Allergy Enemy Friend 13/11/2009
Something affecting my eyes, I suspect
the curry hubby added so happily to our
food, eyes swollen, vision blurred, cannot
read my book, allergy symptoms in tinnitus,
unending fatigue
Allergy is my greatest enemy and friend: forcing
me to work like mad to overcome confusion and
lost opportunities, it developed my character into
a rock-hard entity to keep fighting the symptoms
with humour
Driving me into isolation and inactivity – yet it
brought me the greatest joy: forced to seek
relief in mental activities, I read the most
wonderful books and feel compelled to
write poetry!
poem by Margaret Alice
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Related quotes
How The Dinosaurs Died (Revised)
How develop evergreen self-esteem when yesterday’s
regime – 2 kinds of rolls, fresh and warm– can be seen
in swollen eyelids and facial expression effect
‘Tis unfair to know all bread and dough is explicitly
forbidden, ‘tis so unfair it strengthens my theory the
dinosaurs’ extinction was also due to wheat allergy
Forced to subsist on grass and grain, they expired with
sinuses swollen, unseeing eyes, low blood sugar and
muscle weakness, all symptoms of food intolerance
It caused their universal demise; I shall not force my
surmise on science but until I die I shall be the only
one who intimately knows how the dinosaurs died!
�Evergreen self-esteem� � Coined by Terry Pratchett in
his new book �Snuff� [Lord Rust, p.62]
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Mad And Growing Worse
Lost sense of chronology due to food allergy, un-
balanced and feverish and irritable - awful to sit
still - as long as there is pressing work to do, it
is easier to ignore these symptoms
The quiet of Friday night makes it impossible to live
life within separate units of time, it feels as if every-
thing should be happening at once and since they can-
not given the limitations of my mind
I feel frustrated, cannot wait for events to happen in
sequence: when reading I think I should be watching
TV, when watching one thing I suspect I am missing
something important somewhere else
Or that I should have been reading an excellent book:
full circle, enough to drive one mad, and it does -
I'm mad and growing worse…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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The Book I Read
Im writing bout the
Book I read
I have to sing about the
Book I read
Im embarassed to admit it hit the soft spot in my heart
When I found out you wrote the
Book I read so
Take my shoulders as they touch your arms ive
Got little cold chills but I feel alright the
Book I read was in your eyes oh oh
Oh...Im living in the future.
I feel wonderful.
Im tipping over backwards
Im so ambitious
Im looking back im
Running a race and youre the book I read so
Feel my fingers as they
Touch your arms
Im spinning around but I feel alright
The book I read was in your eyes
Na na na na...na na na na na na na
Na na na na...na na na na na na na
Na na na na na...na na na na na na na
Na na na na...na na na na na na na
Na na na na...na na na na na na na
Na na na na...na na na na na na na
Na na na na...oh oh oh oh oh oh oh
Oooooh...Im living in the future
I feel wonderful
Im tipping over backwards
Im so ambitious
Im looking back im
Running a race and youre the books I read so
Feel my fingers as they touch you arms im
Spinning around and I feel alright
The book I read was in your eyes
Na na na na na...na na na na na na na
Na na na na...na na na na na na na na
Na na na na...na na na na na na na na
Na na na na...na na na na na na na na
Na na na na...na na na na na na na na
Na na na na...na na na na na na na na
Na na na na...oh oh oh oh oh oh oooh..
song performed by by Talking Heads
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet-My Food-Allergy
And now and then, I taste the foods I shouldn't;
So stupidly in utter disregard;
The things I loved to eat, some now I couldn't;
My allergy too has made me a Bard.
The sufferings that follow are so great;
I take the drugs to combat Allergy;
Of course, the symptoms do promptly abate;
But side-effects do steal my energy;
1 wish I had avoided the mistake;
I can’t be careful, all the time in life;
By miracle, if God-could only take,
Away the poison that adds to my strife.
