Golden Days
Another day of toil and strife,
Another page so white,
Within that fateful Log of Life
That I and all must write;
Another page without a stain
To make of as I may,
That done, I shall not see again
Until the Judgment Day.
Ah, could I, could I backward turn
The pages of that Book,
How often would I blench and burn!
How often loathe to look!
What pages would be meanly scrolled;
What smeared as if with mud;
A few, maybe, might gleam like gold,
Some scarlet seem as blood.
O Record grave, God guide my hand
And make me worthy be,
Since what I write to-day shall stand
To all eternity;
Aye, teach me, Lord of Life, I pray,
As I salute the sun,
To bear myself that every day
May be a Golden One.
poem by Robert William Service
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Related quotes
Book Of Days
Your life is as a book
Written on the pages are the weeks
For you would give anything to take just one look
Into the next chapter, the next page
Each page is a new thought, a new dream
Sometimes it takes so long to pass that page
And sometimes nothing is as it seams
For you know you can not go ahead or back
You know you are where you are
You know you can't change that
As you read page to page, so near to fear
You write the chapters as you go, with each turn
Each turn, each move changes what's to come
And you know each moment could be the last
With this in mind you go so mumb
So numb to the touch, to the thought
You turn page after page
until you reach the 'end'
And only then, you are freed from the title
The title that has kept your thoughts bound, and tight
You turn the pages one by one
You take the pain, take the joy
Until you are done
And your story becomes another on the shelf of eternity
(1/24/2008)
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Destiny Life Leaf Pages
manuscripts we all life write
destiny life leaf pages
some leave empty pages white
others shimmer reflecting light
some smear pages with dirt
record chaos rip rub out hurt
how shall we fill manuscript pages...
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Home Alone Happy Without Working Computer
Home alone happy without working computer
I take my pen in hand
And slowly write these words –
Let the world click and paste and post
I am out of it for now-
I have before me an evening of any book I like
Of any page I want to write
-
Peace of Mind is one place of attention at a time-
Here weighing each word as I write
I am at home with my inner self-
I hear my own thoughts
I correct them at my own pace.
So many words and so many pages
Have been written in my life-
Now in this one
I am wholly at home
Peaceful, quiet happy
Each word a small blessing
As I write it-
This is the only poem I know
The only page I see
The only place of attention
I give myself and my soul to
At this moment.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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When I Write The Book
Nick lowe/dave edmunds/billy bremner
Plangent visions music, ltd.
Now I can remember like it was only yesterday
Love was young and foolish like a little child at play
But oh how lovers change -- I never dreamed how easily
cause now Im just a shadow of the boy I used to be
And when I write the book about my love
It will be about a man whos torn in half
About his hopes and ambitions wasted through the years
The pain will be written on every page in tears
When I write the book about my love
I was a fool to myself when I kept on runnin around
And I fared little better when I tried settlin down
Maybe some magic moment
Ive never known one, not for long
For all too soon the magic is in a moment gone
And when I write the book about my love
Itll be a heartbreaking story about love and luck
When I get down on the pages all I felt
It will make the hardest-hearted of critics hearts melt
When I write the book about my love
When I was young love was fun and I was so happy
I looked so good, and I dressed so snappy
Two-tone shoes on my feet, big old smile on my face
As I moved and grooved all over the place
Now Im down in the heels, my complexion is bad
cause my love life is sadder than sad
And when I write the book about my love
Itll be a pop publication, tougher than tough
When I get down on the pages all I missed
It will shoot to the top of the best-sellers list
When I write the book about my love
song performed by by Huey Lewis And The News
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Book
Have you ever opened a book?
And feel like it’s your life
As you watch each page go pass
You think where did I get lost
Each chapter is an ending
Of what was or what could have been
But each new chapter a beginning
Brings you hope to live again
But the hardest thing in life
Is as you turn each page
You must learn to pass the pain
That lies between the pages
Each chapter a lesson
In life’s little games
Then we smile at ourselves
As we close the last page
To look forward to anew
Of a new chapter in our life’
We smile and nod
At the new book of life
poem by Kaila George
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World Peace
This page is tranquil like its white..
On this
When I write to my Mother
About her lotus, her peacock
Her victorious liberty, her astute, salubrious issues
Halcyon breeze trills unfurling a peacock-dance
To the felicitious lotuses in abundance
But in a sudden hush of a spooky heart
My trembling hands admonish Mother
Voicing an alert to terrorism and violence..
