All are hypocrites
We mould our words in accord
With the readers in mind.
We mould our deeds in accord
With the respondents.
We write songs in accord
With the audience.
Who aren’t hypocrites
In their words and deeds?
09.12.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Accord
Accord
Step splintered walk through the sun
Who drew those feet like two lonely leaves
That never heard for each other
By a rootless tree
Who blew the wind
Into the sight of those
Black ashen eyes spreading over
The water that rests in a Sunday morn
Who tied that hair
And with which hands
Which fingers dragged
The ties into naught.
Accord
Like an accord of the distant music
Spreading horizons into merging hues
Splitting earth sky border
Who forgot
This thin line thinning even more
Up to the point of not ever being recognized
But still somehow breaking the heart
Once in accord
Reconciled?
©Miroslava Odalović
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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An upright soul
Thoughts must conform to words
And words to deeds to give peace.
Good thoughts and bad words: one is
raw.
Bad thoughts and good words: one is a cheat.
Good words and bad deeds: one is
cruel.
Bad words and good deeds: one is a
barker.
Thoughts, words and deeds must not
be
In conflicts to ensure an upright soul.
25.11.2004
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The material came bubbling up inside like a geyser or an oil gusher. It streamed up of its own accord, down my arm and out of my fountain pen in a torrent of six thousand words a day.
quote by C.S. Forester
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Perfections Highway
Do you feel the tapping of your feet.
Do you sense a quickening of the beat.
Rhythm in colour, rhythm in design,
Rhythm in your ear, rhythm in mine.
Hear the music liven up your soul.
Hear the notes as vibrating sounds control.
Let the pulsation give a serene touch,
Let the tempo mean to you, so much.
Sweet melody, weaving pleasant dreams.
Sweet melody, is always what it seems.
In accord, let intricate songs entwine,
In accord, they mingle, all so fine.
Come now, let the volume swell and strain.
Come now, let it be your best loved refrain.
For you, great symphonies will start to play.
For you, cloud nine’s perfections highway.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Thanksgiving Prayer to God
Almighty God, to Thee I pray,
And thank Thee for all things this day,
I had received in ample way;
Let glory be to Thee, Aye! Aye!
I am a human being mere;
I sin often and always err;
Forgive me Lord, my God, I plead,
A better life, may I still lead.
This day is almost over, Lord!
I’m sorry if I broke accord;
Without Thine mercy, love O God,
My life gets thrown into discord.
My every want, Thou providest;
My praises, thanks, I offer best;
Ignore my iniquities Lord;
Afill my heart, mind with Thine word.
O let my lips utter good words,
And let my tongue not turn like swords,
And let me labor for Thine sake,
And dispel ignorance and ache.
The good I did all came from Thee
The bad surfaced from within me;
O help me do my duty well,
And always toll the success bell!
O fill this vessel, Lord, I pray,
With gifts that I can share today,
With downtrodden brethren around,
And men and women, poor, unsound.
O bless my solitude always;
Let devils not invade my days;
So bless my deeds and mundane ways,
Miraculously most, in case.
O take away my pride, O Lord;
I long to live in Thine accord;
Rescue me from each temptation
That takes me nearer Damnation.
Provide me Lord, with Thine insight;
Thou art my only way, truth, light;
Let love for Thee burn always bright,
From dawn till dusk, and through the night.
My fallacies are not just mine;
O keep me off women and wine;
This bread will do; my health is fine;
My soul with grace must always shine.
O Lord, now bless this bread I eat;
And keep my body, heart, soul, neat,
And walking in heavenly grace,
With wisdom, piety-filled face.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 1-17-2008
poem by John Celes
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Getting Good Deeds Done
The best of good deeds,
Are not the ones discussed to be done!
The best deeds that are good...
Are those deeds lived,
And done by the ones who know
When and how to give!
Getting deeds done
Without discussions,
Weaken good intentions...
With diminishing attention given!
And spoken words without action,
Provide no satisfaction.
