Another Wave of Grief (From a story in the news about a Lebanese)
When spring comes
Flowers wave along the walls
Happiness and joys come
To our deserted village
For years we wait to recover
The wounds that burn
For years we bear
The scars of destruction
Then we are near to escape
The trauma of dejection
Suddenly everything shatters
A child is blown while playing
With untested mines
Another wave of grief
Stipple our throats
We return to our past
To migrate to a shelter
Where we find wounds
Blood, cuts and burns
Mad cries we hear
Another wave of grief
Stains our history
We learn a new lesson
Of hard struggle and survival
The game of life and death
We cannot clear our memory
And still another scar
Betrays our minds
When we are near to forget
Then someone again remind us
Of the terrible past
We think people cannot bear
Our happiness and joys
They amaze themselves
By making us poor and migrant
By making us slaves and terrorists
poem by Abdul Sattar
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Related quotes
Let us not mind the happiness...
Let us not mind the happiness and the grief that come our way,
For they are inseparable from our life.
None can evade them, for Lord Raghunath himself has inlaid them!
Let us not mind the happiness and the grief that come our way!
Even an upright man like King Nala, whose wife was Queen Damayanti,
Had to roam half-naked in the forest without food or water.
Let us not mind the happiness and the grief that come our way!
Even the mighty brothers like the Pandavas,
Who had Queen Draupadi for a wife,
Underwent hardships for twelve long and exacting years in the forest Without even proper sleep.
Let us not mind the happiness and the grief that come our way!
Even a woman as chaste as Sita,
Whose husband was none other than the Lord,
Was abducted by Ravana and subjected to suffer terrible misery,
Let us not mind the happiness or the grief that come our way!
Even the King as powerful as Ravana, who had Mandodari as queen,
Had all his ten heads severed and his great Lanka ravaged!
Let us not mind the happiness and the grief that come our way!
Even a person so righteous as Harishchandra,
Who had Taralochana as his queen,
Had to bear immense agony and serve in a menial caste!
Let us not mind the happiness and the grief that come our way!
Even an ascetic as great as Shiva, who had Parvati for his wife,
Was deceived by a bhil woman and had his austerities disturbed
!Let us not mind the happiness and the grief that comes our way!
When all the gods are in distress,
They remember antaryami, the lord of their hearts,
And indeed are rescued by the Sarangdhar, the bearer of the mighty Saranga bow, the Narsaiyya's Lord!
Let us not mind the happiness and the grief that come our way!
poem by Narsinh Mehta
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I Live, I Die, I Burn, I Drown
I live, I die, I burn, I drown
I endure at once chill and cold
Life is at once too soft and too hard
I have sore troubles mingled with joys
Suddenly I laugh and at the same time cry
And in pleasure many a grief endure
My happiness wanes and yet it lasts unchanged
All at once I dry up and grow green
Thus I suffer love's inconstancies
And when I think the pain is most intense
Without thinking, it is gone again.
Then when I feel my joys certain
And my hour of greatest delight arrived
I find my pain beginning all over once again.
poem by Louise Labe
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I Live, I Die, I Burn, I Drown
I live, I die, I burn, I drown
I endure at once chill and cold
Life is at once too soft and too hard
I have sore troubles mingled with joys
Suddenly I laugh and at the same time cry
And in pleasure many a grief endure
My happiness wanes and yet it lasts unchanged
All at once I dry up and grow green
Thus I suffer love's inconstancies
And when I think the pain is most intense
Without thinking, it is gone again.
Then when I feel my joys certain
And my hour of greatest delight arrived
I find my pain beginning all over once again.
poem by Delmira Agustini
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Coach Joe
Thirty years gone by
My senior year
Past many sunsets
Playing baseball
Coached
By an icon named Joe
His two hundreth win
Was hard to get
When it finally came
This game, Ill never forget
We started the year at eight and 0
His win total, at one ninety-nine
Lost eight straight
Then, we lost our minds
The celebration cake, got stale
Doing nothing right
Though we tried, with all our might
Depression, set in
Would he get that
Two hundreth win?