Shocked..This page..outraged to bleed tear-flood
Bleeds and bleeds in a nexus to wet red
Other pages and other pages reticular far and wide
Friends, You feel the pain of my heart
In your eyes, in your hands as I do yours
Tell me, what shall we do to write
'WORLD PEACE' to restore this tranquil page
poem by Indira Renganathan
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What Is These All About?
at 9: 18 p.m.
the head gets the pain
another relief
swallowed
finally you go back
to where you
started
page one
when you said
you do not miss her
page two and three
empty
pages more pages
until you reach
that page where you cried
dried tears at the middle
of the blotted letters
you quickly run your fingers
close the notebook
you stand by the window
at par with the moon.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Book Of My Life
Let me watch by the fire and remember my days
And it may be a trick of the firelight
But the flickering pages that trouble my sight
Is a book I'm afraid to write
It's the book of my days, it's the book of my life
And it's cut like a fruit on the blade of a knife
And it's all there to see as the section reveals
There's some sorrow in every life
If it reads like a puzzle, a wandering maze
Then I won't understand 'til the end of my days
I'm still forced to remember,
Remember the words of my life
There are promises broken and promises kept
Angry words that were spoken, when I should have wept
There's a chapter of secrets, and words to confess
If I lose everything that I possess
There's a chapter on loss and a ghost who won't die
There's a chapter on love where the ink's never dry
There are sentences served in a prison I built out of lies.
Though the pages are numbered
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery no-one can read
In the book of my life
There's a chapter on fathers a chapter on sons
There are pages of conflicts that nobody won
And the battles you lost and your bitter defeat,
There's a page where we fail to meet
There are tales of good fortune that couldn't be planned
There's a chapter on god that I don't understand
There's a promise of Heaven and Hell but I'm damned if I see
Though the pages are numbered
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery no-one can read
In the book of my life
Now the daylight's returning
And if one sentence is true
All these pages are burning
And all that's left is you
Though the pages are number
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Reminder for Myself...
erasing the past
is like burning the pages of your diary
the smoke hurts a while
but
soon you begin to write your own future
another page
another stroke of the pen
that sometimes we admire because it is nicer now
there will always be a difference
until you tear the pages again
crumple them
and let them go
sometimes i think
i need to make paper planes
or perhaps kites
and so i need some strings
some bamboo sticks
for bones
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What Is Written In Red
I am written in red,
I am sliding across the page of life.
I am racing across the lines of language.
I am red.
I write words,
I create lines and sentences,
I am kept in solitude
I am red.
I create paragraphs.
I create signatures.
I know what you're thinking before you speak,
I am red.
I cannot breath because I am enclosed in a capsule.
A capsule that covers the knowledge inside.
All I do is stare at pages,
All I know is pages,
I become apart of the pages,
And the pages become apart of me.
I become apart of english,
I become apart of words,
I am RED.
BY: Takisha Fields
poem by Kiesha fields
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The Book
My life is a leaf
Bind together in a book
Written
With sweat and blood
Pages after pages
With the taste of Pain and joy
Every emotion
Big or small
Fully charged
Packed and sealed
Every incident
Recoded in details
For the experience
Good or bad
If you want to learn
Whether there is any love
For you and mankind
You just need to turn
The page number twenty one
Chapter after chapter
Written with mixture
Of success and failure
If any one
Written badly
And Tastes sour
It is my life
Full of blood and flesh
Please pass on to another
poem by Abdul Wahab
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My Song
I wrote a song
It's called 'my life'
I tried my best to make it a good one
I'd never written a song
Twas indeed my first
I had an eraser
I couldn't clean my mistakes though
It turned out to be a long song
A hundred and twenty pages worth
A page a year
I made a mess of it
Blue pen made a mark
As depression took a quarter of it
Yellow pen made an entrance
I decided it was better than blue
Red pen tried to hurt me
As all anger was kept inside
Green pen whispered a note
I wished I had my neighbour's song
So many colours on just one song
Twenty-five pages were dark
I knew not which way to go
I tried to turn a page but couldn't
I basked in pages gone
Hence left several pages blank
Twenty-five pages were wet
As tears serenaded my heart, it did the pages
Too much pain in one song
Tried to change the words
The things I thought all made the song
On a scale of good to bad, bad stole the day
I searched and found other songs titled 'my life'
I wrote my song the way they had
My song was like a painting
One in utter disharmony
One drawn by a clueless artist
But an artist whose passion burned his painting
I set my heart on fire on page 35
There had to be more
And more I had
On page 120, my eyes were dim and hands tired
Since pages couldn't be turned
My mind sat, and looked back
What had I done?
I'd been mountain high
I'd been valley low
I'd been good
I'd been bad
I'd been....
I lay my head on my song
Took my last breath
But before I did
I held a girl
Who had a song called 'my life'
She read my song
And shed a tear
And said I had written....a masterpiece.
poem by Jenim Dibie
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Can it be Memory, Inspiration, or Figment Causing This?
