Broken Dam
Let’s not go,
let’s not reach anywhere.
The toenails have started digging in the earth,
to make peace with the distress response
of the bruised hunger for transactional surrender.
And the surrogate mother will abandon
the child for the father who had
run away in pursuit of pleasure, like others
sowing his wild oats in rags
unwashable in the milk of mercy.
It has spilled again my full heart.
The pain provokes the stopped clocks,
in the wake of explosions. Unstitched
fissures bleed, I see the ashen face
of a floating wisdom.
poem by Satish Verma
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Related quotes
On the Road to Nowhere
On the road to nowhere
What wild oats did you sow
When you left your father's house
With your cheeks aglow?
Eyes so strained and eager
To see what you might see?
Were you thief or were you fool
Or most nobly free?
Were the tramp-days knightly,
True sowing of wild seed?
Did you dare to make the songs
Vanquished workmen need?
Did you waste much money
To deck a leper's feast?
Love the truth, defy the crowd
Scandalize the priest?
On the road to nowhere
What wild oats did you sow?
Stupids find the nowhere-road
Dusty, grim and slow.
Ere their sowing's ended
They turn them on their track,
Look at the caitiff craven wights
Repentant, hurrying back!
Grown ashamed of nowhere,
Of rags endured for years,
Lust for velvet in their hearts,
Pierced with Mammon's spears,
All but a few fanatics
Give up their darling goal,
Seek to be as others are,
Stultify the soul.
Reapings now confront them,
Glut them, or destroy,
Curious seeds, grain or weeds
Sown with awful joy.
Hurried is their harvest,
They make soft peace with men.
Pilgrims pass. They care not,
Will not tramp again.
O nowhere, golden nowhere!
Sages and fools go on
To your chaotic ocean,
To your tremendous dawn.
Far in your fair dream-haven,
Is nothing or is all...
They press on, singing, sowing
Wild deeds without recall!
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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The Divine Image
To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
All pray in their distress;
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.
For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
Is God our Father dear,
And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
Is man, His child and care.
For Mercy has a human heart,
Pity, a human face,
And Love, the human form divine,
And Peace, the human dress.
Then every man, of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
Prays to the human form divine,
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.
And all must love the human form,
In heathen, Turk, or Jew;
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell
There God is dwelling too.
poem by William Blake from Songs of Innocence (1789)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Devine Image
To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,
All pray in their distress,
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.
For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,
Is God our Father dear;
And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,
Is man, his child and care.
For Mercy has a human heart
Pity, a human face;
And Love, the human form divine;
And Peace, the human dress.
Then every man, of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
Prays to the human form divine:
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.
And all must love the human form,
In heathen, Turk, or Jew.
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell,
There God is dwelling too.
poem by William Blake
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Sowing my wild oats
Oats
Wild oats
My wild oats
Sowing my wild oats?
Since when did I have any wild oats to sow?
Middle age brings on the nostalgia for an enfance perdue
I would act differently now,
Gone wild with girls and boys
No doubt caught some venereal disease
But hopefully not AIDS
It is now that I have studied
And learnt that fornication
Viewed linguistically
Is from furnix,
the bridge where prostitutes hung out
So the prohibition if there was one
Was against prostitution, the abuse of women
Not against sex before marriage
With a loving partner
In a consensual relationship
And probably one leading to marriage.
How would that have changed me?
Would I have taken up some of the offers?
Male as well as female,
In Durham as well as in France?
Too late now but the will is still there
To love everyone, well almost, and sleep with many
Nothing worse though than a middle age man
Trying to live like a teenager
Wild oats are for the young,
With the old they are sour grapes.
©2009
James Hart
poem by James Hart
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Cancer of our existance...
