Po Chu-i, Ancient Governor - 772-846 CE, From Far Away Thinks On His Angry Wife
Of Po Chu-i: 'As one of his poems explains,
he suffered from paralysis at the end of his
life, one leg becoming useless.'
'A well-fed contentment...
is there no greater achievement in life? '
Her heavy face displaces among
clouds, is swollen with hard tears,
her sorrowful gaze calls for the
always hungry child that was lost
when they were poor, without work
and down on luck. The frozen ground
reluctantly yields these many years
to slowly make his little grave,
too long unmarked.
It now wears a monument tall, of finest jade.
'Too late for you, Little Stinger, '
he carves it himself, again and again,
years now, upon the stone,
'A well-fed contentment...'
and all the rest, but in his
mind it is never done.
'Old Po Chu-i, ' he thinks to himself,
writing another verse in his head,
his own epitaph upon the other side
of the jade-stone, 'now rides a wild
horse to the end of all roads.'
Weary with the business of state.
Of commerce he can now care less
though he once was poor and
one dear son has died as a result,
'Pffftt! Old wife will never let me forget.'
'Of pleasing the inconsolable, '
he writes such in his head,
upon horseback, in the mane
and the tail poems wait to be
untangled, brushed smooth
with the ink and quill of miles
until there is some rest,
a cozy inn rare, more a tent
pitched which gives much simple
peace compared to the mansion
back home in the wealthy province,
the ponds full, the barns full,
the servants many and busy,
all the fruit of miles traveled
to keep the fragile peace which
needs constant mending,
'much like a wife.'
'It is as it is, and should be, '
he thinks, 'it is of love these
conditions come, bringing many
mouths and fuller hearts to break,
for love like life seeks to be
undone again and again.'
'Such is the life the Allotter
gives. Why complain when one
has the gift of a patient horse,
steady, an obedient, good companion? '
'Why lament when eyes are still
able to rejoice at beauty of all
kinds, for even of human woes
which break the heart much music
can be made, and without false pity.'
'And without false pity, ' he sings,
'a coin can be given and heaven
restored until the next pang of
hunger, from this real friendship
with strangers is born, the best,
of gentleness without debt,
untangling from mane to mind.'
'Untangling from mane to mind,
one finds, takes, such real
pleasures as they come and,
thanking the glad day, banks
them in the vaulted heart.'
Not given to self-pity, only
fond of nostalgic reminiscence,
he loves fabrics smooth, soft,
purchased in Yangshao, where
he loves the Spring's First
Blossom Girl with whom he grew
up, courting her near the auspicious
old well of Silk Moths Aplenty.
He thinks of these and many things
upon his horse during the long journey
through the difficult passages,
'Through the difficult passages
one cannot avoid accumulating
much dust, ' he composes out
loud for the horse to hear,
'perhaps our only wealth,
dear friend, of friendless miles.'
He rests awhile in the wide
orchard where bright plum flowers
rain, decides to unroll his pallet
to sleep beside the humming glade.
'Raiment, ' he writes in his sleepy head,
'of bees and leaves. An old man puts the
best plum in his sleeve to bring home
to his wife.'
'Why strive when nature is bounteous
and all ills can be made right with
wet sweetness? '
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Making Things Right In Exile - After the Chinese Poet, Po Chui 772 - 846 CE
He rests awhile in the wide orchard
where bright plum flowers rain. He
unrolls his pallet to sleep inside
the humming glade.
'Raiment, ' he writes in his sleepy
head, 'of leaves and bees. An old man
puts the best plum in his sleeve to
bring home to his bitter wife.'
'Why strive when nature is bounteous
and all ills can be made right with
wet sweetness? '
poem by Warren Falcon
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El-Zorab
An Arab comes, looking like hell,
His voice is weak, he can't speak well,
– O, pasha, please, don't be severe,
From Bab-el-Manteb I've come here
My EL-Zorab to sell.
All Arabs then approach with care
To see my horse with reddish hair.
