The Errands Of Life Forfeit The Soul
THE ERRANDS OF LIFE FORFEIT THE SOUL
The errands of life forfeit the soul
One needs time alone with oneself
To truly be what one is-
All day long I have been somewhere else doing things for others-
Now tired at the end of the day
I am at last where
I can write the few lines
Which mean what I am this day-
And though they be poor and bleak
Still writing them here
I know I am myself – at last.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Disturbances Errands Difficulties Pains Of Life
DISTURBANCES ERRANDS DIFFICULTIES PAINS OF LIFE
Disturbances, errands, difficulties, pains of life
And no time no time no time -
Self- made anxiety
And self- made frustration-
For what can I really do anyway?
A few lines of my own
In the silence of my own inner listening?
A complaint made in such a way
As to have a certain music and beauty?
Just peace inside as my own words come
And not all this clamoring to do things from outside?
A moment now here now is all I have today
Before the endless errands begin.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It Is Time To Write A Poem For My Soul
IT IS TIME TO WRITE A POEM FOR MY SOUL
It is time to write a poem for my soul-
To wake it up a bit this morning
So many errands have been done
So much walking and looking and buying and bringing
So much cleaning and eating and drinking
So many many physical things-
It is time to write a poem for my soul
And wake up a bit this morning
And come back to who I really am
When I feel I really am-
Writing a poem gives me my soul back-
And writing this I come home to who I am-
A poem is my soul
And I am writing it now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Too Many Errands
TOO MANY ERRANDS
Too many errands
No time for a poem.
A Poem takes time.
Amichai wrote
Returned years later
To perfect.
Rilke waited in silence for years
Until the ripened fruit dropped.
Goethe finished only at the end of his long life
What he had begun at the beginning.
A poem takes time.
Perhaps for some of us
Even a lifetime will not be enough.
As I now desperate
At the end of a long distracted day
Hurry these lines down.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Am Too Tired To Write A Good Poem
I AM TOO TIRED TO WRITE A GOOD POEM
I am too tired to write a good poem
I am too cold also
I have been out all day in the cold and the rain
I have been doing errands since early in the morning
I babysat for four hours in the afternoon
I went out again in the cold and rain to buy a few groceries
I tried to write and could not
I read and overate a few times
I tried to write
But I could not
I am very tired now
A poem should not be a simple clear description of one’s own mood at the moment
I am too tired to write a good poem
But I try to write
And this is the result
A poor poem indeed.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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If Blame be my side—forfeit Me
775
If Blame be my side—forfeit Me—
But doom me not to forfeit Thee—
To forfeit Thee? The very name
Is sentence from Belief—and House—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Time Rages At The Quiet Of My Soul
TIME RAGES AT THE QUIET OF MY SOUL
Time rages at the quiet of my soul-
My children are so busy now
With the errands of life
I cannot help much-
All my worry for them is irrelevant
They are deep in the duties of life
And I am old with retirement
Wishing I could help more-
And praying for their well- being with all my inquiet and irrelevant soul-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Am Too
I AM TOO TIRED TO WRITE A GOOD POEM
I am too tired to write a good poem
I am too cold also
I have been out all day in the cold and the rain
I have been doing errands since early in the morning
I babysat for four hours in the afternoon
I went out again in the cold and rain to buy a few groceries
I tried to write and could not
I read and overate a few times
I tried to write
But I could not
I am very tired now
A poem should not be a simple clear description of one’s own mood at the moment
I am too tired to write a good poem
But I try to write
And this is the result
A poor poem indeed.
I AM GRATEFUL FOR THE PARENTS I HAD AND HAVE
I am grateful for the parents I had and have
They are still with me
I miss them
Sometimes they appear in my dreams
When I am walking I think of them
I see them at various ages of their lives
My father young tall strong
My mother smiling kind warm in strong middle age
My father bent on his way to the senior citizens
My mother in a wheelchair no longer even half herself
Or in the pictures of them in their youth
As I never saw them in life
I think of them and miss them
Their dreams their loves are in me
Yesterday I was with a great – grandchild of theirs
Who they never have seen or will see
How happy that smiling calm child would have made them
Life is difficult and long and filled with loss and blessing
How I will love and miss my parents always
How they still live in me
And hopefully in what comes after me.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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How Can One Have A Poem/ When Fear Inside Is The Soul
How can one have a Poem
When Fear inside is the Soul
And all I know now is
Uncertainties
About those I love?
How can one have a poem
When all the real questions of my life
Will not be solved or helped by what I write now?
