The day has come
Potter moulds clay;
A day would come
For the clay to mould man.
Man mould nature;
The day has come
For the nature to mould man.
26.03.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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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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Dance! (Don't Think)
You got to break the back of the mould
You were made in it
Crack the shell, that's how it's got to be
Nothing for certain
Ain't no way of knowing
Only believe in things that you see
Flow with the river
Run with the tide
Mix with your brother
Because he's right by your side
Crack that mould
Little bitty chicken
You can't stay in there forever
Now there ain't such a thing as only
One kind of weather
You got to bend learn
Take the rough with the smooth
Understand everything
Crack that mould
And only then you'll be free
Pick up them shoes, go running down that road
You know that preconception is such a heavy load
You got to live love
Put down that written word
Crack that mould
And only then you'll be free
song performed by by Chris Rea
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Summers Gone
Cue to your face so forsaken
Crushed by the way that you cry
Cue to your face so forsaken
What a surprise
You try to break the mould
Before you get too old
You try to break the mould
Before you die
Cue to your heart that is racing
Stung by the look in your eye
Cue to your heart that is racing
What a surprise
You try to break the mould
Before you get too old
You try to break the mould
Before you die
Cue your face so forsaken
Crushed by the way that you cry
Cue your face so forsaken
Say goodbye
Sing for your lover
Like blood from a stone
Sing for your lover
Whos waiting at home
If you sing when youre high
And youre dry as a bone
Then you must realise
That youre never alone
And youll sing with the dead instead
You try and break the mould,
Before you get too old
You try and break the mould,
Before you die
song performed by by Placebo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There is much to support the view that it is clothes that wear us, and not we, them; we may make them take the mould of arm or breast, but they mould our hearts, our brains, our tongues to their liking.
quote by Virginia Woolf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Crack That Mould
You got to break the back of the mould you were made in
Crack the shell, thats how its got to be
Nothing for certain, aint no way of knowing
Only believe in things that you see
Flow with the river, run with the tide
Mix with your brother, cos hes right by your side
Crack that mould
Little pretty chicken you cant stay in there forever
Now there aint no such thing as only one kind of weather
You got to bend, learn, take the rough with the smooth
Understand everything
Crack that mould
Now there aint no such thing as only one kind of weather
Pick up them shoes, go running down that road
You know that precondition is such a heavy load
You got to live love, put down that written word
Crack that mould
Now there aint no such thing as only one kind of weather
song performed by by Chris Rea
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As The Lord Is Ensconced In His Chariot…
o, lord
let thy trundling wheels
crush this ego ridden
chariot of empty bones
of shallow dreams
of lecherous lust
***
o, jagannadh
this bag of flesh
sags under the weight
of uncommon greed
***
squash this clay mould
of imperfection
you moulded more out of habit
in a fleeting
wink of disinterestedness
***
this mould created
to amuse yourself
is entrapped
in the snarl of desire
this vacant structure
is forever fixed in
the net of illusions
this shallow chariot
time and again deviates
from its course…
***
o, lord
pound this particle
under your divine wheels
as your mighty chariot
rolls along the sandy bay
***
redeem it from
all these and more…
25jun2009
03
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Mould
Break out of your
Mould -
To come to me.
I'll break into
Pieces…
To mould
Into thee…
(Theme: Oneness)
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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On The Companionship With Nature
Let us be much with Nature; not as they
That labour without seeing, that employ
Her unloved forces, blindly without joy;
Nor those whose hands and crude delights obey
The old brute passion to hunt down and slay;
But rather as children of one common birth,
Discerning in each natural fruit of earth
Kinship and bond with this diviner clay.
Let us be with her wholly at all hours,
With the fond lover's zest, who is content
If his ear hears, and if his eye but sees;
So shall we grow like her in mould and bent,
Our bodies stately as her blessèd trees,
Our thoughts as sweet and sumptuous as her flowers.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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If you are cast in a different mould to the majority, it is no merit of yours: Nature did it.
quote by Charlotte Bronte
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Too Good To Be True
(robert palmer)
She knows what to say, she knows what to do
Every move she makes, she makes just for you
She knows just how to change your mind
You think youve pinned her down
Shes got you undersigned
Shes too good to be true
They broke the mould, when they made you
She knows when to leave, she knows when to stay
When she takes her turn, she knows how to play
Theres more, you havent seen it all
Youre going to have to learn to keep up with her
Shes too good to be true
They broke the mould, when they made you
Shes too good to be true
They broke the mould, when they made you
She knows just how to change your mind
You think youve pinned her down
Shes got you undersigned
Shes too good to be true
They broke the mould, when they made you
Too good to be true
They broke the mould, when they made you
Shes too good to be true
Give credit where its due
song performed by by Robert Palmer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Perfect Adultery
Nature’s game awarded the clay
To the potter’s neighbour
Who desires it not.
The potter finds his clay perchance
And longed to possess it whole, malleable and wet,
And when he does, it will become
A perfect adultery,
To the potter’s house she
Will go, to be molded whole and happy,
The potter is a good man they will say
But, good men though gentle and civil,
In things of love and romance, sometimes,
The animal in man takes over
And when it does, the potter’s act to claim his clay
Will become a perfect adultery,
When a woman young and inexperienced
Is lured into a marriage of baby making
By a man above his prime and manipulative,
When she’s abandoned in a romance of half moon
Per twelve circle,
She will yearn for love young and adventurous like hers’
To escape the boredom and loneliness of a single mother married,
When she abandon herself in a romance of young-full
Lover,
It will become a perfect adultery.