I pull the reins, he trots a while
I love him for his graceful style,
I'd die to leave him there.
But my three kids do starve in pain
Their mouth is dry, I go insane,
And my wife's misery is great,
Because her breasts are in such state
They can't give milk again!
My dearest ones are cold as ice,
But you, O, pasha, you are nice!
Now buy the horse! I'm poor, indeed!
Give me some money on the steed,
Be good and name a price!
He takes the horse and rides about
Slowly and fast, to clear his doubt;
Then pasha's eyes begin to glow
Touches his beard and his thoughts flow,
His soul is somewhere out.
– One thousand sequins, you agree?
– How noble, pasha, you can be!
It's more than ever crossed my mind!
May God be good to you and kind
For how you're paying me!
The Arab takes with smiling eyes
The golden sequins, his dear prize –
From now on they will not be sad,
From now on they'll be rich and glad
Won't beg from foreign guys!
Won't live in tent and breathe the smoke
His kids won't beg from other folk,
His wife will be as was before
And they themselves will give the poor
Some money when they're broke! –
He grabs the money on a whim
And leaves; the fate is good to him.
Runs like a drunkard, out of mind,
But suddenly he looks behind,
Then stops, his sight is dim.
Gazes the money from the sale,
Then falters and his face turns pale,
Looks at the horse, into his eyes;
And walking slowly, deeply sighs,
Comes back along the trail.
He grabs his neck, he's crying, too,
Caresses him, feeling so blue,
And tells him: O, my lion dear,
I know for you it's very clear
That I am selling you.
My children will not play again
By putting leaves on your thick mane,
And will not lead you to the spring
And figs from now to you won't bring,
They'll wait for you in vain!
They won't come out day after day
To reach out from the place they stay,
To lift them on the horse's back!
I will not see them on the track
How laugh and keep my way!
How shall I still my children's yell,
To my sweet wife what shall I tell
When El-Zorab she will not see,
The Arabs all will mock at me,
My life will be like hell!
My wife, Raira, it is true
Now, El-Zorab won't come to you
To walk together, feel the breeze,
He will not fall down on his knees
The way he used to do!
And Ben-Ardun, your husband dear,
Won't fly again, having no fear,
To chase a hawk in its swift fly
And shoot it down from the blue sky,
You will not laugh and cheer!
You will not stare with happy face
His clothes, which flutter in the race,
And on the ground won't put your ear
To hear the trot so loud and clear
When comes back to his place!
O, my dear horse! You are my core,
But I'll not see you anymore,
How with your nose you sniff the ground
How your thick tail you move around
And in the sky you soar!
How every time you chew your foam,
How jumps your mane when we two roam.
How when you gallop people scream
And how you rush like a big stream
When we're away from home!
The desert knew us, I maintain,
And the horizon was in pain –
From now on who'll take care of you?
Who will protect you, as I do,
From winds and heavy rain?
They won't speak gently to you, dear,
They'll curse you often around here
And they will beat you with the whip
And you'll endure their brutal grip;
And you will starve in fear!
They'll treat you badly on the track
And you will die like a poor hack!...
O, pasha, I don't need your pay
Without my horse I'll go astray
I want to have him back.
The pasha frowns: "Are you insane?"
My janissaries, it is plain,
Can throw you to the dogs by force
Because right now he is my horse,
So stop pleading in vain!
– Your horse? Come on, then tell me who
Has raised him, pasha: I or you?
Whose arm obeys, when he's a ram,
To turn him into a good lamb?
Not yours, but mine, it's true!
He is my horse! And on a whim,
I would fight God, for I'm not slim,
Be nice, that's all I do request,
Because your horses are the best,
But I have only him!
Therefore, I ask you to be fair!
Allah is just and from up there
He'll judge and see how you behave
And how you treat me like a slave,
But you don't really care!
The world will curse you, you will see,
With what you do, they disagree!
I'll go to beg from other guys
But from your coins I turn my eyes
What good can give to me?
Then pasha orders, once, not twice,
"Strip him and beat him as a price!"