Hooray, It did finally arrive
Extra innings
A game for the ages
A tear in his eye
Again, this team was alive
'It's the little things'
He would say
That count in this game
On this field
In life, in every way
He called us knuckle heads
At times, he did yell
Was he joking or not?
Hell, we could'nt tell
My seven brothers
Were coached by this man
Giving all he had
To this small town clan
As long as I live
I 'll never forget
He called us by our last name
Knew everyone of us
Just the same
We will never, forget
Nor will we, ever regret
The discipline this man showed
Making men of boys'
Playing baseball
Learning heartaches and joys
poem by Matt Mondschein
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Wave Of Mutilation
Cease to resist, giving my goodbye
Drive my car into the ocean
Youll think Im dead, but I sail away
On a wave of mutilation
A wave
Wave
Ive kissed mermaids, rode the el nino
Walked the sand with the crustaceans
Could find my way to mariana
On a wave of mutilation,
Wave of mutilation
Wave of mutilation
Wave
Wave of mutilation
Wave
song performed by by Pixies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Burn
The sky is red, I don't understand,
past midnight I still see the land
People are sayin' the woman is damned,
she makes you burn with a wave of her hand.
The city's a blaze, the town's on fire.
The woman's flames are reaching higher.
We were fools, we called her liar.
All I hear is - "Burn!"
I didn't believe she was devil's sperm.
She said, "Curse you all, you'll never learn!
When I leave there's no return."
The people laughed till she said, "Burn!"
Warning came, no one cared.
Earth was shakin', we stood and stared.
When it came no one was spared.
Still I hear - "Burn!"
You know we had no time,
we could not even try.
You know we had no time.
You know we had no time,
we could not even try.
You know we had no time.
The sky is red, I don't understand,
past midnight I still see the land.
People are sayin' the woman is damned,
she makes you burn with a wave of her hand.
Warning came, no one cared.
Earth was shakin, we stood and stared.
When it came no one was spared.
Still I hear - "Burn!
song performed by by Whitesnake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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New Year 2001...Ironic!
Two thousand years ago a child was born
Now two thousand years from then, centuries have been torn
By wars and hate and lusts of men refusing to be filled
Now two thousand years have been beaten and been killed
This new millennia can heal wounds of the past
Only if man looks back and stands aghast
At blood that has flowed from his fellow man
At sick and poor and the sorrow they withstand
Only then can the spirit of a child born long ago
Save the world from hate and help us to know
That through love there is a future free and clear
Let us not repeat the past in this bright new year!
poem by Gregory Huyette
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Burn
The sky is red, I dont understand,
Past midnight I still see the land.
People are sayin the woman is damned,
She makes you burn with a wave of her hand.
The citys a blaze, the towns on fire.
The womans flames are reaching higher.
We were fools, we called her liar.
All I hear is burn!
I didnt believe she was devils sperm.
She said, curse you all, youll never learn!
When I leave theres no return.
The people laughed till she said, burn!
Warning came, no one cared.
Earth was shakin, we stood and stared.
When it came no one was spared.
Still I hear burn!
You know we had no time,
We could not even try.
You know we had no time.
You know we had no time,
We could not even try.
You know we had no time.
The sky is red, I dont understand,
Past midnight I still see the land.
People are sayin the woman is damned,
She makes you burn with a wave of her hand.
Warning came, no one cared.
Earth was shakin, we stood and stared.
When it came no one was spared.
Still I hear burn!
- ritchie blackmore, david coverdale, jon lord & ian paice
song performed by by Deep Purple
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Now Im Nothing
I smashed myself to pieces
I am gonna f**k myself up
Im sifting through the ashes
Oh what I have become
I gave myself away now Im nothing
I let it slip away now Im nothing
All that I can do is break myself in two
I f**ked it all away now Im nothing
Wave wave wave wave goodbye
Wave wave wave wave goodbye
Written and performed by: trent reznor
song performed by by Nine Inch Nails
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Parting
A man is standing in the hall
His house not recognizing.
Her sudden leaving was a flight,
Herself, maybe, surprising.