This perfect marriage between father sun and mother earth
It has kept us safe, warm and nourished for an eternity
Yet we are guilty of squandering this great gift
What other offspring known to man shall rape the giver of life
We are selfish, we are greedy, we value the mighty dollar above all else
We are like an ignorant child that must be taught how be decent
But mother earth shall not stand for this violation much longer
She shall bring forth her own missile to wipe out the source of her pain
We have become like a cancer upon everything that is good upon this earth
It's time we stopped being the cancer... It's time we started being the cure...
Spread the love... The peace will follow...
poem by Cosmic Dreamer
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Appointed By Him... Still
too young,
mother surrogate
but beautiful she child
and
beautiful she voice when she call
for mother.
what best for she child now
mother know
... she did know then too.
yuh come lately,
late or yuh eh reach...
early enough was mother
too early yuh say then
now is nay...
but is now we is
and young,
still!
mother surrogate,
too young
still!
but
beautiful she child
and
beautiful she voice when she call
for me,
mother surrogate,
she mother
always...
poem by Loriantoinette Williams
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A Depressed Bubble
His eyes twinkled,
When water bowled along,
With a heavy heart full of grief he stood there,
Feeling out of sorts.
Thinking what would happen to his mother,
When she'll know he got a D,
Thinking what would happen to his father,
Knowing his son couldn't reach his expectations.
Hearing his father's footsteps the boy ran away,
How would he face his father,
How would he face his mother,
What would he say to them?
Only this that they shouldn't have expected much from him,
Or rather blame himself?
His father called out his name,
He couldn't bare the pain,
It was the third time his hard work had went in vain,
The boy thought of nothing,
And while the father reached,
He was horrified for he saw blood stains on the floor,
And no sign of his child.
Teardrops wetted his clothes,
And all that he cited was,
Did you came to see me,
Or did you wished me to go with just tears in my eyes and blood on my hands.....
Written on 10/20/10
poem by Ayesha Riaz
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Child Of Babylon
(coverdale/marsden)
When I heard the sound of thunder
On the day that I was born,
I was blinded by the lighting
An baptised in the storm
My father started crying
When he saw what he had done,
But, my mother started praying
Have mercy on my son,
He is a child of babylon
I am a child of babylon,
Lord have mercy on a wayward son
Nowhere to hide, nowhere to run
I am a child,
A child of babylon
When Ive fooled around so many times
When Ive known it aint been right,
But, I paint it all in colours
When it really should be black and white
I sail my ship through muddy waters,
Try to open every door,
When I saw the seven wonders
It left me wanting more
I am a child of babylon,
Lord have mercy on a wayward son
Nowhere to hide, got no place to run
I am a child,
A child of babylon
On my day of judgement
I know how it will be,
Im prepared to meet my maker
With no hope for charity
Ill stand alone and pay the price
For everything Ive done,
cos there aint guardian angel
For a child of babylon
I am a child,
A child of babylon
I am a child of babylon,
Lord have mercy on a wayward son
Nowhere to hide, got no place to run
I am a child,
A child of babylon
Child of babylon
song performed by by Whitesnake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wild Child
All right, wild child full of grace
Savior of the human race, your cool face
Natural child, terrible child
Not your mothers or your fathers child
Your our child, screamin wild
An ancient lunatic reigns in the trees of the night
Ha, ha, ha, ha
With hunger at her heels, freedom in her eyes
She dances on her knees, pirate prince at her side
Stirrin into a hollow idols eyes
Wild child full of grace, savior of the human race
Your cool face, your cool face, your cool face
Do you remember when we were in africa?
song performed by by Doors
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hunger in Botany Bay
Hunger lurks down the streets of Botany Bay;
The lonely child famished and peckish cries for food
None notices the child, for they’re preoccupied with the travesty of justice in Botany Bay
An observant vagabond pays heed to the child, and shares the lone piece of bread
The child ecstatic with what’s it got, runs to its hovel
The hovel where it was raised, is full of abjection and misery
The child runs to its mother, gives the lone piece of bread
The mother in tears, tears up the piece of bread
Gives a piece to the child to satiate its hunger
Keeps the other piece for the other slumbering child
For such is the love of the mother, careless about her own hunger
Gets lost in the agony of doubt, of how she will raise her children
In this world full of misery and pain.
poem by Deepak Hiremath
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Mercy Me
Father where are you in my life?