Although distracts with attraction,
That gets everyone talking...
And then walking away,
Just to say,
They promised they would come!
They promised to provide support...
But not get involved,
With getting good deeds done.
They see deeds as no lasting remedy!
But distortions of their involvement,
In the eyes of everyone!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The chief difference between words and deeds is that words are always intended for men for their approbation, but deeds can be done only for God.
quote by Leo Tolstoy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The unconditional judgment
Writers are a few; their readers are much.
These readers aren’t those writers either.
Actors are a few; their viewers are much.
These viewers aren’t those actors at all.
Singers are a few; their listeners are much.
These listeners aren’t those singers too.
Performers are different from audience.
Poets must be read by other than poets.
Then would prevail a good environment,
Where judgment will be unconditional.
26.10.2008.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Mysterys Solved
With all the shades of truth absorbed does it become black and white?
A settlement with ones own agenda, does the agenda succeed?
A proceed of honesty, does this create enough hope?
At a loss of words, will I choke?
Is it so easy to accept what you don't understand?
In every action lies a question to be followed
Like two peas in a pod beware
With a love I over analyse and write
While some become fiction
Other are very real
But I will not point you in the right direction
For mysteries must be solved on ones own accord
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Love has its own language
The intensity of kisses,
the look in eyes
that burns flaming,
the touch of hands
which is loaded with intensity,
is all without true meaning
if there isn’t love
between partners.
Love has its own language,
that people speak with each other
and at times words are needless:
The silent understanding
of what is going on in the heart,
the gladness and trust
which leaks out of its own accord,
the being together
without having
to touch each other;
says deeper things
without having to use words.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I want you to know
I want you to know
about the depth of my feelings for you,
that you do something to my inside
as if every glance is a kiss.
I want you to know
that I cannot wipe you out
and I am not able to forget you
and that you are the whole time
in my thoughts
and just with you I get rest and peace
that I do not know how to express
words into love
and how precious I regard everything
that you give on your own accord
out of your heart
and how terrible it is
to be separated from you.
poem by Gert Strydom
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No Comment?
I let people be
What they are
Allow them to see
My life scars.
However eloquent
Is my verse
They may not comment
As people are diverse
As writers we lay words
That may touch or pass
Meanings we accord
Hopefully thus
If some be inspired
We have done good
What the pen required
And we were understood.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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The Living or the Dead
Living poets with wasted words
Succumb to a famined rhyme-
For lack of better choice accord
Poetry so laced with grime.
Dead poets wrote with mastery
And excellently lines conveyed
Thoughts abundantly in beauty
Wisdom dressed in lines arrayed.
What then do we now impart?
Our pen in utter destitution?
Better from this life depart
If one writes in vile corruption.
.............. ................................................. .........................
'Every job is a self-portrait of the person who does it.'
(anonymous)
......................... ................................................. .........
April 14,2008
Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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There are two distinct classes of what are called thoughts: those that we produce in ourselves by reflection and the act of thinking and those that bolt into the mind of their own accord.
quote by Thomas Paine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Words
the art of expression
is what my words are penned down upon
the will of wisdom
and the essence of freedom
to bounce like a king kong
on the ping pong
glad or sad, is from within each or any
stanza of my words
from the top of my head
to the deep end of the membrane under my melanin skin
to the sensory nerves of my brain
coiled upon an ancient pane
my words,
that which mirrors my sense of thought and feeling,
that with an ancestor
that which the blood of my people
was shed for; just so simple
but my words are royal
because ‘am loyal
like an induna
and vocal
to usher-in a focal
point of the meaning of my words.
my needs
and deeds
have a lord
on board
to code my words
and shield my soul from the imp’s sword.