The chaos reigning in the room
He does not try to master.
His tears and headache hide in gloom
The extent of his disaster.
His ears are ringing all day long
As though he has been drinking.
And why is it that all the time
Of waves he keeps on thinking?
When frosty window-panes blank out
The world of light and motion,
Despair and grief are doubly like
The desert of the ocean.
She was as dear to him, as close
In all her ways and features,
As is the seashore to the wave,
The ocean to the beaches.
As over rushes, after storm
The swell of water surges,
Into the deepness of his soul
Her memory submerges.
In years of strife, in times which were
Unthinkable to live in,
Upon a wave of destiny
To him she had been driven,
Through countless obstacles, and past
All dangers never-ended,
The wave had carried, carried her,
Till close to him she'd landed.
And now, so suddenly, she'd left.
What power overrode them?
The parting will destroy them both,
The grief bone-deep corrode them.
He looks around him. On the floor
In frantic haste she'd scattered
The contents of the cupboard, scraps
Of stuff, her sewing patterns.
He wanders through deserted rooms
And tidies up for hours;
Till darkness falls he folds away
Her things into the drawers;
And pricks his finger on a pin
In her unfinished sewing,
And sees the whole of her again,
And silent tears come flowing.
poem by Boris Pasternak
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An Ode, Written October, 1819, Before The Spaniards Had Recovered Their Liberty
Arise, arise, arise!
There is blood on the earth that denies ye bread;
Be your wounds like eyes
To weep for the dead, the dead, the dead.
What other grief were it just to pay?
Your sons, your wives, your brethren, were they;
Who said they were slain on the battle day?
Awaken, awaken, awaken!
The slave and the tyrant are twin-born foes;
Be the cold chains shaken
To the dust where your kindred repose, repose:
Their bones in the grave will start and move,
When they hear the voices of those they love,
Most loud in the holy combat above.
Wave, wave high the banner!
When Freedom is riding to conquest by:
Though the slaves that fan her
Be Famine and Toil, giving sigh for sigh.
And ye who attend her imperial car,
Lift not your hands in the banded war,
But in her defence whose children ye are.
Glory, glory, glory,
To those who have greatly suffered and done!
Never name in story
Was greater than that which ye shall have won.
Conquerors have conquered their foes alone,
Whose revenge, pride, and power they have overthrown
Ride ye, more victorious, over your own.
Bind, bind every brow
With crownals of violet, ivy, and pine:
Hide the blood-stains now
With hues which sweet Nature has made divine:
Green strength, azure hope, and eternity:
But let not the pansy among them be;
Ye were injured, and that means memory.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Italian Girl's Hymn To The Virgin
In the deep hour of dreams,
Through the dark woods, and past the moaning sea,
And by the star-light gleams,
Mother of sorrows! lo, I come to thee!
Unto thy shrine I bear
Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart, to lie
All, all unfolded there,
Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye.
For thou, that once didst move,
In thy still beauty, through an early home,
Thou knowest the grief, the love,
The fear of woman's soul; - to thee I come!
Many, and sad, and deep,
Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast;
Thou, too, couldst watch and weep -
Hear, gentlest mother! hear a heart oppressed!
There is a wandering bark
Bearing one from me o'er the restless wave:
Oh! let thy soft eye mark
His course; - be with him, holiest, guide and save!
My soul is on that way;
My thoughts are travellers o'er the waters dim;
Through the long weary day
I walk, o'ershadowed by vain dreams of him.
Aid him - and me, too, aid!
Oh! 'tis not well, this earthly love's excess!
On thy weak child is laid
The burden of too deep a tenderness.
Too much o'er
him
is poured
My being's hope - scarce leaving Heaven a part;
Too faithfully adored,
Oh! make not him the chastener of my heart!
I tremble with a sense
Of grief to be; - I hear a warming low
Sweet mother! call me hence!
This wild idolatry must end in woe.
The troubled joy of life,
Love's lightning happiness, my soul hath known
And, worn with feverish strife,
Would fold its wings; take back, take back thine own.
Hark! how the wind swept by!