How can I have a Poem now
Except as a small tranquillizer
To keep myself somehow less in fright
As I go to do
The small errands of life
Which done
Will not save anyone
But may make better feeling possible
Later?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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When I was still a child
When I was still a child
I thought my love would be
Noble, truthful, brave,
And very kind to me.
Then all the novels said
That if my lover prove
No such man as this
He had to forfeit love.
Now I know life holds
Harder tasks in store.
If my lover fail
I must love him more.
Should he prove unkind,
What am I, that he
Squander soul and strength
Smoothing life for me?
Weak or false or cruel
Love must still be strong.
All my life I'll learn
How to love as long.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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I Fear My Own Silence
I FEAR MY OWN SILENCE
I fear my own silence
I fear the end in life in writing
Before my life has ended-
I force myself to go on
I feel my own inadequacy
I feel I am writing poor lines.
I sense it would make more sense to stop
I should stop
I can’t stop
I need to write
Even if my writing is only the scribbling of an amateur fool who has wasted his life in words and more words
I write this now in the darkness before the morning has begun
Will I walk to Shul this morning justified?
Or do I know these lines now too
More of the same self- indulgent nonsense
No one needs but myself?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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And So I'm Writing...
I'm hard-pressed for time,
yet I do have the heart
And so I'm writing
Know not what to pen down,
have a paper to write on
And so I'm writing
May be I'll write about 'you and me'
Or may be of 'us and them'
Feel like playing with words
And so I'm writing
May be that starving beggar's hungry looks
Or that homeless Child's beckoning eyes
Are making me scribble these lines to you
And so I'm writing
May be you'll find my words vague
Or you might decipher a meaning
Intend to leave you in the oblivion
And so I'm writing
Whatever might be the impression I create
Wish to see its reflection on your soul
And leave an imprint on your mind
And so I'm writing
May be you and I've become immune
To the pathos of mankind
Or may be there's still
A dropp of humanity flowing deep within us
Wish to arouse 'The Human Being' in you
And so I'm writing...
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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A Small Plot Of Land
Poor soul
Spit upon that
Poor soul
He never knew what hit him
And it hit him so
Poor dunce
He pushed back the pigmen
The barbs laughed
The fool is dead
Poor dunce
Hes less than within us
The brains talk
But the will to live is dead
And prayer cant
Travel so far these days
The talk of your life
Standing so near
To innocent eyes
Poor dunce
Swings thru the tunnels
And claws his way
Is small life so manic
Are these really the days
Poor dunce
Poor dunce
Poor soul
Poor soul
Poor soul
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This lonely soul...
This lonely soul meanders,
And looks for the other half to it's soul,
To fix all these pieces,
And make it a whole.
The lonely soul wanders through life,
Wondering just how to live,
Because of so much loneliness,
It's oneself that the lonely soul cannot forgive.
Alone and not knowing what to do,
Except just let the mind pass,
Thinking about the impossible-ness of not knowing,
Just how long this will last.
Walking through life,
As if everything is okay,
Feeling so wistful,
And wondering maybe, just, one day……
poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
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A Letter From A Writer Searching For Her Soul And Wanting To Feel Not With Her Hands
Hello (to whom it may concern) ,
It's been awhile since we exchanged messages. Sorry, I'm not much of an |'onliner' these days. I resigned from my job. I'm, in the process of soul searching. Funny but I don't really know why I'm looking for a soul, my soul, when I cannot even see it. I'm on an unplanned vacation in some quaint town some miles outside the city while writing this email.
I guess I never had the chance to tell you how you took the glint from my eye. To write from the soul and not for the awards. I have overlook that writing is an Art. Thus it is priceless. A gold medal does not define you as an artist. Write until it ceases to become a craft.But more than just stringing words after words, conscious of your weary grammar, punctuations, right words, and subject matter. To write is to turn your heart inside out.
Beyond 'writing' and its technical definitions, it is actually a journey - a self surrender - towards the oblivion you are willing to traverse with your pen. And you find yourself in another state.
To write is to 'see' but not with your eyes. To 'feel' but not with your hands. And at the end of it all, you know that it's there. Writing takes over you. Thus, I often wonder: am i writing with the pen? Or is it the pen using me to write? But I know somewhere deep inside, there is a thing mightier than the pen that prompts me to write. And that is the soul.
I want to find my center. My creative process in writing. Ironic, but to find it, I must loose myself.
hahahahaha. whew. I know i sound stupid. Sorry. Thanks for bearing with me. Hope it's not too late to greet you a Happy New Year! ! ! ! =)
Always,
(name witheld, but this could be you)
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lonely Soul
The lonely soul maunders,
And looks for the other half to it's soul,
To fix these pieces,
And make it a whole.
