names like binky and bunny
But the main things still oodles of money
Up, up, up on the hill
Up on the hill we are the big cheeses
Up on the hill we own the cool breezes
Top of the heap is where we know we belong
Up on the hill above the confusion
Up on the hill we live our illusions
Up, up, up on the hill
Marmalade mansions beneath cloudless skies
Breathtaking vistas that baffle your eyes
Were passing our days in a rare atmosphere
Sun, sea, and stars, and warm breezes all year
Our blood is decidedly blue-ish
Were leery of anything newish
And or course, darling, nobodys jewish
Up, up, up on the hill
Up on the hill we are the big cheeses
Up on the hill we own the cool breezes
The top of the heap is where we know we belong
Up on the hill above the confusion
Up on the hill we live our illusions
Up, up, up on the hill
Up, up, up on the hill
Way up, up, up on the hill
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Heaps and growths
Every heap is as a result
Of some scoops from somewhere.
Every growth is as a result
Of some deaths from around.
Don’t beam with the heap and growth.
12.12.2004
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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World peace
A mirage,
They are running after it,
A game,
Played by big players,
A net,
Cast by the biggest hunter,
And the whole world trapped into it.
Thou cannot look for it
on the heap of corpse,
On the heap of ruin,
Amidst the wail of widows,
Amidst the scream of orphans,
It will surely come,
When man will be
the centre of man's hopes.
poem by Mohammad Akmal Nazir
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Don`t Do The Crime
Don't do the crime,
If you can't do the time
It's said that it just don't pay.
But what good's working hard
When all they give you is your cards
And you know there's not much you can say.
So you take what they give
You've no money to live
And your family don't understand.
After all these years
They will end up in tears
With a mountain of bills in their hands.
(chorus)
Now your lesson is learned
There's nowhere to turn
And it's no use pleading for help.
When you're left on the heap
When you're left on the heap
There is nothing to keep you
From going and helping yourself
From going and helping yourself.
The dilemma you've found
Is you're morally bound
Now your morally bound
Now your moral code needs a review
So what do you care
You know life isn't fair
And for years they've been stealing from you.
song performed by by Ub40
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Peaks of the heaps.
Every heap will have a peak,
That it can be proud of. Be it.
Let the bigger one applaud it
It promotes peace and harmony.
28.12.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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On A Miser, 3 (From The Greek)
Art thou some individual of a kind
Long-lived by nature as the rook or hind?
Heap treasure, then, for if thy need be such,
Thou hast excuse, and scarce canst heap too much.
But man thou seem'st, clear therefore from thy breast
This lust of treasure -- folly at thy best!
For why shouldst thou go wasted to the tomb,
To fatten with thy spoils thou know'st not whom?
poem by William Cowper
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Africa
Heap of wood,
Kindle the fire in Africa!
With narrow windows above the guardrooms.
To the African civilizations,
Unique and creative;
With cultures and edifices to tell a story.
In the middle of the desert road,
From the orient and the occident;
On the mountain skirts and forests to tell a stroy.
Where are the Executives?
Of fresh and natural colours;
The epics and the braveries will greet you.
Where are the Legislatives?
The modus operandi is based on culture! !
Where, the governments rules with tribalism.
Where are the Judiciaries?
Like the artistic works around;
But, nature's love is what we share in Africa!
Heap the wood,
Multinationals with spoken languages;
Is there any hope for us? Oh Africa!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Sum-Up
It is not power and fame
That make success;
It is not rank or name
Rate happiness.
It is not honour due
Nor pile of pelf:
The pay-off is: Did you
Enjoy yourself?
A pal of days gone by
I reckon more
Of a success than I
Who've gold in store
His life, though none too long,
Was never dull:
Of woman, wine and song
Bill had his full.
Friend, you are a success
If you can say:
"A heap of happiness
Has come my way.
No cheers have made me glad,
No wealth I've won;
But oh how I have had
A heap of FUN!"
poem by Robert William Service
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Poetry N Me
i've no vocabulary
only emotion
when i say i'm as fragile
as an egg
i say that after
i become an egg
if i say i'm a touch-me-not
i become a touch-me-not
before i say that
when i say i' m a heap of ashes
i reduce myself to a heap
before i say that
so many forms do i assume
before i say i'm that-
a ripple
a speck of light
a cave
a tear
a rain drop
the sky
the sea...
i don't brood over a word
nor do i brood over an emotion
that fleeting moment
i live through
simply finds its way by itself
and much to my amusement
you call it poetry!
is writing poetry that simple?
is this writing
poetry is all about?
is to be truthful
to one's heart an art?