The tempest's voice comes rolling o'er the wave -
Hope of the sailor's eye,
And maiden's heart, blest mother, guide and save!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Do not DELETE this or ABORT
an original from Don Allan Dinio
Every time a child is conceived,
a new life just blooms. It's God's gift!
Every time a baby is born,
another cycle of life just began. Angelic!
The very first time the baby cries,
a miracle just happened. Majestic!
The mystery in this child's life just started.
That is just wonderful!
I know you say that it is your choice but
don't forget it's the baby's ~ right to live!
Please do not DELETE this off your mind.
You got to think hard to do or not to do it.
The pressure is on you. Your life.
It is your pride versus the baby's right.
You got to ponder how in the world can you
afford to raise this child? Will you
sacrifice your future and the rest of your
life for the terrible quick mistake you made?
What kind of life would this child have?
The child is there...let him live!
The child could be a genius, a scientist,
the next president or an astrounaut.
That is just wishful thinking!
But does that really matter?
Remember, this child is your flesh and blood.
It is part of you!
Who knows this child might even save your life and many more.
Please do not ABORT!
Fifteen years from now the child will be a teenager.
Later on will be a young adult and shape his own life.
This child will be part of your joys and happiness,
fears and tears, more worries and some and more.
What child would he be? - so you may ask.
You begin to worry and it can get scary.
Life's influences on this child are so varied and many.
The friends and acquaintances the child may befriend
have tremendous effect of what he will become.
His toys, his hobbies, and his peers,
you, and the family and life as a whole
will be part of this child's personality.
This child will be fine, don't worry!
Let this one live.
Please do not DELETE this off your mind.
Thirty years or so from now this child will be a fully grown person.
This child will have a personality of his own.
This child might or could have accomplished something
really great that you can be proud of.
This child might or could done something terrible too
and you would have said and say to yourself...
'If only I knew! '
But don't take it as your fault. He is what he will become!
No one knows the future.
You should be proud you gave this child...
a choice to live instead ~
You did not ABORT!
Twenty some years ago, there was this young lady
who got pregnant and was left on her own
by someone she thought loves her and
will marry her and will live happily ever after. Huh?
DELETE that!
She thought long and hard what to do
with her pregnancy...the baby!
She was worried to death of her future,
her pride, the baby's future...just like you.
It was a tough decision, a life and death choice
to make and the baby's right to live.
This lady made the right choice -
she gave birth to her baby...a lovely beautiful baby
and turned out to be a fine lady,
a good daughter ~ You!
Please return the favor, do not ABORT!
poem by Don Allan Dinio
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Untitled 1
I gladly would sing in a joyous strain,
But my heart of its joy is bereft;
For my young life there is nought but grief and pain,
And a haunting memory left.
Look at the stars how they gleam from the skies
On me with a frosty stare;
Can it be that this world hath no pitying eyes
For the houseless child of care?
Ye that look on me have homes tonight,
And loving ones wait you there;
And the cheerful fire is burning bright,
And young faces are beaming fair.
Though a thousand homes are around I know
'Mong them all there is no home for me:
For I must sleep in the cold white snow,
And the skies must my shelter be.
My life is still in its summer years,
But its flowers can bloom no more;
I weep - and mine are the bitter tears
That are wept for the joys of yore.
Then I cannot be glad, for my heart will cling
To the grief that is all its own:
So wonder not that I only sing
A song with a mournful tone.
poem by Owen Suffolk
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The Colors Of The Life
We are not the same as we were at past
The years took away our happiness
We cant return back those innocent children with their wide smiles
There is nothing to do those years have gone
Like you've said my friend we cant change the destiny
We have to live in peace with ous destinies
The years took away our happiness
The purple dreams of us, faded away at once
We were like two strangers but some how we have met again
What could be the reason! It's just the destinies game
Both of us lonely, both of us painful
But we were strong enough to face the sharp storms of life
Dough we are trying to hide the tears of our hearts
But the life was unfair for the both of us
But never mind my friend I still have the faith
That we will find again the colors of the life.
