a Lad on Fire
Being young and young in
green growth already being
in a struggle to understand
insanity and never understanding
the nightmare of burning the
finger like a green branch,
While the sap screams, and hisses
lost untill the smell is covered over
by her knowledge of him, and no
sorrow it was not in piety nor,
when the bubble was pierced,
and the tears flowed out and
that by giants could such be done
and death claiming him and sorrow
by her a great mountain of guilt that
even with my debt of forgiveness,
I cannot move and the guilt made
her worse, and no one knew it but me.
poem by Is It Poetry
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Design Of Death
You said you were grief,
the marbled tears will not flow.
Was it not much softer
to accept the life
as a design of death?
You needed the continuity of the sorrow.
Why were you seeking the ending?
The visible effect was mirage,
the guilt of genocide.
We emptied our tatoos
on the road,
driving the emotions to insanity
Everything moved towards
the precipice, rejecting the sky.
Sorrow was part of joy, my adversary.
I wished to separate
the fear from the cells.
The pain of perennial setbacks chipped away the ladders.
I stood there at the level
of death, demanding rocks.
poem by Satish Verma
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The Green Thicket
All in a green thicket I heard a bird sing,
And blithe though his song was it made the tears spring,
To hear a bird sing as he swung on his spray,
All in a green thicket at break of the day.
All in a green thicket his song it did pour
That told of the Springs that shall come nevermore,
That sang of sweet blossoms, now faded and dry,
All in a green thicket in Aprils gone by.
All in a green thicket that morning in Spring,
I smelt the sharp scent of each young growing thing,
I smelt the sweet herbage all drowned with the dew,
And the time that's gone from me was with me anew.
All in a green thicket at break of the day
It was like the dear voice of a friend far away,
It was like the kind touch of a hand that I know,
And the smile and the tears of dead Aprils ago,
All in a green thicket one morning in Spring,
For to smell the young woodland and hear the bird sing,
Oh, long did I loiter and dream by the way,
All in a green thicket at break of the day.
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Misery Chain
Why is life full of pain,
sorrow, guilt, and remorse?
When yet there is nothing to gain
but education of the mistakes we endorse.
Still, nothing evil fades
nor good ever remains.
Even after we learn
temptation does return.
And the fool who once slipped
falls once again
And then...
Over it all began.
The guilt, sorrow, pain,
and the misery chain.
poem by Timothy Mims
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Chou Nu Er
In days when I was young and didn't know the taste of sorrow
I like to climb the storied tower,
I like to climb the storied tower;
To write the latest odes I forced myself to tell of sorrow.
Now that I understand the taste of sorrow altogether
I would like to tell, but stop,
I would like to tell, but stop;
Instead I say, 'What a cool day! Such lovely autumn weather!'
When young, I knew not the taste of sorrow,
But loved to mount the high towers;
I loved to mount the hight towers
To compose a new song,urging myself to talk about sorrow.
Now that I have known all the taste of sorrow,
I would like to talk about it, but refrain;
I would like to talk about it, but refrain,
And say merely: 'It is chilly; what a fine autumn!'
Understanding and Knowledge
Those who know don’t talk;
Those who talk don’t know;
Those who speak don’t write;
Those who write don’t speak.
Those who think don’t actions;
Those who actions don’t think;
Those who think don’t judge;
Those who judge don’t do.
Small understanding is no match for great understanding;
Small knowledge cannot understand great knowledge knows.
Great wisdom has great understanding;
Great knowledge has wise sayings.
Great knowledge and understanding is wide and vast;
Small knowledge and understanding is trivial and cramped.
Great speech blaze forth as a huge fire;
Small speech is empty and trivial.
We understand what is appropriate;
Because of what we understand to be inappropriate.
We understand right;
Because of our understanding of wrong.
Use the light of wisdom to see,
Beyond the world of right and wrong.
One can only really understand things,
By understanding one’s true self.