The eunucks jump from their place –
The Arab turns with pallid face
His sight is cold as ice...
Pulls out a dagger, looks ahead,
And blood is flowing, thick and red,
When cuts the throat wearing a mane
And in a blink, without much pain,
The noble horse falls dead.
Pasha is looking, feels a chill,
The Spachies shudder at the kill,
The Arab falls onto his knees
Kisses the blood that seems to freeze
On those eyes, which are still.
Then turns around, he groans and sobs
He drops the dagger, his throat clogs,
– My kids will take revenge on you,
Now if you want, cut me in two
And throw me to your dogs!
poem by George Coşbuc, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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Virginity
My mother she had children five and four are dead and gone;
While I, least worthy to survive, persist in living on.
She looks at me, I must confess, sometimes with spite and bitterness.
My mother is three-score and ten, while I am forty-three,
You don't know how it hurts me when we go somewhere to tea,
And people tell her on the sly we look like sisters, she and I.
It hurts to see her secret glee; but most, because it's true.
Sometimes I think she thinks that she looks younger of the two.
Oh as I gently take her arm, how I would love to do her harm!
For ever since I cam from school she put it in my head
I was a weakling and a fool, a "born old maid" she said.
"You'll always stay at home," sighed she, "and keep your Mother company."
Oh pity is a bitter brew; I've drunk it to the lees;
For there is little else to do but do my best to please:
My life has been so little worth I curse the hour she gave me birth.
I curse the hour she gave me breath, who never wished me wife;
My happiest day will be the death of her who gave me life;
I hate her for the life she gave: I hope to dance upon her grave.
She wearing roses in her hat; I wince to hear her say:
"Poor Alice this, poor Alice that," she drains my joy away.
It seems to brace her up that she can pity, pity, pity me.
You'll see us walking in the street, with careful step and slow;
And people often say: "How sweet!" as arm in arm we go.
Like chums we never are apart - yet oh the hatred in my heart!
My chest is weak, and I might be (O God!) the first to go.
For her what triumph that would be - she thinks of it, I know.
To outlive all her kith and kin - how she would glow beneath her skin!
She says she will not make her Will, until she takes to bed;
She little thinks if thoughts could kill, to-morrow she'd be dead. . . .
"Please come to breakfast, Mother dear; Your coffee will be cold I fear."
poem by Robert William Service
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Dan's Wife
Up in early morning light,
Sweeping, dusting, 'setting right,'
Oiling all the household springs,
Sewing buttons, tying strings,
Telling Bridget what to do,
Mending rips in Johnny's shoe,
Running up and down the stair,
Tying baby in her chair,
Cutting meat and spreading bread,
Dishing out so much per head,
Eating as she can by chance,
Giving husband kindly glance;
Toiling, working, busy life,--
Smart woman,
Dan's wife.
Dan comes home at fall of night,
Home so cheerful, neat, and bright;
Children meet him at the door,
Pull him in and looked him o'er;
Wife asks how the work has gone.
'Busy times with us at home!'
Supper done, Dan reads with ease,--
Happy Dan, but one to please!
Children must be put to bed--
All the little prayers are said;
Little shoes are placed in rows,
Bedclothes tucked o'er little toes;
Busy, noisy, wearing life,--
Tired woman,
Dan's wife.
Dan reads on and falls asleep--
See the woman softly creep;
Baby rests at last, poor dear,
Not a word her heart to cheer;
Mending-basket full to top,
Stockings, shirt, and little frock;
Tired eyes and weary brain,
Side with darting, ugly pain;
'Never mind, 'will pass away,'
She must work, but never play;
Closed piano, unused books,
Done the walks to easy nooks,
Brightness faded out of life,--
Saddened woman,
Dan's wife.
