Word Specific
Words are chosen stock tools
defining fermenting my memorable trade
what specific species of being be I?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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What We Both Need
You anger me when I see you in despair.
Because I know that is not where you wish to be.
You have the tools to lift yourself up.
But somehow you have chosen,
To be there to wallow...
And I wont allow myself to see you like this.
Remember when you said to me,
I alone can change my own destiny!
That I chose to sit,
With burdens and grief.
And if I didn't tell them to leave me...
I would struggle to stand.
And I welcomed my own defeat.
Look at you,
Rehearsing your pain and sorrow.
Do you need a swift kick,
To knock you into tomorrow.
Or should we trade tears...
To barter back and forth?
Or should we wait together,
For agony from others to borrow?
You anger me when I see you in despair.
Because I know that is not where you wish to be.
You have the tools to lift yourself up.
But somehow you have chosen,
To be there to wallow...
And I wont allow myself to see you like this.
And yet,
I can't leave you alone.
Come here...
Let me hold you.
Perhaps this is what we both need!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Words
words are riddle
tools of my trade
what am I?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Word Collision
Words are the tools of my trade
I live to play rugby - what am I?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Guardians
(God bestowed intelligence to save not destroy)
We are guardians of our planet
Playing the role of God
Selecting which species survive
Polluting the atmosphere
Burning forests and laying waste
Speeding ever faster global warming.
We factory farm to stock our larders
Hunting endangered species to extinction
Breeding our population out of control
Insisting on culling other species
But Man is the only creature
Who wages war and kills for pleasure.
poem by Colin Ian Jeffery
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Word Riddle
words are riddle
tools of my trade
what am I?
encased in image
landscape visage
symbolic privilege
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Simple Solutions
When I was a young man, I
used to ask this question.
“Words are the tools of my trade.
What am I? ”
A simple succinct question.
No one ever knew the answer,
I am about to impart to you.
“A poet. A man to whom
words are sacred.”
Now I am old born old, and I
have a question, to ask of you!
“What is the quintessential value
of the entire human race? ”
“quintessence, from Latin quinta essentia, fifth essence!
The highest essence,
that coming after the four elements
forming the substance of the heavenly bodies,
the pure essence of any substance.”
? /? /? /? /? /? /? /? /?
guess
guess
guess
yet still uncertain
or do you know?
Did you work this out
with your amazing
astonishing powers
focusing reasoning?
Or was it a moments inspiration?
A moment of eureka?
A transcendental moment?
“eureka, from Greek heureka, ‘I have found it’
Cry of triumph at a discovery. The exclamation
(‘I have found it’) uttered by Archimedes
when he discovered the means of determining
(by specific gravity) the proportion of base
metal in Hiero’s crown.” Purity of gold in a crown.
Simple solutions achieved after great exoneration.
A testament to ideals applied in time well spent.
Race quest is to overcome
feeble foolishness typifying youth
and sudden ignorance judgements
defining limited intellect.
Upward psychospiritual ascent
widening expression
achieves instant (intellectual?)
cosmic all knowing
translating latent
unconscious collective thought
into intuitions awareness
creation nurturing new
psychological and social organizations
resonating critical mass,
higher guidance, aspirations
inherent in luminous divine spark.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Stranger's Song
(As sung by Mr. Charles Charrington in the play of "The Three Wayfarers")
O MY trade it is the rarest one,
Simple shepherds all--
My trade is a sight to see;
For my customers I tie, and take 'em up on high,
And waft 'em to a far countree!
My tools are but common ones,
Simple shepherds all--
My tools are no sight to see:
A little hempen string, and a post whereon to swing,
Are implements enough for me!
To-morrow is my working day,
Simple shepherds all--
To-morrow is a working day for me:
For the farmer's sheep is slain, and the lad who did it ta'en,
And on his soul may God ha' mer-cy!
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Big Speech
Sentences are big, small as well,
Their tailors stupidly work
And the tools split when words are built.
The tools are a spirit, a well-being, a promise,
The tools benefit us in soothing ways.
The sentences become a speech for the royal kings,
They think overall that they own them,
Giving work and problems, saving us, living with danger.
The intelligence of a wish is that of writing
And poetry.
