Alms
Yes
Today
I will
Give her alms
But only
If she asked
Which she always did
Mysterious cruelty
Not a single glance
As she passed
Hands full of alms
No
Alms full of hands
Yes, My, My hands.
poem by Sanjay Mehta
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Related quotes
I know that a man who shows me his wealth is like the beggar who shows me his poverty; they are both looking for alms from me, the rich man for the alms of my envy, the poor man for the alms of my guilt.
The Beggar To Mab, The Fairy Queen
Please your Grace, from out your store
Give an alms to one that's poor,
That your mickle may have more.
Black I'm grown for want of meat,
Give me then an ant to eat,
Or the cleft ear of a mouse
Over-sour'd in drink of souce;
Or, sweet lady, reach to me
The abdomen of a bee;
Or commend a cricket's hip,
Or his huckson, to my scrip;
Give for bread, a little bit
Of a pease that 'gins to chit,
And my full thanks take for it.
Flour of fuz-balls, that's too good
For a man in needy-hood;
But the meal of mill-dust can
Well content a craving man;
Any orts the elves refuse
Well will serve the beggar's use.
But if this may seem too much
For an alms, then give me such
Little bits that nestle there
In the pris'ner's pannier.
So a blessing light upon
You, and mighty Oberon;
That your plenty last till when
I return your alms again.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Lord Buddha begged.
The society has more thieves than beggars.
In a way, beggars are better than thieves.
They beg but steal not and get but usurp not.
Mortgaging their ego, they are begging.
It is easy to steal but hard to beg.
Give or not, don’t treat beggars with contempt.
Do treat them at par while you give them alms.
Feel elated while you offer them alms.
While giving, dispel their humiliation.
Lord Buddha too led His life as a beggar.
19.10.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Guernika
What a joy is my day what a joy
when Karl Waters sings
lambs of the crying out of dizziness
make an Ascent
and a slant woman flatten a rope on the Globe
what a joy is today at least just today
Karl Waters makes a lift from the corners
and at the madhouse some alms cookies
the crying pushes towards conjectural hands dizzy hands
Guernika! Someday a woman raised a rope
Guernika! Paper! The latest news
Guernika! Karl Waters escapes this on top of the hands
there is a rope over the Globe in black
and a woman comes back from Guernika
what a joy is my day what a joy
poem by Alireza Behnam
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The Gift of Tritemius
Tritemius of Herbipolis, one day,
While kneeling at the altar's foot to pray,
Alone with God, as was his pious choice,
Heard from without a miserable voice,
A sound which seemed of all sad things to tell,
As of a lost soul crying out of hell.
Thereat the Abbot paused; the chain whereby
His thoughts went upward broken by that cry;
And, looking from the casement, saw below
A wretched woman, with gray hair a-flow,
And withered hands held up to him, who cried
For alms as one who might not be denied.
She cried, 'For the dear love of Him who gave
His life for ours, my child from bondage save,-
My beautiful, brave first-born, chained with slaves
In the Moor's galley, where the sun-smit waves
Lap the white walls of Tunis!'-'What I can
I give,' Tritemius said, 'my prayers.'-'O man
Of God!' she cried, for grief had made her bold,
'Mock me not thus; I ask not prayers, but gold.
Words will not serve me, alms alone suffice;
Even while I speak perchance my first-born dies.'
'Woman!' Tritemius answered, 'from our door
None go unfed, hence are we always poor;
A single soldo is our only store.
Thou hast our prayers;-what can we give thee
more?'
'Give me,' she said, 'the silver candlesticks
On either side of the great crucifix.
God well may spare them on His errands sped,
Or He can give you golden ones instead.'
Then spake Tritemius, 'Even as thy word,
Woman, so be it! (Our most gracious Lord,
Who loveth mercy more than sacrifice,
Pardon me if a human soul I prize
Above the gifts upon his altar piled!
Take what thou askest, and redeem thy child.'
But his hand trembled as the holy alms
He placed within the beggar's eager palms;
And as she vanished down the linden shade,
He bowed his head and for forgiveness prayed.
So the day passed, and when the twilight came
He woke to find the chapel all aflame,
And, dumb with grateful wonder, to behold
Upon the altar candlesticks of gold!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Upon TheBegger
He wants, he asks, he pleads his poverty,
They within doors do him an alms deny.
He doth repeat and aggravate his grief,
But they repulse him, give him no relief.
He begs, they say, Begone; he will not hear,
But coughs, sighs, and makes signs he still is there;
They disregard him, he repeats his groans;
They still say nay, and he himself bemoans.
They grow more rugged, they call him vagrant;
He cries the shriller, trumpets out his want.
At last, when they perceive he'll take no nay,
An alms they give him without more delay.
Comparison.
This beggar doth resemble them that pray
To God for mercy, and will take no nay,
But wait, and count that all his hard gainsays
Are nothing else but fatherly delays;
Then imitate him, praying souls, and cry:
There's nothing like to importunity.
poem by John Bunyan
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Our Hands
My hands once warm,
And clothed in yours,
my hands once full,
and held in yours.