I look for you..., in my wife,
I dream you hold me up,
Let me drink..., from your cup,
You know I left you, to taste life,
Father..., all I found is strife,
Mercy... is my cry,
Love please... don't you die,
Father... make it quick,
Let Mercy be your trick,
I found in the heart of man,
A hole just the size of a can,
It is easy to forget,
With love there's no regret,
Please see me for who I am,
Father.., I am just a man,
Through pain and loss of life,
Comes a knowing of what is right,
I see now that I left your side,
With no thought of where to hide,
Deep within my heart it lies,
A sea of love to you it cries,
Let my fear and greed...,
Please not betray your seed,
Don't bleed a tear from your eye,
But lift me up so not to die,
Father..., I need your vision,
Endless love, no more derision,
Mercy... is my cry,
Love please... don't you die,
Father... make it quick,
Let Mercy be your trick,
My dream is but to alight,
Your heavenly steps, tonight,
To feel your warm glow,
And your love..., to know,
Then all men will leave fear,
For you have shed your tear.
April 2012
poem by David Andre' Klopper
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Missing Link
A sickly child lie
frail on the sofa in the living room.
A knock on the door,
His mother opened.
The man who entered the child knew it was his father.
Whose child is this?
“It is your youngest son” his mother said.
The children in the street
all had a father; the child had waited for him.
But his father ignored him,
gave chocolate to his sister and brother,
then he drank from a bottle,
his mother threw him out.
Next day asked his mother, ” are you sure he is my father? ”
She slapped her son’s face and cried.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Rags & Old Iron
Norman curtis, oscar brown jr
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
I heard that old rag man now making his rounds
He came right to my alley lord with sorrowful sounds
Crying rags old iron and pulling his cart
Ask him how much hed give me for my broken heart
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
So I asked that old rag man how much he would pay
For a heart that was broken baby when you went away
For a burnt out old love light that no longer beams
And a couple of slightly used second hand dreams
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
For those big empty promises you used to make
For those memories of you that are no longer sweet
I wish he could haul them off down the street
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
When love doesnt last tell me what is it worth
It was once mamas most precious possession on earth
When I asked that old rag man if hed like to buy
He just shook his head and continued to cry
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
Rags old iron rags old iron
Rags old iron rags old iron rags old iron
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Who are these people?
Who are these people? where are they streaming? Glass eyes tight shut as though they were dreaming?
Garrotted, throats slit as a token of sacrifice to the eternel god's,
Bodies cast down to the depth's of brooding pete bogs.
'Did you surrender yourself, your will to the ritual, Or be this simply a punishment for a crime, we shall never know.'
Sword's split skull's, not hard enough to kill
Just to lull, least drag their victims senses into the void.
Calling on the Goddess of spring through to autumn, of summer's sun and winter rain
Only your head, throne of the soul survives the passage of time to breathe again.
'From where did you come? ' ask's the child to his mother
'From my mother, her mother before her'
'So where does my father fit into this, what seem's such simple a matter? '
'He work's his hand's to the bone, then come's home late, wait's at the table just to get fatter.
That's what he does, he seems happy enough, he has no illusions to shatter'
'What off my father, from wence doth he stem, from his father and father before? '
'Nay, It goes way further than that, to back when, our only mother was the mother of yore
Mother of earth, blessed mother of pearl, reveal to us the wisdom's with which you blanket the world.
poem by David Lacey
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Broremann The Farmhand
Broremann, the farmer worker.
Every morning at five thirty sharp, my brother Broremann
had to milk five cows by hand bring bucket full of goodness
to the scullery where maid sifted it and in a churn it went.