Upstairs, tossing to and fro,
Fever holds the woman low;
Children wander free to play
When and where they will today;
Bridget loiters--dinner's cold,
Dan looks anxious, cross, and old;
Household screws are out of place,
Lacking one dear, patient face;
Steady hands, so weak but true,
Hands that knew just what to do,
Never knowing rest or play,
Folded now--and laid away;
Work of six in one short life,--
Shattered woman,
Dan's wife.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Arabian Beauty
It gallops across the sunny slopes,
The grass so green on this little hill,
As it plunges into a field of flowers below,
The wind blows strong,
As if to say, ' Come my friend, frolic all day! '
It rears it's head, and tosses it mane,
It's muscles rippling like the surface of a lake,
This horse is a hard one to tame.
It's speed is like lightning flashing across a
midnight sky,
It's eyes are bright and shimmer like stars,
It's coat glimmers on the moonlit beaches,
And shines on a cloudless day.
It's hooves are as black as tar
And carries this large horse a long way.
It's fearless heart is as big as the moon,
This horse is the
Arabian Beauty.
poem by T.R. Crissian
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He Often Thinks Of Rosie
He often thinks of Rosie where might she be today?
Is she still back home in Derry from here long miles away
For three years they were an item but for them things did not work out
As often can happen in love affairs between one from a Northern Land and one from a Land in the far South.
He did not wish to live over there and in Melbourne she would not stay
Nostalgia won out over love or so 'twould seem that way
She went back home to Derry though he had asked her to become his wife
Young Rosie she was homesick a natural thing in life.
His wife and he have parted ways they have a year old son
The love died in their marriage he is not the first or he won't be the last one
To know of marriage failure such is life I do suppose
Yet his greatest love will always be the lovely brown haired Derry Rose.
He often thinks of Rosie they parted ways six years ago
He loved her and he always will though apart they did grow
Nostalgia won out over love in their case anyway
She went back home to Derry and home in Melbourne he did stay.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Between My Horse's Wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
The wind rushing forcefully
Through my long dark hair
The feel of the cool air
Beneath the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy
The muscles work powerfully
To drive us into the night
The stars wink like little lights
Above the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
As I ride over the ocean and sea
My muscles tense as I hold
My skin red from the windy cold
Flowing past the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
I revel in this dangerous ecstasy
A silvery mane blows in my face
Blown back, by the wind we race
Born on by the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
As we fly through the air swiftly
My face is lifted toward the sky
Arms outstretched, wind rushing by
The beating of the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
Faster and faster, we seem to fly
The wind tugging at my body
As I look to the heavenly bodies
Shining on the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
My horse flies gracefully
Over the fields and streams
Are these things only my dreams?
Sitting between the horse’s wings
poem by Horse Poet
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The Pearl of them All
Gaily in front of the stockwhip
The horses come galloping home,
Leaping and bucking and playing
With sides all a lather of foam;
But painfully, slowly behind them,
With head to the crack of the fall,
And trying so gamely to follow
Comes limping the pearl of them all.
He is stumbling and stiff in the shoulder,
And splints from the hoof to the knee,
But never a horse on the station
Has half such a spirit as he;
Give these all the boast of their breeding
These pets of the paddock and stall,
But ten years ago not their proudest
Could live with the pearl of them all.
No journey has ever yet beat him,
No day was too heavy or hard,
He was king of the camp and the muster
And pride of the wings of the yard;
But Time is relentless to follow;
The best of us bow to his thrall;
And death, with his scythe on his shoulder,
Is dogging the pearl of them all.
I watch him go whinnying past me,
And memories come with a whirl
Of reckless, wild rides with a comrade
And laughing, gay rides with a girl —
How she decked him with lilies and love-knots
And plaited his mane at my side,
And once in the grief of a parting
She threw her arms round him and cried.
And I promised — I gave her my promise
The night that we parted in tears,
To keep and be kind to the old horse
Till Time made a burden of years;
And then for his sake and one woman’s…
So, fetch me my gun from the wall!
I have only this kindness to offer
As gift to the pearl of them all.
Here! hold him out there by the yard wing,
And don’t let him know by a sign:
Turn his head to you — ever so little!
I can’t bear his eyes to meet mine.