Words spell what we know,
They always now keep magic
That the king sows deep in the land.
poem by Naveed Akram
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I Dont Paint Myself Into Corners
(rebecca lynn howard/trey bruce)
It took a while for me to see things as they were
In the light of truth
It wasnt you,it was me
I let myself get used to drowning in the hurt
Against the wall
Whod of thought,it was me
From there I couldnt even look over my shoulder
I kicked down all the walls and started all over
And I dont paint myself into corners anymore
In a brittle heart of clay
I threw my brushes away
The tools of the trade that chained your memory to me
Are out the door
I dont paint myself into corners anymore
When you left you left me with no other choice at all
But to sink
To my knees,and cry
I never knew just how far a soul could fall
Like a rock
I couldnt stop,didnt try
I locked myself behind shades of misery
But when I let you go,i set myself free
And I dont paint myself into corners anymore
In a brittle heart of clay
I threw my brushes away
The tools of the trade that chained your memory to me
Are out the door
I dont paint myself into corners anymore
The tools of the trade that chained your memory to me
Are out the door
I dont paint myself into corners anymore
song performed by by Trisha Yearwood
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Words are the basic tools, if you are a writer. But why? Why do you choose one set of tools rather than another?
quote by James D. Houston
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Too Specific
When one has asked for the truth,
And gets it heard to be delivered straight...
Why is it then they begin,
To accuse the one unafraid to speak it...
Of being mean and too specific.
Too Specific
'I did not offer to volunteer.
But that isn't mentioned by the one who fears.
I was appraoched to make things clear.
And with the doing of it,
The one seeking clarity chose me to distance.'
Too Specific
The choice one makes of being too specific,
May come to traumatize the one addicted to getting...
Delusional 'hits'.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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People are always defining and re-defining music. My style of playing has been characterized as smooth jazz and acid jazz. I listen as I play; I'm not caught up in defining the type of music I play.
The average trade of an individual is in the thousands of shares, whereas the institutional trade can be in the millions of shares. Clearly, the bigger the order, the bigger the move in the stock.
quote by Maria Bartiromo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Defining consultancy is a bit like defining the upper class every possible candidate draws the line just below himself.
My specific goal is to revolutionize the future of the species. Mathematics is just another way of predicting the future.
quote by Ralph Abraham
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Saxon Song
Tools with the comely names,
Mattock and scythe and spade,
Couth and bitter as flames,
Clean, and bowed in the blade,--
A man and his tools make a man and his trade.
Breadth of the English shires,
Hummock and kame and mead,
Tang of the reeking byres,
Land of the English breed,--
A man and his land make a man and his creed.
Leisurely flocks and herds,
Cool-eyed cattle that come
Mildly to wonted words,
Swine that in orchards roam,--
A man and his beasts make a man and his home.
Children sturdy and flaxen
Shouting in brotherly strife,
Like the land they are Saxon,
Sons of a man and his wife,--
For a man and his loves make a man and his life.
poem by Victoria Sackville-West
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Until Your Face Turns Blue Or Red
You can attack what I've said all you want.
In fact you have an open invitation.
But you will never be able to decipher,
What is in my head.
You can dig with a shovel...
Until your face turns blue or red.
To chill or heat from what's been said.
Or determine to conclude from what you've read!
You are not aware from where my thoughts begin.
Or 'who' is behind the 'what'
That influences them!
There is a process that has no specific beginning,
Or an ending that could satisfy me within.
My tongue unleashes with words that seem to spin...
From eyes I have not yet seen,
And apparently neither does 'this thing' screen.
Revealing with a meaning,
From other dimensions we exist in!
Defining with comprehension,
As I receive these mental visions.
I am used like a human instrument...
With a consciousness,
I am neither for nor against...
As I am just the participant.
And accepting how this happens without a defense,
That pleases me to know it is intended!
Like you,
I too am a witness!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Without the right tools, we can't police our markets from illegal trade.
quote by Chris Chocola
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Her Memory
You are abruptly lost
Like a kite
flying on raw threads
Your loss is my memory
Your face hangs in the sky
Against the wind
Oh! your memory!
my words are far away from
The metaphors that could hold on
you to the landscape of my mind
Your memory sings against language
or sounds
You defy my familiar tools
And dimly expose an unknown
familiar to ages
and ages of our species
poem by Bhartendu Second
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Our stock in trade is raw, flailing sex.
quote by Al Goldstein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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