The lonely soul wanders through life,
Wondering how to live,
Because of so much loneliness,
It's oneself that the lonely soul cannot forgive.
Alone and not knowing what to do,
Except just let the mind pass,
Thinking about the impossibleness of not knowing,
How long this will last.
Walking through life,
As if everything is okay,
Feeling so wistful,
And wondering maybe, just one day.
poem by Anna Heminsley
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I Can Write Poetry All Day Long
I CAN WRITE POETRY ALL DAY LONG
I can write Poetry all day long
But what will it give me?
There is just so much others will listen to
If anything?
And what is the value of writing words to myself for myself
Even if I love them
And believe they are real poetry,
And know in my soul
That their music is real?
I can write Poetry all day long
Or think I am writing poetry
When I am not-
Am I writing poetry now?
I feel I am-
Within me there is the song and the sound
There is the music of poetry
But is it real
Or only my self- deception?
Can I write poetry all day long?
Can I write poetry at all?
I am writing poetry now
Or so I tell myself-
But as I write this
The music within
Is already fading
And I hear in myself
The silence of my own lonely sound.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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It Has Been So Long / Since I Had A Poem Of The Morning
It has been so long
Since I had a poem of the morning,
So many small deeds and interruptions,
So much exhausting summer heat
So many distractions of errands
And vanities of wasted time
But now at last
Morning again
Light again
Cool Breezes again
Life again
Oh how I live for these beginnings of each day
which make the whole worthwhile.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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There Is A Time When Tired And Weak
THERE IS A TIME WHEN TIRED AND WEAK
There is a time when tired and weak
An old man can barely think
But writes nonetheless
A few small lines
To remind himself
That he still has a mind-
There is a time when tired and weak
An old man can barely speak
But writes nonetheless
A few small lines
To prove to himself
That he still is alive-
There is a time when tired and weak
And old man can barely dream
But writes nonetheless
A few small lines
To make himself believe
He still has time
There will be a time when tired and weak
An old man will be unable to read-
He will not write a few small lines
He will sit and wait
For the end of his life.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I'm Tired Of It All
I am tired of it all
I am tired of today
I am tired of the summer heat-
I am tired of all the years of trying to be something
And still being nothing and no one
I am tired of myself and my ambition
I am tired of reading the great poems of others
I am tired of Poetry
I am tired of being old
I am tired of no longer having the means to help those I care for-
I am tired of having written for so many years
And having so little to show for it-
I am tired of being an old man getting older -
I am tired of being afraid of what is going to happen to me
And those close to me
I am tired of having so many sick friends-
I am tired of having more and more people I have known who are dead
I am tired of a world in which violence and stupidity play such a great part
I am tired of all the problems that should have been solved years ago
And yet persist-
I am tired of cruelty
I am tired of rudeness and petty selfishness
I am tired of seeing the evil get away with it
I am tired truly tired
Tired of being tired also
Tired of myself and my complaints-
And my failure all these years
To make things right-
And yet and yet with all the tiredness
I know there is so much else even in myself-
I still want to live and dream and hope and help those I love
I still want to write still a few lines of poetry
that will be read by others
And help them
Dream to begin again
I still want to give to those I love
The little I still have to give
I still want to live
For life itself is life itself is still good
Despite the tiredness.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Buried Alive
I speak in verses prophecies and curses
I speak in verses prophecies and curses
I hate my life
The miracle is coming its just a hole
Nothings wrong with you, just maintain control
Everyones asking questions, your place is safe
Ill forfeit resurrection to escape the pain
I hate my life
I hate my life
I HATE MY LIFE
(I hate my life)
I HATE MY LIFE
(I hate my life)
I HATE MY LIFE
(I hate my life)
I speak in verses prophecies and curses
The storm of thorns is growing
There is no end in sight
Chaos claws my jaw
Thank Metal riot
Im in the mouth of madness with this tongue of poetry
I ate the spine of atlas, now the world is crushing me
I hate my life
I hate my life
I HATE MY LIFE
(I hate my life)
I HATE MY LIFE
(I hate my life)
I HATE MY LIFE
(I hate my life)
Buried behind enemy lines
Surrogate child for the sins of all mankind
Buried alive behind enemy lines (Buried Alive Buried Alive)
Buried alive behind enemy lines (Buried Alive Buried Alive)
Buried alive behind enemy lines (Buried Alive Buried Alive)
For the sins of all mankind
song performed by by Otep
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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