Then — stand still, old boy! for a moment …
These tears, how they blind as they fall!
Now, God help my hand to be steady…
Good-bye! — to the pearl of them all!
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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A Holiday
The Wife
The house is like a garden,
The children are the flowers,
The gardener should come methinks
And walk among his bowers,
Oh! lock the door on worry
And shut your cares away,
Not time of year, but love and cheer,
Will make a holiday.
The Husband
Impossible! You women do not know
The toil it takes to make a business grow.
I cannot join you until very late,
So hurry home, nor let the dinner wait.
The Wife
The feast will be like Hamlet
Without a Hamlet part:
The home is but a house, dear,
Till you supply the heart.
The Xmas gift I long for
You need not toil to buy;
Oh! give me back one thing I lack –
The love-light in your eye.
The Husband
Of course I love you, and the children too.
Be sensible, my dear, it is for you
I work so hard to make my business pay.
There, now, run home, enjoy your holiday.
The Wife (turning)
He does not mean to wound me,
I know his heart is kind.
Alas! that man can love us
And be so blind, so blind.
A little time for pleasure,
A little time for play;
A word to prove the life of love
And frighten care away!
Tho’ poor my lot in some small cot
That were a holiday.
The Husband (musing)
She has not meant to wound me, nor to vex –
Zounds! but ‘tis difficult to please the sex.
I’ve housed and gowned her like a very queen
Yet there she goes, with discontented mien.
I gave her diamonds only yesterday:
Some women are like that, do what you may.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Between My Horse's Wings (Expanded)
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
The wind rushing forcefully
Through my long dark hair
The feel of the cool air
Beneath the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy
The muscles work powerfully
To drive us into the night
The stars wink like little lights
Above the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
As I ride over the ocean and sea
My muscles tense as I hold
My skin red from the windy cold
Flowing past the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
I revel in this dangerous ecstasy
A silvery mane blows in my face
Blown back, by the wind we race
Born on by the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
As we fly through the air swiftly
My face is lifted toward the sky
Arms outstretched, wind rushing by
The beating of the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
Faster and faster, we seem to fly
The wind tugging at my body
As I look to the heavenly bodies
Shining on the horse’s wings
Is this real, or is this fantasy?
My horse flies gracefully
Over the fields and streams
Are these things only my dreams?
Sitting between the horse’s wings
Illicit Love
Are you lonely, my love
the love of your life
loves another man?
Are you in pain, my love
the love of your life
needs the other man?
Does your heart ache, my love
the love of your life
cannot forget that man?
Do I hurt you, my love
when I say to you
I can't get over that man?
Can you accept - my love
the love of your life
thinks of the other man
always, all the time?
No - I am not the other woman
in his life - as nothing works
between us...
yet I keep thinking of him
feel so deep for him
and yes - my love
wish to marry him
bed him and beget him
children...
like every woman does
for the man she loves...
Is it too much of a sin, my love
to love more than one man?
Tell me - my love
why do I need him so much
miss him every moment
of my lonesome life
being your wife
I need the husband in him
And yet - I know
I cannot do without you
I cannot choose him over you
do I forget him
and forgive myself
for the sin of being in love
with two men in my life?
Tell me - my love
how do I do this?
I am directionless...
feeling down and out
my heart in pieces
wish I could share
my life with you
and him.
Too much for the asking
I suppose...
I am being avaricious
and may be impractical
Tell me, my love
when was love pragmatic
when was love logical?
when did people say
love had a lot of rationale?
Love was always blind
blind as a bat
love feels with the heart
mind doesn't work
And here I am, my love
at your door-step
in your home
beside you, in your arms
loving you and yet
pondering over him...
Why did God give me so much pain?
Why did He fill my heart with
adulterous love?
Why did Destiny bring me
to this cross-road?
Why do I have to choose
between the two of you?
Sometimes I feel
that I could do
with neither of you
for both of you
are so precious to me
I cannot hurt one
and please the other...