He had to start milking Rose first, she was the mother cow
other cows wouldn´t give milk unless he started with her.
After milking Broremann had to clean the barn five cows
make a lot of dung; he pushed it down in a hole in the wall
it was later used to fertilize the land. My brother was proud
of his ability to milk and his hands were, firm yet gentle.
There was a problem though Rose didn´t yield as much milk
as before as she was getting elderly and the farmer sold her
to the knacker’s yard. It was a sad day and the other cows
mooed woefully. The farmer bought a new cow to take Rosa´s
place, but Broremann couldn´t milk her first, as she was new-
comer, so he started with Gerda, now the oldest cow, and milk
the new one last, thus rural peace continued in the cow shed.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Mother earth is crying
Mother earth is crying
The way man is treating
Water in scarcity
Rivers not deep
Houses and houses
Whole earth
Filled with factories
Their waste spoiling the soil
Creating a big turmoil
Greenery decreasing
Trees cut without thinking
Forests shrinking
Cities are increasing
Animals are dying
Snow melting
Heat is increasing
Mining and digging
Are like stabbing
Mother earth on the chest
For few grand
Lakes are full of filth
Fewer trees for shelter
Fewer birds now chirp
Let wisdom arrive
Don’t play with nature
Otherwise all will cry
No man will survive
Humans now wake
For your own sake
poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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Wild Oats
I saw a fair youth, with a brow broad and white,
And an eye that was beaming with intellect's light:
And his face seemed to glow with the wealth of his mind;
And I said, 'He will grace and ennoble mankind:
He is Nature's own king.'
We met yet again. I saw the youth stand
With a bowl that was flowing and red in his hand;
And he filled it again, and again did he quaff,
And his friends gathered round him, and said with a laugh,
'He is sowing his oats.'
Ah! his eye was too bright, and his cheek was too red,
And I gazed on the youth with a feeling of dread;
And again as he laughingly lifted the bowl,
I turned from the scene with a shuddering soul:
It was terrible seed!
We met but once more. I found in the street
A corpse half-enveloped in mud and in sleet:
A foul, bloated thing; but I saw in the face
A something that told of its boyhood's grace:
He had reaped the dire crop.
O youths who are sowing wild oats! do you know
That the terrible seed you are planting will grow?
Have you thought how your God will require some day
An account of the life you are throwing away?
Have you thought, O rash youth?
It will soon be too late, there is no time to waste;
Then throw down the cup! do not touch, do not taste!
It is filled with destruction and sorrow and pain:
Throw it down! throw it down! do not lift it again:
It will soon be too late!
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Pain is the pleasure
The pursuit of pain to get a reward
Or the pursuit of pain to seek a relief
Gives you pleasure regardless of results
Pain thus constitutes your most of pleasure.
04.07.2004
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Live until your dead
The ties that bind unwinding
The future needs reminding
That differences will always be
Yet pleasure and pain are the same to me
So broken on the inside, maybe the pain is what i need
Cutting on the outside, just to make sure i still bleed
With that pain comes the pleasure, that i am still alive
With that pleasure comes the pain, that my mind now needs to thrive
You live what you learn, someone very smart once said
So find some pleasure in your pain, and live until your dead.
poem by Mistaken Identity Suicidal Tendancy
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Reaching God
I want to reach God
Could I reach with pray
Could I reach with people
Or will I only grasp an empty void
I want to reach God
Should I hang on my hope
Should I hang on my work
Or will I put my soul into sacrifice
I want to reach God
It seems the words become ashes
It seems the world becomes dust
And I turn to another hypocrite man
I want to reach God
Maybe I'll never really catch even a feather of wing
Maybe I'll never really get the meaning
But my heart always looking for something more
I want to reach God
My body maybe sated by the joy of earth
My mind maybe conquered by the pleasure of power
But inside nothing else could fill this hunger
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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