21sep2009
15.15hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Just Felt 'a Slight Bump
A mother hare hit by a speeding car,
Blood on the road, disordered heap of limbs,
Fur, feet and floppy ears, what a mess!
Car driver, loud music blaring from his tape cassette
Scarcely noticed, but at night the leveret
Came out from where he’d crouched all day,
Approached the silent heap that was his mother,
Sniffed her gently, walked around but could not understand
Why she was cold and stiff who had been warm and loving.
Fucking callous speeding motorists, too
Don’t understand what dreadful carnage they can do,
What beastly pain and sorrow they can sow.
poem by Pete Crowther
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Hymn 24
The rich sinner dying.
Psa. 49:6,9; Eccl. 8:8; Job 3:14,15.
In vain the wealthy mortals toil,
And heap their shining dust in vain,
Look down and scorn the humble poor,
And boast their lofty hills of gain.
Their golden cordials cannot ease
Their pained hearts or aching heads,
Nor fright nor bribe approaching death
From glitt'ring roofs and downy beds.
The ling'ring, the unwilling soul
The dismal summons must obey,
And bid a long, a sad farewell
To the pale lump of lifeless clay.
Thence they are huddled to the grave,
Where kings and slaves have equal thrones;
Their bones without distinction lie
Amongst the heap of meaner bones.
poem by Isaac Watts
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what do we do to Mother Earth?
do not burn
let the leaves fall to the ground
let them stay there
layer by layer
heap upon heap
let mother earth
hug all the leaves
let the affection be
strong and heavy
let the leaves die
and rot and become
water and become dust
to dust
let all of us see this dust
we shall do what mother earth
and nature loves best
to dust we shall return
and be its permanent part
close to the bosom
of mother earth
forever
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An Early Morning Wish
it is too early
i guess the nights are longer now
it is 4: 56 a.m. it is cold
the air is cold
and the windows are still closed
the rooster at the yard
keeps on crowing
while other roosters of the neighborhood
(i live in a rural town
with dusty roads still at the other
nearby kiosk)
keep on crowing too for an answer,
how i wish to make you
a lovely,
happy,
gentle,
peaceful poem
no one screaming on the road
not a motorcab screeching
neither a bus overspeeding
and spreading dust
how i wish to write you a poem
about love
or about that only peaceful star
hanging on the
early morning sky
just a wish
but really
there isn't any
it cannot be
what with a heart that is grieving
a soul that is lost
a body that trembles
a mind with thoughts live leaves
heap upon heap
without a match
to burn them all
this hot days of summer.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Too Early
it is too early
i guess the nights are longer now
it is 4: 56 a.m. it is cold
the air is cold
and the windows are still closed
the rooster at the yard
keeps on crowing
while other roosters of the neighborhood
(i live in a rural town
with dusty roads still at the other
nearby kiosk)
keep on crowing too for an answer,
how i wish to make you
a lovely,
happy,
gentle,
peaceful poem
no one screaming on the road
not a motorcab screeching
neither a bus overspeeding
and spreading dust
how i wish to write you a poem
about love
or about that only peaceful star
hanging on the
early morning sky
just a wish
but really
there isn't any
it cannot be
what with a heart that is grieving
a soul that is lost
a body that trembles
a mind with thoughts live leaves
heap upon heap
without a match
to burn them all
this hot days of summer.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Great Motherboard
How the human brain
Like a mammoth mother board
Assimilates and stores up impressions
Some sad, some joyful
Some daunting, some frightful
Some difficult to decipher and decode
Heap on heap, they pile.
Through recollections, vague or vivid,
Dreams, words and thoughts,
One time or other, they reel back and forth
As on a computer screen
Some deleted forever, some etched deep
Some irrecoverably lost
Some able to be retrieved
Some mouldy, sending out a stale smell
Some spreading a fresh aroma
Delectable to the senses
Some filling us with a zest to live
Some making our eyes swell
But without them
How vacuous human life
How hollow….how banal!
poem by Valsa George
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Second World War Soldier's Return
A short brown soldier
Fought the world war
In the Burman land,
For four years,
With his skin tearing away,
On bieng removed,
Drinking rum,
Ducking bullets,
Sharpnel from crumbling
Buildings and glass windows,
He was shot and removed
To the heap of dead,
The family getting
The news, did last rites
For him, the war ending,
His parent's mounning
Their dear son's death,
Still part of lasr rites
Conducting saw
The apparition of their son,
On the doorway,
They howled in horror
When their son
Told them he has returned
Crawling fron dead's heap
And reached home
To the amazement
Of the villagers talking
Of the second birth of the soldier.
poem by Ravikiran Arakkal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I don't buy into you're on the slag heap when you're 40 or 50 or 60 or 70 or whatever.
quote by Joan Collins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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