When a man gentle and pure
Falls into the hands of a woman that nags
In a matrimony of distrust,
When he stays away and befriends alcohol
And in his lighter brain finds a woman easy
And seductive,
He will submit to her bareback rough ride,
He will long for this escape at will
And when he does,
It will become a perfect adultery.
When adult-try relationship
Become a game of deceit and suspicion,
When couples seek an escape with another
Seen as compatible and trustful
And religion preaches sin of the flesh,
And nature thinks otherwise,
And the couples do their thing
Because separation is hard to get
And hypertension knocks at the door,
When they close their eyes in a romance
Of anything goes, it will be termed a
Perfect adultery,
Perfect adult-try?
Perfect adult-teen?
Perfect adult-tur?
Perfect adult-thorn
In the flesh?
©May,2010
poem by Akachukwu Chukwuemeka
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Laburnums
OVER old walls the Laburnums
hang cones of fire;
Laburnums that grow out of old
mould in old gardens:
Old maids and old men who have savings or pensions have
Shuttered themselves in the pales of old gardens.
The gardens grow wild; out of their mould the Laburnums
Draw cones of fire.
And we, who've no lindens, no palms, no cedars of Lebanon,
Rejoice you have gardens with mould, old men and old maids:
The bare and the dusty streets have now the Laburnums,
Have now cones of fire!
poem by Padraic Colum
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Be clay
Don’t be half-hearted about this –
be clay.
You know all about clay –
be clay.
Humble, submissive, reverent –
awaiting the Potter’s hands.
Enjoy that humility, that surrender –
feel already so near God.
Now the wheel begins to turn –
the Potter is here!
Feel His hands – the more you feel them,
the more you know the love in them.
Now you’re being shaped:
turned on the wheel like a dervish turns,
you’re becoming like that tall column of stillness,
rising from the centre of the whirling skirt;
still; in the memory of the Potter’s hands;
you recognise yourself who waited for you.
*
[leaning on the poems of Hafiz]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Sonnet: Heaven’s Our Goal
Oh, never mind if you’re just a cipher,
In things of earthly mould and clay domain;
Your origin’s from clay- well decipher!
Your soul off sin, you always must regain.
And like a Phoenix, you must rise from dust,
Tho’ dead by sin, a mountain-load in weight;
For, victory with the devil is a must,
And love of God will arrange for souls freight.
How can one live in luxury on earth,
And be a saint all life at the same time?
How can one attain Heaven without birth,
Or do misdeeds, yet make one’s life sublime?
What if you gain the world but lose your soul?
For Salvation to each one is prime goal.
6-28-2002 by Dr John Celes
poem by John Celes
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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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Stone
The days have passed, nights are gone,
I'm still in love with a stone,
The seasons changed, the clay too came,
I still hold it with no moan,
The clay comes to me in so many shapes,
Wants me to hold it, whatever it may take,
But clay can hurt me, clay may fake,
Even if it's clay, I have a heart it can break,
The season may change,
The clay may go,
Slowing my heart beat,
All time low,
Stone is hard,
Stone is black,
Stone is emotionless,
Doesn't stab at back,
The clay, the stone, both make me die,
But if a stone does, even the clay may cry...
and I'll never ask why...
It's better to live with a stone,
not clay,
Clay is soft, but it hurts,
which is not the stone's way.....
poem by Apurva Jain
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Minstrel's Book - Song And Structure
LET the Greek his plastic clay
Mould in human fashion,
While his own creation may
Wake his glowing passion;
But it is our joy to court
Great Euphrates' torrent,
Here and there at will to sport
In the Wat'ry current.
Quench'd I thus my spirit's flame,
Songs had soon resounded;
Water drawn by bards whose fame
Pure is, may be rounded.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Thirteen Lines
A brain peered through stoic eyes;
Yet all it saw was rendered into
Flawed interpretation –
No honoured contemplation of a
Gluon, muon, quark of any flavour;
Nor a vision or conception of its world
Within a universe anthropic in its physical laws,
Inside a boundless multiverse.
All it gleaned and modelled
Bore parochialism well beyond belief! –
Delusional perhaps.
Survival only matters here on planet Earth –
Evolution saw to that.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
na ture nature nature nature
nature nature nature nature
nature nature nature nature
nature nature nature nature
nature nature nature nature
nature nature nature nature
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Yukoner
He burned a hole in frozen muck,
He pierced the icy mould,
And there in six-foot dirt he struck
A sack or so of gold.
He burned holes in the Decalogue,
And then it cam about,
For Fortune's just a lousy rogue,
His "pocket" petered out.
And lo! 'twas but a year all told,
When there in a shadow grim,
In six feet deep of icy mould
They burned a hole for him.
poem by Robert William Service
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Ippolit Konovaloff
I was a gun-smith in Odessa.
One night the police broke in the room
Where a group of us were reading Spencer.
And seized our books and arrested us.
But I escaped and came to New York
And thence to Chicago, and then to Spoon River,
Where I could study my Kant in peace
And eke out a living repairing guns!
Look at my moulds! My architectonics!
One for a barrel, one for a hammer,
And others for other parts of a gun!
Well, now suppose no gun-smith living
Had anything else but duplicate moulds
Of these I show you -- well, all guns
Would be just alike, with a hammer to hit
The cap and a barrel to carry the shot,
All acting alike for themselves, and all
Acting against each other alike.
And there would be your world of guns!
Which nothing could ever free from itself
Except a Moulder with different moulds
To mould the metal over.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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