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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Moonfleet Beach
Moonfleet Beach is a terror of the sea
and most deadly when a southwestern gale
wakes the anger of the wave from its own easy sleep
and I'm the only man who's made it out alive to tell the tale
I was an orphan boy
of 15 years old
when Elsevere took me to his home
I still wonder if he knew
as he kept me from the cold
that later saving my life
he would forfeit his own
when the people of Moonfleet are safe in their beds
they hear the sounds of a struggle against the sea
for the rhythm of the wave is steady in their heads
they thank god they're not fighting for their lives
on Moonfleet Beach
Elsevere was like a good father to me
we got closer and closer each day
but soon time struck cold
and we had nothing for our bread and meat
so we left our home, condemned our home
and find ourselves a way
with nowhere else to turn we joined with a contraband
and listened on the deck with the crew
to the captain as he said "we'll need every last man
to do their best, now raise the sails we have a dangerous job to do"
we had a smooth trip there
oh lord and it left the peer
but Elsevere lay heavy on the rail
he said "son look yonder there!
our doom is surely near
can't ya feel it hear it blow a strong southwestern gale"
we were blown to the dreaded beach
a rope of strong within our reach
from the people that had gathered from the town
Elsevere grabbed it in his hand
and started making for the land
but he looked and saw that I was almost drowned
he left the rope to rescue me
they pulled me out of the dreadful sea
I looked for Elsevere but he couldn't be found
when the storms blow hard
i lie awake at night
and think about the one father ive known
he saved my soul by giving up his life
just like him who died to give us soul eternal hope
when the people of Moonfleet are safe in their beds
they hear the sounds of a struggle against the sea
for the rhythm of the wave is steady in their heads
they thank god they're not fighting for their lives
on Moonfleet Beach
song performed by by Nickel Creek
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Lie Goodbye
When thou wave to me and say Goodbye
Thou wave in me thy sweet memory
And each day I awake, thou say Hi
With each day, I think with ecstasy…
In my heart thou wilt never cease
and there thou be, my happiness and peace
so when thou wave and say Goodbye
thou wave thy soul in me that shall never die
do not fear the words Goodbye
they art words which always lie
for there is no goodbye as long we live
those memories we keep and always give…
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Black History Month
In January...
There they are making history.
In February...
There they are making history.
In March...
There they are making history.
In April...
There they are making history.
In May...
There they are making history.
In June...
There they are making history.
In July...
There they are making history.
In August...
There they are making history.
In September...
There they are making history.
In October...
There they are making history.
In November...
There they are making history.
In December...
There they are making history.
But...
It's nice to know
The shortest month of the year
Was chosen to celebrate
The great deeds of African-Americans!
However...
It is those LEAP YEARS,
That really have the blacks jumping for joy!
Note: 'Black History Month' along with other
works of interest can be found in...
*'MindPrints from Untouched Places-VOL I'*
~Now available online at a PC near you~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Stained Soul-mates
Two love birds sitting in their new home
Reminiscing their life as Mr. and Mrs.
Their rings shine with colorful ink:
Happiness, love, and grief
Happiness is a deep red.... as if blood
Love is a light pink like spring flowers
Grief is a horrible dark green...... as if toxins
All of these colors stain them together
Stained soul-mates
poem by Tiffany Fawcett
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Villanelle on a Proverb
The heart once broken is a heart no more.
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
The proverb says that time confers relief,
heals a crimson gash or knits whole a bone
and years unlock a knuckled fist of grief
that clenches emptiness in disbelief
to keep one's wits from being overthrown,
while time, the proverb says, confers relief
from cleaving wounds, paradoxical thief,
that also tears apart fused hearts grown
beyond the lock of knuckled-fisted grief
half-hearts collapsed empty in unbelief
at finalities beneath lids of stone,
while time, proverbially, confers relief
by bleaching wounds to scars—its chief
repair—but cannot heal a heart left alone
although the years unlock the fist of grief,
proclaiming the proverbial motif
that all wounds heal, time cannot atone
for vacancy. The proverb lies. Relief
unlocks a fist, but not the archived grief.
poem by William F Dougherty
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