(extracted and translated from Tao Te Cheng Book)
© Nov 2011 Lawrence Hiung
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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The Written Poems
Ah, which is not poetry
Sun and moon, day and night
Birth and death, merry and sorrow..
Happiness be if idyllic poem
Even sorrow a dolorous poetry..
Yes..lovely poems
But sorrow is not sorrow to swear
Inside the inside, inside it a dream
Rolling is sorrow on uncaged glee
A glee of unfettered wishes and desires
An aesthete of the secret soul..
Yes..a lovely poem
And gaiety too not so to swear
Inside the inside, inside it a guilt
Pricking the soul is the wakeful conscience
Awry-sorry-karma on wrong rungs
A fake upping of the secret soul
Yes..a lovely poem
Ah, just in bliss of ripened years
Connoisseur you rejoice them
Glee and guilt, aesthetes of secret soul
Written poems in every godly creature
Found and read in appreciation to acclaim
Oh..lovely poems
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Deeds Done They Do To Leave
Don't you believe people make mistakes?
And should be forgiven for those they make?
'Sure.
I've made quite a few myself.
And not one did I make,
Was an intention to undermine someone else,
Consciously.
Nor did I,
With a premeditation done...
Inflict sorrow on anyone.
Those are not 'mistakes'.
That is a remorse received for a thing done,
Now bringing feelings of guilt and grief.
Feelings of guilt that brings one grief,
Is a payback.
And those are divinely distributed.
Mistakes can be corrected.
Heartaches and 'breaks'...
Are way beyond my jurisdiction to mend.
They require much prayer and faith.
And that is what I have relied on to keep my head up,
To protect from those of destructive forces.
So those who choose to say,
They should be forgiven for making mistakes.
And expect a forgiveness done...
Are 'consciously' approving their own devious activities.
That is the way I see deeds done they do to leave.
With expectations to continue their deceptions.
After an appropriate forgiveness has been delivered.'
Those are not mistakes.
And there is quite a difference.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sad eyes (Angel incarnate)
Sad eyes cry many tears
Many unseen by those around
These eyes are mine
For I'm alone in a world of sorrow
I tried hiding but it found me
I tried running but it captured me
I soon realized you can't escape
Not from pain, sorrow, fear or death
They all catch up with us eventually.
I was put here not to suffer
But to learn
To learn what makes sorrow, pain, fear, and death.
To learn, to understand and find a way to ease people's fears of death and to take away their sorrow
Sad eyes cry many tears
Many unseen by those around
These eyes are mine
For I'm alone in a world of sorrow
I know I look youthful but really I'm ancient
I was here a little after the beginning my soul reincarnate always knowing and seeing what I've seen
Never being deceived herself but seeing the deceitful people around her
My eyes are sad because I'm supposed to be innocent but I'm not
They're sad because I can never just be who I am
Because if I do I'll be feared and harmed even though I myself am essentially harmless
I pity those around me but find no pity towards me in others eyes
I'm the angel incarnate
I lost my wings because my tears washed them away
poem by Jenna Camilla
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Sorrow Under Mist
Mist -
Giving wispy vapour to the breath,
Cool calm to autumn afternoons,
A hovering air of mysticism
Over brooding lakes -
Was different here,
Affording company, closeness -
A caring arm around her shoulders.
In the eyes, a once-clear oceanic blue
Wavered under water -
Tears telling torrid truths
She couldn't face -
Like the glowering image in the mirror
You don't see in your mind's eye
Of compensation; delusion.
We see her sitting on the concrete steps
That led down to the dew-laden garden.
She's peering up, sensing her diffuse companion,
Refreshing in its chill; giving crispness
To the stealth of dulling evening.
But the bite of air couldn't lift the sorrow
Of pale youth in love,
Shouldered by a not-in-love and scoffing eye.
Rejection hurt;
Hurts -
Wrenches deep -
Emotion that we can't deny!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
Sorrow Rain
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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A Sonnet Upon The Pitiful Burning Of The Globe Playhouse In
Now sit thee down, Melpomene,
Wrapp'd in a sea-coal robe,
And tell the doleful tragedy
That late was play'd at Globe;
For no man that can sing and say
But was scar'd on St. Peter's Day.
Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true.
All you that please to understand,
Come listen to my story,
To see Death with his raking brand
'Mongst such an auditory;
Regarding neither Cardinal's might,
Nor yet the rugged face of Henry the Eight.
Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true.
This fearful fire began above,
A wonder strange and true,
And to the stage-house did remove,
As round as tailor's clew;
And burnt down both beam and snag,
And did not spare the silken flag.
Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true.
Out run the knights, out run the lords,
And there was great ado;
Some lost their hats and some their swords,
Then out run Burbage too;
The reprobates, though drunk on Monday,
Prayed for the fool and Henry Condye.
Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true.
The periwigs and drum-heads fry,
Like to a butter firkin;
A woeful burning did betide
To many a good buff jerkin.
Then with swoll'n eyes, like drunken Flemings,
Distressed stood old stuttering Hemings.
Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true.
...
Be warned, you stage strutters all,
Lest you again be catched,
And such a burning do befall
As to them whose house was thatched;
Forbear your whoring, breeding biles,
And lay up that expense for tiles.
Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true.
Go draw you a petition,
And do you not abhor it,
And get, with low submission,
A license to beg for it
In churches, sans churchwardens' checks,
In Surrey and in Middlesex.
Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Cockatoo Twelve Years On '1995
It's been more than twelve years so they tell me since the flames of death passed through
Since the fire that caused destruction burnt it's way through Cockatoo
Lives were lost and houses burnt down blackened miles of countryside
And people wept for lost possessions for their life time work destroyed.
Tears for houses burnt to ashes, tears for lives lost in fierce flame
Tears for trees and paddocks blackened some say 'fire bug '
was to blame
Cockatoo a place of mourning only blackness to be seen
Only smell of smoke and burn out not one sign of Nature's green.
Twelve years on things seem so different Cockatoo looks green today
And who'd believe if you had not known that huge fire had burnt this way
Some still talk of their great losses and the hardships they'd been through
But they recovered built new houses and still live in Cockatoo.
Nature is her own best healer, Nature the true friend of man
Blackness caused by fire and burn out only last for a brief span
Cockatoo is one example what a change twelve years can bring
On green gum tree by the rail track i can hear the shrike thrush sing.
Here in cockatoo this morning fresh and pure the mountain air
Green the trees and green the paddocks green as i've seen anywhere
Twelve years back a blackened wasteland see how green she looks today
Nature is her own best healer and nature always has her way.
poem by Francis Duggan
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When I Was Young I Cried
When I was young I cried when I was sad, when I was young I cried when I was happy, when I was young I cried when I wanted something, when I was young I cried when I was lonely, when I was young I cried when I had to say goodbye, when I was young I cried when my feelings were hurt, when I was young I cried when I wasn't accepted, when I was young I cried when I was mocked, when I was young I cried for attention, when I was young I cried when I was scared, when I was young I cried when I hurt others, when I was young I cried when I felt physical pain, when I was young I cried when I was jealous, when I was young I cried when I lost someone or when I was lost somewhere, when I was young I cried when I didn't know, and now as an adult I cry because I understand.
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Get rid of imagined guilt. You did the best you could at the time, all things considered. If you made mistakes, learn to accept that we are all imperfect. Only hindsight is 20-20. If you are convinced that you have real guilt, consider professional or spiritual counseling (with a competent and trustworthy counselor). If you believe in God a pastor can help you believe also in God's forgiveness.
quote by Amy Hillyard Jensen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I wish you knew those days.... [ De-ai şti acele zile...]
I wish you knew the sorrow of those long days of yore
When eagerly I waited, but now they are no more!