Yet, blame I will myself for my sad plight;
How can a poison turn harmless o'er-night?
poem by John Celes
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Run On Automatic
Mostly lots of action in my head, ideas fighting for
priority, a book to read, plans for borderline crime
or at least relatively interesting things – as empty
as a sieve today - all thoughts fall into a myriad
miniature black holes in my mind, nothing sticks
Nothing has meaning, annoying and boring, must
be the result of something I have eaten, the curry
last night, allergy rampant destroying everything
except the outline of my thoughts which run on
automatic, everything else lost, munching like
A worm, trying to minimize this effect though it
seems all attempts are worsening it, need sleep
to change personalities, escape the zombie state
poem by Margaret Alice Second
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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These Are Symptoms
Rather than to admit to madness,
It was left unaddressed and explosed.
Rather than prevent it in its steps,
And arresting its progress...
The symptoms were ignored,
As a decision everyone then chose.
Locally,
People were still stuck...
In a 'they' and 'them' mindset.
Having no interests in backyard events.
Not even to be curious enough,
To take a peek through the fence.
Set in their ways and making less sense.
Accepting and tolerating a decline of their lives.
Not wishing to cause trouble...
So they kept their mouths closed,
To minimize the hassle.
And made any complaints,
In muffled tones in their homes.
As if a disease had arrived to condone.
And one did!
Rather than to admit to madness,
It was left unaddressed and explosed.
Rather than prevent it in its steps,
And arresting its progress...
The symptoms were ignored,
As a decision everyone then chose.
Locally,
People were still stuck...
In a 'they' and 'them' mindset.
Having no interests in backyard events.
Not even to be curious enough,
To take a peek through the fence.
Set in their ways and making less sense.
And...
Babbling incoherently.
Pointing to each other as another would agree.
'No.No.No,
They're sick.'
These are symptoms!
~No.No.
They are.~
These are symptoms!
*No.No.
We're not! *
These are symptoms!
'They are.'
These are symptoms!
~Nooo.~
'No.No.No,
She's sick.'
These are symptoms!
~No.No.
He is.~
These are symptoms!
*No.No.
THEY are.*
These are symptoms!
'NO! '
These are symptoms!
~Nooo.~
'No.No.No,
They're sick.'
These are symptoms!
~No.No.
They are.~
These are symptoms!
*No.No.
We're not! *
These are symptoms!
'They are.'
These are symptoms!
~Nooo.~
These are symptoms!
~No.~
Symptoms,
Yes!
These are symptoms!
~No.~
Symptoms,
Yes!
These are symptoms!
~No.~
Symptoms,
Yes!
These are symptoms.
~No.~
These are symptoms.
Symptoms.
Symptoms.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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If I finish a book a week, I will read only a few thousand books in my lifetime, about a tenth of a percent of the contents of the greatest libraries of our time. The trick is to know which books to read.
Carl Sagan in Cosmos
Submitted by Catalin Popescu
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A poem for Kafka
My elder brother Lalith.P
Who taught me to read and write
And lot of things about fading life.
He's a humble Encyclopedia.
We drink together as friends
When our holey pocket bit sounds
And we had a common sickness
Allergy for money but not alcohol
Villagers amazed of our Brotherhood!
He who introduced me Kafka.
'You should read his The Trial, The Castle
Amerika, The Metamorphosis and the penal Colony.
Most of his unfinished novels published Posthumously.
And He's a German speaking-Jew.'
My brother was really mad of Kafka.
I read few lines of Isaac Bashevis Singer's short story recently
'A friend of Kafka.'
And I write this brief poem underneath for him;
'I am sorry Kafka and still I couldn't touch
One of your golden books
But my inner feeling speaks
You're great among others.'
As I always respect of my Corsican brother's word!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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How Shall I Escape
Allergy symptoms, eyes skew, world upside
down everyone I know is gone, only empty
shells of ourselves left, the iron clamp on my
Hail Mary head still tightening-mea culpa-oh
yes I know full well something is wrong with
my vibrational skills I attract problems like a
magnet today, every choice made is wrought
with great danger-although what will happen
next is Heisenbergian uncertainty
I suspect it will continue the pattern of Unheil
und schmerzhafte Leidenschaft* - my early
morning attempt to change life into a lovely
safe place exploded and now I am lost at my
desk, the iron clamp tightening, tightening,
tightening still - and how shall I make my
escape - get a cup of coffee and regard
the world through a caffeine-induced
clearer eye?