my words are so very simple
to understand
and overstand
‘t was my words
that kept the birds
away from the heads
of my corn
for i was born
and sworn
to live a life upon
my words are so very easy to grasp
the fewer that discern
the nobler i become
I need not to wonder
and ponder
over yonder
for such is unknown to you
and therefore you have no knowledge of me
nor are you, about my words
yes! my words is what i like
to write
for i write
what i like
to strike
a balance between
the psyche
and the mic
such is my words,
the art of penning down what is from
the mind
and rewind
to remind
my words to decide
my words
such is my words,
the art of expression
against deception
but inception
and intersection
of my words
i now tell you that
my words are the words from the art
that which i chat
to match what my heart
tells me; roger that
the art of expressing the knack of expression; my words!
poem by Onalethuso Petruss Ntema
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Cycles
When Dave Priest died grave sexton told
to toll bell well for corpse stone cold -
from epiderm to earthworm’s feast
star studded sports sporadic yeast.
The moral reads: reeds brave, deeds bold,
berth bends to end which breaks birth's mould.
Mould broken, mould returned, at least
is he released from life once leased.
Though pitter-pat or thud, thud, thud,
warm blood turns into tainted mud,
must musty dust depart, heart ceased,
Time’s gavel knocks down man and beast.
As cycles spin, out's in's template,
who sees the light before dark fate?
© Jonathan Robin – Sonnet robi3_0968 written 1 November 2005 revised 17 October 2008 - for previous version see below
When Dave died grave sexton was told
to toll the bell for one grown old, -
now he is young again, released
from epiderm to earthworm’s feast.
The moral is, however bold,
all bend to end which breaks the mould.
Mould broken, mould returned, as least
is he who highest life once leased.
So whether bid or oversold
warm blood soon rudderless and cold
must musty dust turn heart beat ceased,
Time’s gavel sells off man and beast.
Though cycles swift accelerate,
who sees the light before dark fate?
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Rise Of The Enchanted
Enchanted words, and enchanted saying, enchanted words that has no meaning. Enchanted words that goes afar, enchanted saying that brings you to the stars. Rise of the enchanting is beautiful as my Lord, for it is as seeing into a woman's eyes, and love at first sight, everything is now on one accord. This is the freedom men as spoken of the freedom to be, enchanted with the mind for all to see. For as others have tried many have surpassed, the diverse mind that comes with many tests. What is the enchantment of which you so humbly speak, for it is freedom, the freedom of the meek. For I am enchanted but holding back I shall, until I show my true feelings for one I can appeal. I am enchanting and I am free, but not free to be, as tough it is my ecstasy, but I have the freedom, because freedom is free, but not enchanted I may not be, for to be free I have to be enchanted, because to be enchanted is to be free. May I be enchanted grant me thee, shall I be enchanted, shall I be free, for this is my rise, this is my plea, this is my enchantment I always wanted to see, the enchantment within me, my rise of enchanting, the enchantment for all to agree, because finally I am free.
poem by Augustus Gatlin
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Broken mould.
What mould was used to create
the species of earth?
The mould changes automatically,
to create the better species.
Who has programed the mould,
to be mold, omitting the U?
The mould that is kept in every species,
in the form of DNA and RNA.
What an Creator is that person,
who has such knowledge.
It took thousands years,
to decode the secrets of procreation.
It took millions of lives,
to find out remedy for infections.
It has taken a life span of human,
to realize the truth in final breathe.
If The same mould is used,
there is no kick in it.
The variation is a pleasure,
Various kinds of people,
with variant characters,
distinctive features, color and hair,
but Color of the liquids,
rhythm of the heart beat,
months of full term pregnancy,
are all same for every species.
A simple change
may mutate the functions.
Let us be proud of the moulds,
that we have in us.
Let us make use of the mould,
that we have inherited.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Minus is more powerful.
Minus one added with plus one
Cancels the plus one.
Minus one multiplied by plus one
Gives the minus one.
Bad words and deeds like minus
Kill good words and deeds.
06.06.2011
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Minus Is More Powerful
Minus one added with plus one
Cancel the plus one.
Minus one multiplied by plus one
Gives the minus one.
Bad words and deeds like minus
Kill good words and deeds.
(06.06.2011)
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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