They say: Love is pure,
pristine a feeling
complete devotion
and adulation
for the one man
a woman always loves
and loves for ever...
but what happens to the love
a woman feels for the man in her life
and the other man outside?
Is it so sinful a feeling?
Is it so detesting?
Do all the women
in this world
love only one man
through all their life?
And all the men
just think of only one woman:
their so-called wedded wife?
So many questions
in mind
for a heart that loves
and loves and loves...
the two men
in a woman's life
Any Answers...
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Verses On Night And Day
In the forest at night
my good old horse
has lost his way.
His head nods sleepily –
perhaps he dreams
of fields green by day.
The owls are hooting,
the night is cold,
the ground is hard,
but all night long
my good old horse
will stand his guard.
Daylight will come
to light the woods
at break of day,
and at that time
my horse will know
to find the way.
The night and darkness
are as nothing
to my old horse,
for he knows to wait
as time shall pass, and life
shall take its course.
poem by Rory Hudson
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Talbragar
Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began,
And there was sorrow round the place, for Denver was a man;
Jack Denver’s wife bowed down her head—her daughter’s grief was wild,
And big Ben Duggan by the bed stood sobbing like a child.
But big Ben Duggan saddled up, and galloped fast and far,
To raise the biggest funeral ever seen on Talbragar.
By station home
And shearing shed
Ben Duggan cried, “Jack Denver’s dead!
Roll up at Talbragar!”
He borrowed horses here and there, and rode all Christmas Eve,
And scarcely paused a moment’s time the mournful news to leave;
He rode by lonely huts and farms, until the day was done
And then he turned his horse’s head and made for Ross’s Run.
No Bushman in a single day had ridden half so far
Since Johnson brought the doctor to his wife at Talbragar.
By diggers’ camps
Ben Duggan sped—
At each he cried, “Jack Denver’s dead!
Roll up at Talbragar!”
That night he passed the humpies of the splitters on the ridge,
And roused the bullock-drivers camped at Belinfante’s Bridge;
And as he climbed the ridge again the moon shone on the rise;
The soft white moonbeams glistened in the tears that filled his eyes;
He dashed the rebel drops away—for blinding things they are—
But ’twas his best and truest friend who died on Talbragar.
At Blackman’s Run
Before the dawn,
Ben Duggan cried, “Jack Denver’s gone!
Roll up at Talbragar!”
At all the shanties round the place they‘d beard his horse’s tramp,
He took the track to Wilson’s Luck, and told the diggers’ camp;
But in the gorge by Deadman’s Gap the mountain shades were black,
And there a newly-fallen tree was lying on the track—
He saw too late, and then he heard the swift hoof ’s sudden jar,
And big Ben Duggan ne’er again rode home to Talbragar.
“The wretch is drunk,
And Denver’s dead—
A burning shame!” the people said
Next day at Talbragar.
For thirty miles round Talbragar the boys rolled up in strength,
And Denver had a funeral a good long mile in length;
Round Denver’s grave that Christmas day rough Bushmen’s eyes were dim—
The Western Bushmen knew the way to bury dead like him;
But some returning homeward found, by light of moon and star,
Ben Duggan dying in the rocks, ten miles from Talbragar.
They knelt around.
He raised his head
And faintly gasped, “Jack Denver’s dead,
Roll up at Talbragar!”
But one short hour before he died he woke and understood;
They told him, when he asked them, that the funeral was good;
And then there came into his eyes a sad and softened light.
He said. “Poor Denver’s wife and kids—you’ll see that they’re all right?”
And still the careless Bushmen tell by tent and shanty bar
How Duggan raised a funeral years back on Talbragar.
And far and wide
When Duggan died.
The bushmen of the western side
Rode in to Talbragar.
poem by Henry Lawson
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What is Life? What is its Meaning?
What is Life?
When mind enters the matter,
matter develops the mind,
Truth that splits into Three,
It is like fragile glass tree,
Three roots Father, spirit and Son,
Turn that hour glass,
the time starts with
Fusion of gametes,
In the game of love,
Father sits on throne,
Spirit fuels thirst, hunger and desires,
One day life itself starts wondering what is Life?