*painful passion
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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~ O' Poetry I Read I Write ~
~ O' POETRY I READ I WRITE ~
Ms. Nivedita
UK
29 December,2009.
Poetry ~
I read I read I read
Without asking,
Knowing why?
Poetry ~
I write I write I write
Without asking,
Knowing why?
O' Poetry ~
Read n’ write
To share
Dare n’ bare,
Don’t care
Love to dye
By
Hi and fie.
.
O' Poetry ~
Life I buy
Never sell bye bye
All I’ll do until I die
Lo! I’m no hi-fi.
----
Copyright reserved by the author
poem by Ms. Nivedita Bagchi Spc. Uk.
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My Idea Of Bliss
Explained to my colleague my idea of bliss, giving
up meat, finding the taste revolting, eating butter
on rye crackerbread and drinking milk powder in
coffee - she frowned and told me this would be
fattening, I would grow as round as the earth
Yet before doing this I ate the right food on my
husband's safe food list and had to watch my
widening girth; now I don't fear the enemy in
butter and milk, as long as I have no hunger
pains to plague me all day, no headaches
No allergy symptoms at play, I am content to
leave the meat on my plate, if turning into a
vegetarian is the next step in healing from
aches and pains, I shall rejoice, eating
creatures with higher consciousness
Just seems so wrong - I'm holding thumbs
this healing goes on…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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I used to wake up at 4 A.M. and start sneezing, sometimes for five hours. I tried to find out what sort of allergy I had but finally came to the conclusion that it must be an allergy to consciousness.
quote by James Thurber
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The End Of The Chapter
Ah, yes, the chapter ends to-day;
We even lay the book away;
But oh, how sweet the moments sped
Before the final page was read!
We tried to read between the lines
The Author's deep-concealed designs;
But scant reward such search secures;
You saw my heart and I saw yours.
The Master,--He who penned the page
And bade us read it,--He is sage:
And what he orders, you and I
Can but obey, nor question why.
We read together and forgot
The world about us. Time was not.
Unheeded and unfelt, it fled.
We read and hardly knew we read.
Until beneath a sadder sun,
We came to know the book was done.
Then, as our minds were but new lit,
It dawned upon us what was writ;
And we were startled. In our eyes,
Looked forth the light of great surprise.
Then as a deep-toned tocsin tolls,
A voice spoke forth: 'Behold your souls!'
I do, I do. I cannot look
Into your eyes: so close the book.
But brought it grief or brought it bliss,
No other page shall read like this!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Symptoms
How many symptoms can I count upon
to affect my conscious being?
I have so many that just appear
and seeing is believing.
Unwanted marks that are called beauty
are blemishes on my skin.
There's nothing beautiful about them
but it's the skin I am in.
Hips too wide, waist too small,
bosom ample enough.
Clothing hard to fit just right
and if that's not the stuff
that makes these symptoms, everyone
the bane of my existence,
then surely I can say that I know
they're just a minor hindrance.
For symptoms come and stay a while
and you get used to them.
But I always wonder which will be next
and will it cause a problem?
poem by Edwina Reizer
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cn U rd ths? Its nt gd nws...
The National Literacy Trust in Britain
did a survey and
- yes, you guessed -
57% read 'only a bit' or not at all
and 25% of the older ones said
they had no intention to
read any more than this
So what do they read when
they read?
Well, mags,
and websites
and txt msgs of course
and jokes,
and TV books and mags
and e-mails
and eighth on the list comes fiction
that's made-up stories, right?
right
then comix ninth
then newspapers well
they're just for people
who don't have TV and
don't mind waiting 12 hours
to read the news put that tenth
what's that? poetry?