The poems I write are a story of my life
They are a foreseeable future, a regret filled past
In this they stain, in my poems they stain
The dreams, my ideals, life lessons, and hopes
Flood on to the page waiting to be read
Stranger they become
Stranger to be in my mind
How they come to be there
That bolt of lines that swirl and toil in my mind
They say for my allure, they sway for my attention
'Take me', they cry, 'Take me for your own'
'Release us from here, bring us to life and capture us in
your work! '
'Immortalize us in history on that page! '
They sway faster in an angry tempo
Chanting now on how to be used
Begging, pleading to be used
I grasp the pen and paper
Pull my laptop closer
I write and type as fast as my hands can go
The tempo soothes, and the swaying stops
All is quiet
All is empty
They are released, glorified on this magnificent page.
Written: January 21,2012
poem by Ryan Collins
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You Must Now Walk Alone
A chapter has ended
A new one begins
The book of life trembles
Because of the unknown
Turing back the pages
You see the joy
The sorrows of old
And smile at each memory
Of adventure untold
Your heart skips a beat
As you read each page of gold
And think to yourself
When did you travel the path?
Of life alone
Searching the pages
Were two foot steps entwine
You see the paths they walk
As they separate and untwine
And they get lost
Between the pages of time
You search you look
When did they become one?
Each one walking on their own
You cry in vain as you realize
You're all alone
Standing on the pathway
A tear trickles down your cheek
But to continue your Journey
You must now walk alone.
poem by Kaila George
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Fresh Notebook
She bought me a fresh notebook
To write my deepest thoughts
Deliver up my soul
Daily to her
A hard serrated border
Thick along the spine
Designed to pay tribute in words
An opening address
A nod a wink
Initialled in my best
Invisible ink
I turn a new leaf over
Another page, far from
A new beginning
Or a new address
A naked page where I confess
My deepest wish
To sleep with you
On sheets of winter snow
One day I'll write
A sonnet for your eyes
Smiling like the cold sunlight
And close the notebook shut
Liberating me
From sharp parallel lines
And you will feed
Your hungered soul
On pages of my life
poem by Frank Bana
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Book Of Life
Is my name written there on those pages bright and fair
Is my name written in the book of life
If you want to be up there then down here you must prepare
And your name must be in the book of life
Get down on your knees and pray you from sin must turn away
Or your name won't be in the book of life
If you'll turn to Jesus now at his feet just humbly bow
Then your name will be in the book of life
Don't you know that Christ was sent that from sin you could repent
So your name could be in the book of life
You will have a great surprise if you fell to recognize
That your name must be in the book of life
Get down on your knees and pray you from sin must turn away
Or your name won't be in the book of life
Don't delay and don't forget that from sin you could repent
Then your name will be in the book of life
Is my name written in the book of life
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In the spirit of Rumi - 67 - To Rumi
I’m not too proud to say
please write a new poem through me
and I promise not to claim that
I wrote it myself…
or if that’s too much to ask,
just a line somewhere, that I’ll watch
as it writes itself and know
that you, not I, write it
or if that’s too much to ask,
open an old book at
a page that smells just faintly
of attar of roses, and know that
Rumi read this page too
or sitting quietly waiting for a poem,
or after a poem, and there’ll be
a slight breeze for a moment
carrying the memory of a rose
from an old Persian species
mixed with the faintest scent of wild herbs
after desert rain
or if that’s too much to ask,
just the occasional memory
that you lived, and wrote,
and a poem comes to mind
as if you’re reading it first to a friend
and I’ll smile and look at
the rose in the blue and white vase over there,
neither of us caring about time
while your book lies open by the window,
the breeze turning the pages gently
as if it knew which poem to choose
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Liberty
On my books and poetry,
On my desk and on the computer
On the sand and on the beach
I write your name
On all the pages I have read
On all the blank pages
Stone bloody shed or ash
I write your name
On my greedy, tender friends
On my comrades, beloved country,
On my clumsy hands
I write your name
On my health and wealth
On the risk which disappeared
On the hope without memory
I write your name
And by the power of one word
I begin a life again
I was born to know you
To name you.
Liberty
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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LIFE… An Epic.
Life is a book of epic!
Where are the pages to write the accounts?
Who gave this precious book,
And kept it open in front of the humans?
And kindled a lamp called life
For him to read at his will,
And forget himself, and live?
Enjoy each sentence in this epic.
It is embedded with exultation
And delight; vibrant with passion.
And love and lust, ravished by charms.
The lamp may extinguish to day or
Tomorrow, then there will be utter darkness,
The book will be illegible and fade away.
Idiots try to write accounts in its pages.
They add and subtract continuously.
But finally, all additions and subtractions
Turns to be erroneous, and faulty….
poem by Kunjubi Varghese
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I am a very linear thinker, so I write beginning to end. I write hundreds of pages per book that never make it into print.
quote by Laurell K. Hamilton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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