When life gets kicks for its desires and deeds,
Stands up and asks,
What is meaning of Life?
When metabolism shifts equilibrium,
Rate of catebolism exceeds anobolic rate,
Then starts thinks about fate!
What is the meaning of life?
The life finds answer in life itself,
Life finds answer in its question itself,
Father, spirit and Son trinity,
When son is full of spirit,
Wants to eat, drink, dance and make merry,
Forgets he has to cross the great ferry!
but when spirit stops fueling life, the son,
Thinks of father and sits somewhere alone,
In solitude looks at and screams
O, Father where are you?
When life learns neither matter, nor the mind,
But the truth that became God and satan,
The tree and the serpent,
Mind that was in confusion,
Asking what is Life,
Learns that life is not that,
Neither friend nor foe of life itself,
Only that confusion,
like a boy went to a fair to
purchase trained horse for race,
but lost its money on amusement
only able to purchase an old useless ass!
Life is like that,
If life rides life, life gets kicks and reach a dead end!
If life is led by life, life can live life full of bliss than full of fun and fun to other life it becomes,
When slips footing on its own shit,
Instead of flying like inter galactic space ship!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Wind Horse
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, gentle Wind horse, you were the last of your kind.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you were running wild and free.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, with this freedom you did nothing but give;
When one called for help you carried them to safety,
No enemy did you have.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave your life one day
To a boy with no leg.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave him your endless love.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you now run in the Great Hunting Grounds;
Giving joy to those there, as you did here.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, your life was not the last gift
You gave the People.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you prayed for us, you wished a wish for us.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we remember you through your brother Horse.
Wi: yo: h … It is good.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we see you still.
poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
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An each passing day
Each of passing day brings very good message
I am running life smoothly and able to manage
Nothing happens to add any woe to my journey
Family and friends always stand by and ready to accompany
As we have closely observed the ups and down
Little set back doen’t make us weary or frown
We take it as challenge and treat as such
It doe not make us upset very much
Every moments we die only to survive for another
It is golden moment to provide us the breather
We think of it as passing of crucial phase
We still live amidst crisis but with definite ease
Constant fear could have worn us out
It might have resulted into our complete rout
We would not have been in position to speak about
Thank God about the position that has made us stout
I would love thousands of such life in times to come
I shall pray for it and always welcome
It has taught me to overcome siginificant crisis
I would never love to make more emphasis
I shall sail through with bare minimum
I shall never long for any maximum
The contentment of less may be my ideal
The life may come out of it as very real
It has taken years for river to make its way
It had to take many miles to push it away
The destination is reached but in difficult position
The safety or success was never a question
The end is supposed to be ultimate point
How many cross ways to make it beautiful joint?
The natural flow can be seen with bautiful eyes
Who thinks about painful journey and for why?
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Of Horses And Flies
A fly had ventured from his nest
and flew (of course) then came to rest
upon the tailbone of a horse.
And with considerable force
he pushed his stinger through the hide
which promptly ended up inside.
The horse, whose tolerance of pain
was governed by an oblong brain,
a horse, that much is widely known
is born without a funny bone
It follows that a horse may cry
when bitten by a nasty fly.
The fly, whose cousins own the dunny
inflicts his germs and thinks it funny
when bits of half-digested dung
infect the spot where he has stung.
Though in the case of any horse
it matters little since, of course
a horse makes, on command, vaccine
which brings resistance to the scene.
Thus horses won't, upon reflection,
pick up a Coliform infection,
which pleases me (you may ask why)
but tell me, why the horse would cry!
A horse will cry at times, of course
due to the fly's lack of remorse.
Which does intensify the pain
I hope I've made this subject plain.
Since stings make horses jump and wince
you'll never see a horse that grins.
You may consider this quite silly
but think about it, as a filly
a horse soon meets the dreaded fly
he suffers, as the years go by
and stores the thought inside his head
that flies would better off be dead.