sorry would you spell that
oh poetry nah
girls said, they read
to find out how other people live
and feel and
to help them understand
more about themselves
boys said, they read
because they have to and
because it helps them
get a job so
some old farts might say
put up a sign
civilisation's postponed until further notice
but it may all work out
well it'll have to
poem by Michael Shepherd
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I Write Poetry
I write not poetry for the poor
for tears from their swelled up eyes
smudge and erase my words,
I write poetry not for the rich
for the splotches from their fat and cheese
hide my lines of wise,
I write poetry for not men to read
for in their skirmishes, poems are trashes
like beans spilled in pond full of slush,
I write poetry for the men not to read
for poems are little words, little music
little cry that the men cant touch or destroy,
poem by Saranyan Bee
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We Could Be In Love
(g. burtnick/s. peiken)
Lea:
Be still my heart
Lately its mind is on it's own
It would go far and wide
Just to be near you
Brad:
Even the stars
Shine a bit bright i've noticed
When you're close to me
Lea:
Still it remains a mystery
Chorus (both):
Anyone who seen us
Knows what's going on between us
It doesn't take a genius
To read between the lines brad: ohh
And it's not just wishful thinking
Or only me who's dreaming
I know what these are symptoms of
We could be in love
Lea:
I ask myself why
I sleep like a baby through the night
Maybe it helps to know
You'll be there tomorrow
Brad: lea:
Don't open my eyes ohhh
I'll wake from the spell i'm under
Makes me wonder how tell me how
I could live without you now
Both:
And what about the laughter
The happy ever after
Like voices of sweet angels
Calling out our names
And it's not just wishful thinking
Or only me who's dreaming
I know what these are symptoms of
We could be in love
Brad:
All my life
I have dreamed of this
But i could not see your face
Lea:
Don't ask why to such distant stars
Can fall right into place
(repeat chorus)
Both:
Oh, it doesn't take a genius
To know what these are symptoms of
We could be lea: ohh
We could be, we could be in love
Brad:
Could be in
Both:
We could be in love
song performed by by Lea Salonga
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Scribbles Transcribed
Some write for glory and for fame.
I write because I am obsessed
and wordplay is my favourite game.
I concentrate on poetry
Because I find it to my taste
and pass my time creatively.
I could not sit and watch T.V
and live my life vicariously.
That would drive me to insanity.
I have a wide vocabulary
which I love to exercise
Harmless but it amuses me.
What better way to pass the time
than writing formal poetry
I do not find it hard to rhyme
I’ll never be a household name
Which does not bother me at all.
I write for fun and not for fame.
My writing will not make me rich
I very rarely publish it
I merely write to scratch my itch.
My pad and pen accompany me
No matter where I choose to go
Though I scribble illegibly.
Record what takes my interest
and jot down anything I see.
When I get home I do my best.
To read the jottings I have made
which is sometimes difficult
as pencilled words tend to fade.
I find that if I persevere
for long enough I understand
enough to make it very clear.
I sometimes wish that I could write
In a clear and cursive script
If I had perhaps I might.
But I am too impatient to write
All of down the things I want to
My scribbling will have to do.
Thank God for printers and P.Cs
So when I post its legible
and you can read my verse with ease.
The feed back which you give to me.
I read with greatest interest.
And it improves my poetry.
My hand writing will never be
capable of being read
by anybody else but me..
(18-Jun-07)
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Books I Read
I was once asked
what sort of books I read.
To be honest
I never gave it much thought.
I read all sorts of books
from crime fiction to poetry,
by many assorted authors.
I read literary classics
and some not so classic at all.
If they asked me
who my favourite author is,
again I’d be in confusion there too.
However a few of the names
that spring to mind are,
F Scott Fitzgerald, John Steinbeck,
Ernest Hemmingway, James Herriot,
Agatha Christie, Edgar Wallace
and surprisingly enough Mickey Spillane.
I have no favourite author
of any particular genre
as I only read
how I feel at the time.
27 February 2008
poem by David Harris
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Read my poetry
Read my poetry
My poetry is enough
My poetry is independent
My poetry creates itself.
Read my poetry
My poetry is not mine
Everything belongs to my poetry
My poetry creats itself.
Read my poetry
My poetry is psyche and
Alchemy in me
My poetry is independent of me.
Read my poetry
It agony its ecstasy
Its inspiration
Everything belongs to
My predecessors-poet
Read my poetry
Read my poetry.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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