Empty hands,
Cold hands,
my hands have lost their,
Partner as you once were for me,
Your hands at once rough,
and soft,
Always gentle when in mine,
our hands would meet to fill the cold,
My hands now empty cover tears,
my hands once warm now with
a freezing touch,
your hands are gone,
the warmth they held has left,
these hands of mine.
poem by Rebecca Adams
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My heart is my hands
My hands
Is
Only my hands...
Not for
your hands....
So...
I want too work
My hands...
I want too serve
My hands...
I want to do about
Somthing of my
Hands...
My hands is
Free for only
Sleeping time only...
my hands is
working all the times
My hands not only
Hands...
It is human workers...
Allways for my friends...
My hands...is my heart...
My heart is my hands.....
Ok...How is your hands...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Those Hands Joining
Great grandma’s hands
Grandma’s, mama’s,
sister's hands
Aunt’s and niece’s
Hands, they join today
An epic telling the stories
About touch, about prayer,
About reaching, about the years
Of caressing and holding on
To love, persevering and
Resting the hands on the
Hands of the other hands
Those moments of silence
When the hands speak more
When the mouths accept
The loss of the power of words
When even the hearts give in
Because the hands are warmer
And so comforting.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Alms For The Poor. Alms For The Poor
'Alms for the poor.
Alms for the poor.'
Is this a new gimmick their using?
Isn't it a bit early to be dressed,
Like characters from a Charles Dickens' novel?
It's not even Halloween yet.
And those folks are dressed is if prepared,
To sing Christmas Carols.
~Well...
I'm not one to be cynical about these things.
Or quick to express a saccharine sentmentalism...
For those I see appearing in Victorian costumes,
This early in the season.
But I will say this...
Whoever advised them to come to this side of the 'hood',
Dressed like that...
Begging? Or whatever that is they are doing,
Has got to be the best salesman 'ever'.
Or...?
Consider this observation,
Those folks are pushing something discovered better than crack.
And they've come to the 'hood'...
To test this new taste of Christmas in October.
To get folks hooked and as high as possible,
To care less what holiday season is near.~
LOL
~Don't laugh.
I remember when 'arms for the poor' meant a soliciting.
Those folks have buckets in their hands,
Painted with pumpkin faces on them.
With their arms stretched out.
Offering samples of whatever is in them.
And...
Dressed in Victorian costumes.
At this time of the night in the inner city?
That doesn't make you suspicious? ~
Comeon.
What's so unusual about it?
They've come to display their charitable natures.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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My Hands
my hands have ten rivers
there are furrows of sorrows in the destiny of my palms
no mountain peaks to view the world
holistically,
my hands have ten crystal clear ponds
my hands mirror my face
my hands surrender
my hands open
they are all yours too and you are so cruel
you are telling me like you detest me in the residence of your full moon
you do not need rivers, you had enough of my surrender, you are ashamed
of open hands, you touch me and then you make a plea
'please close your hands and with your ten rivers, please sail away from me! '
i know what a full moon is. I too had enough of its light and silence.
i have the nerves of the stars, and i know what sailing away means.
let me thank you for your dark skies, your clouds are too heavy for me.
i am raining tears, too salty for my ten rivers.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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All for Myself
Today I am doing everything for myself.
I am feeding the stray birds and animals
Giving alms to the stretched hands on my door
Watering the sun-perched plants and saplings
Helping the blind man to cross to the other side
Picking up things from ground for her
Plucking flowers for her dark scented hair
Offering the seat in the bus to the old man
Acting friendly with all at office and home
Teaching a child to learn alphabets
Pointing at the constellations in the night sky
Telling her stories at dinner and wishing sweet dreams…
So much I have done for others,
And so much more for myself!
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Beggar
Quick on his toes
Squats on empty floor
Unmindful
Of millions of toes
Which cross the floor
Shaped the incense stick
Vigorously rolled on that floor
Lit it
Fixed on the bowl
Icon of Almighty
And off
Hands spread
To receive the alms
Not bothered
To have revealed the traits
Of his profession.
poem by Sanjay Mehta
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Autographing (Fun Poem 78)
For years and years,
I wanted to be published.
To actually see my name in print
to be able to hold a book up
and say that it is all my own work.
However, not once did I think
of the problems that might bring.
I never though of the sore hands
and blistering knees
I would get from autographing
the books for all my friends.
It is not a choice I don’t relish
as I do it with heartfelt ease.
It is just that I am so tall
and to sign a book
I have to get on my hands and knees.
Now my hands are full of calluses
and my knees full of blisters.
What more can I say,
except thank you
for listening to me today.
10 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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As if I asked a common Alms
323
As if I asked a common Alms,
And in my wondering hand
A Stranger pressed a Kingdom,
And I, bewildered, stand—
As if I asked the Orient
Had it for me a Morn—
And it should lift its purple Dikes,
And shatter me with Dawn!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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If you disclose your alms, even then it is well done, but if you keep them secret, and give them to the poor, then that is better still for you and this wipes off from you some of your evil deeds.
The poor ones give their alms in a humble way, the rich man throws them down with contempt.
If you disclose your alms, even then it is well done, but if you keep them secret, and give them to the poor, then that is better still for you; and this wipes off from you some of your evil deeds.