And if, the Gods in the hereafter
outlawed all flies we'd hear the laughter
of horses just as now and then
a nicker sound comes from the pen.
This is a soft and pleasant sound
containing vowels that are round.
But if you hear them whinny-ing
you know they're thinking of the sting
and of the time when God will boil
all flies in holy Hyssop oil.
All mammals then will celebrate
the new and blessed stingless state
and will, in gratitude endorse
the king of critters, yes the horse.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Refugio's Hair
In the old days of our family,
My grandmother was a young woman
Whose hair was as long as the river.
She lived with her sisters on the ranch
La Calera--The Land of the Lime--
And her days were happy.
But her uncle Carlos lived there too,
Carlos whose soul had the edge of a knife.
One day, to teach her to ride a horse,
He made her climb on the fastest one,
Bareback, and sit there
As he held its long face in his arms.
And then he did the unspeakable deed
For which he would always be remembered:
He called for the handsome baby Pirrín
And he placed the child in her arms.
With that picture of a Madonna on horseback
He slapped the shank of the horse's rear leg.
The horse did what a horse must,
Racing full toward the bright horizon.
But first he ran under the álamo trees
To rid his back of this unfair weight:
This woman full of tears
And this baby full of love.
When they reached the trees and went under,
Her hair, which had trailed her,
Equal in its magnificence to the tail of the horse,
That hair rose up and flew into the branches
As if it were a thousand arms,
All of them trying to save her.
The horse ran off and left her,
The baby still in her arms,
The two of them hanging from her hair.
The baby looked only at her
And did not cry, so steady was her cradle.
Her sisters came running to save them.
But the hair would not let go.
From its fear it held on and had to be cut,
All of it, from her head.
From that day on, my grandmother
Wore her hair short like a scream,
But it was long like a river in her sleep.
poem by Alberto Ríos
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I Do
Well I've gone steady with a-lots of girls
And to all of them I tried to be true
But I'm so glad I never promised them
What I promised you
And that's I do (I do, yes I do)
Take you (take you, I'll take you)
For my wife (for my, for my wife)
For the rest of my life (ah yes the rest of my life)
Well I heard from my folks
Time and time again
To make sure that I found the right one
And every time you meet
Your heart will beat
And you'll want to say
You'll say I do (I do, yes I do)
Take you (take you, I'll take you)
For my wife (for my, for my wife)
For the rest of my life (ah yes the rest of my life now)
Oh yes I do (I do, yes I do)
Take you (take you, I'll take you)
For my wife (for my, for my wife)
For the rest of my life (ah yes the rest of my life now)
Ah ha ha I do (I do, yes I do)
Take you (take you, I'll take you)
For my wife (for my, for my wife)
For the rest of my life (ah yes the rest of my life now)
Ah ha ha I do (I do, yes I do)
Take you (take you, I'll take you)
For my wife (for my, for my wife)
For the rest of my life (ah yes the rest of my life now)
Ah ha yes I do (I do, yes I do)
Take you (take you, I'll take you)
For my wife (for my, for my wife)
For the rest of my life
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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She Thinks Shes Edith Head
Back in high school I knew a girl
Not too simple and not too kind
We both grew up, but I heard shed changed
From a new wave fan to another kind
She thinks shes edith head
But you might know shes not
The accent in her speech
She didnt have growing up
She thinks shes edith head
Or helen girlie brown
Or some other cultural figure
We dont know a lot about
Its been years since I moved away
But at christmas I come home
And I saw her reflection
In the window of a store
She was talking to herself
Not too simple and not too kind
I walked on by, it was complicated
And it stuck in my mind
She thinks shes edith head
But you might know shes not
The accent in her speech
She didnt have growing up
The accent in her speech
She didnt have growing up
The accent in her speech
She didnt have growing up
She thinks shes edith head
She thinks shes edith head now
She thinks shes edith head
She thinks shes edith head now
She thinks shes edith head
She thinks shes edith head now
She thinks shes edith head
She thinks shes edith head now
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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