The overwhelming tension and all the hours raids
My bitter recollections, the melancholic shades,
Let them recede in silence and their sad eyes to raise,
And after that to close them. If only knew those days,
O, child, who smile so nicely, you'd mourn me, I suppose,
And at my open window, where creeps a green dog-rose,
You'd let these words of wisdom to roll off your sweet tongue:
“You have endured great hardships, although you are still young!”
poem by Elena Văcărescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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Under the Snow
If green the corn and burning the volcano,
Though snowclad, buried under rocks of ice,
Why shall the heart not love and burn in waving
Expectant green, or rising flames of hot
Enthusiasm, or burst into a torrent
Of wrath, though snow the summit long hath crowned?
Behold! The field is green, the seed has risen
That thou hast thrown into these aching furrows,
Once ploughed by Destiny, and sown with sorrow
And watered with the wells of tears, that dropped
Upon each grain and flowed through all the furrows.
They see the snow upon thine head, but not
The corn and not the threat'ning furnace of
Thy soul. They think it is extinct, they hope
Thou hast forgotten, that the gentle warmth
They feel is sunshine, not the stormy fire,
That cannot cease to burn: for it remembers.
poem by Carmen Sylva
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Death hear this
After the initial shock
After the funeral
I began to cope
With the trauma
Gradually, day after day
Week by week
To put death beyinde
With sorrow, with guilt, with tears
And much bitterness
But also with firmness and determination
poem by Ajaegbu Charles
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Dear Sorrow, Death Awaits Your Acquaintance
The rain keeps Falling
And the Pain goes on
Your name I try calling
But the words just pass on by
The air
Bitter and cold
The shivers now suddenly unfold
I start to lose my breath
And once again see death
Face to Face we see
That life for me, isn't supposed to be
'She is Not important,
Shes lost in the shadows..
Drowning in grief and pain
There will be no tomorrow,
For she is all Sorrow'
'She is all sorrow'
There shall be no Tomorrow for Dear Sweet Sorrow.
Sorrow, Sorrow In the air
Death Has come so stay prepared.
poem by Sorrow Lynn
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I Am Human, I Am Love!
i am the stranger,
the drifter, the hobo...
the rebel, and the lost one....
my voice is a small whisper,
my body a twig.
i am the gift left
on the doorstep of the unwanted.
i am the prayer
that even god does not hear!
i am the child no one wants,
the woman no one loves.
i am blood on the hands,
i am guilt, and forgiveness.
i am the old man's touch,
that no one wants.
i am the child and the dog,
that love the old man.
i am the stray cat,
curled against the step.
i am Judas weeping,
and Magdelene made a whore.
i am the young gay boy
condemned for loving.
i am the soldier who cant
bring himself to kill.
i am the pregnant young girl
who cant tell her parents.
the old man with cancer,
who sits with a revolver.
i am the parent who failed,
and the child who walked away.
i am the broken, and wounded,
i am human, i am love!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Conscience is silenced
Butchers have no guilt that they have slaughtered.
Choppers have no guilt that they have chopped
Fishermen have no guilt for their catch.
Soldiers have no guilt for their killings
Killing as profession will silence one’s conscience.
18.11.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Little Green
Born with the moon in cancer
Choose her a name she will answer to
Call her green and the winters cannot fade her
Call her green for the children whove made her
Little green, be a gypsy dancer
He went to california
Hearing that everythings warmer there
So you write him a letter and say, her eyes are blue.
He sends you a poem and shes lost to you
Little green, hes a non-conformer
Ch0rus:
Just a little green
Like the color when the spring is born
Therell be crocuses to bring to school tomorrow
Just a little green
Like the nights when the northern lights perform
Therell be icicles and birthday clothes
And sometimes therell be sorrow
Child with a child pretending
Weary of lies you are sending home
So you sign all the papers in the family name
Youre sad and youre sorry, but youre not ashamed
Little green, have a happy ending
Chorus:
Just a little green
Like the color when the spring is born
Therell be crocuses to bring to school tomorrow
Just a little green
Like the nights when the northern lights perform
Therell be icicles and birthday clothes
And sometimes therell be sorrow
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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