Old Treasury
I walked with a white hair grass,
wearing a classic fashioned glass,
and torment with humor aged hats.
He is bulky old brass,
painted and unpaved task,
but his memory is sharp more
than a fellow young craps.
How i wish my life will be like him
as he was. But thank God - being
his good troublesome, he made a
lovely incident letter that last.
poem by Immanuel Santos
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Related quotes
Brothels Freshly Painted
Pins like needles used,
Will stick and prick.
As they sit in hats
Worn by witches
To keep them holding on...
To hair bouffanted and thick!
Used they were to keep men in line.
In those times when sex...
Was not considered done
To get another one sick,
Of it!
And when men had 'itches'
Approached women wearing hats.
They made sure they had manners.
Wishing to get their pricks exclusively...
Inside.
With or without hats.
That's how it was done...
In brothels freshly painted!
Not tainted like the trash today,
Found anytime on Hollywood and Vine!
And...
After passing up renovated garbage,
On 42nd and 8th Avenue!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hats Off to the Woman, Who…
Hats off to the woman, who bears children
With labor-pains, completing family;
Hats off to the woman, who rears the young,
Making her babies suckle at her breasts;
Hats off to the woman, who tends to both
Husband, children, others with care and love;
Hats off to the woman, who does all things
For others’ sake, selflessly all her life;
Hats off to the woman, who keeps the home,
And raises her children in forbearance;
Hats off to the woman, who labors hard
And burns the midnight-oil for family;
Hats off to the woman, who contributes
Fiscally by working in a work-place;
Hats off to the woman, who patiently
Toils, to keep the harmony of her home;
Hats of to the woman, who can also
Extend tender, loving care to old-aged;
Hats off to the woman, who has God first
In life, and sacrifices for the rest;
Hats off to the woman, who can smile
To all, despite her grief, anguish and strife in heart;
Hats off to the woman, who turns the home
A virtual Paradise on earth all life;
Hats off to the woman, who loves to slog,
And toils to raise her family with love;
Hats off to the woman, who’s an angel
To all, by being a good example.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 3-21-2008
poem by John Celes
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Wearing White
Phones were ringing, tongues were wagging
Hot gossip was flying
All around town
She heard the talk, the lowdown was
The shameless color of
Her wedding gown
It's white
I mean really who's she trying to kid
Everybody knows the things she did
It just isn't right
Won't that be a sight
To see her wearing white
She was wild, a wayward child
To put it mildly
She made her life a mess
But she was young, the past is done
Now she's in love
And putting on a new dress
It's white
And it's nobody's business what she wears
Anyway the truth is she don't care
Baby it's her life
She'll do what she likes
And she likes wearing white
He's all nerves when he sees her
As far as he's concerned
She's an angel
In white
He just can't believe that she is his
What a crazy miracle this is
Who she was he don't mind
'Cause on their wedding night
She'll be wearing white
She'll be wearing white
She'll be wearing white
song performed by by Martina Mcbride
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Forever Saying Goodbye
we are forever saying goodbye
goodbye, goodbye, goodbye let me repeat
the child who has grown into a young man
would remain a fond memory, like how we remember
a childhood friend who was always at our side
the young man who has matured into the middle aged
will remember him as someone who have looked
for so many things in thirty years only to get
only some things; a trail of disappointments to
spice up his memory as he bade the young man goodbye
the middle aged suddenly discovers that he
is not as young anymore, his eyes, his legs,
his hair, his stamina have all started to nag to him
that they are not as before, taking duties
promptly and without shortcoming; they have
all taken a turn for the the middle aged
who will soon teach his children happiness is the
best medicine of all and that life should be
focussed on finding that without hurting anyone
the octogenarian takes over the the steps
of the middled age and they have slowed
so much sometimes he cannot even do it
without the help of someone or a stick
the octogenarian who will tell us that a life
of charity is better than one lived alone;
an all important lesson from the silver haired who will
soon bid goodbye to himself, the world and us all
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Do Lack Nothing
Asian classic,
African classic,
American classic,
Canadian classic,
European classic,
Austratian classic,
Like life at the 'four blocks of hell' to share my mind with you.
Vancouver,
The State of Glass;
Of a three-hundred-year-old tree to share my mind with you.
By faith, Abel offered more excellent sacrifice than Cain;
But i will renew my covenant with you my love.
Vancouver! !
Don't throw stones if you are living in a glass house;
Like the voice of the malak gadol,
Walk honestly to all and do lack nothing.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Black And White
He painted a picture all white and black
because in his life all color did he lack.
He lacked the yellow of the sun each day
for the sun had never come his way.
He lacked the green of fresh green grass
for the cement of the city he couldn't get past.
He lacked the blue of the sky above
for no one had ever shown him love.
He lacked the red that the rose did give
for no roses grew where he did live.
He lacked all color from his sight.
All he knew was black and white.
The picture he painted could never tell
of how his life became a living hell.
He'd lost his sight when he was three
and the colors were a lost memory.
His sole memory was of dark and light,
night being dark, day being white.
And now he created art to define
everything that was in his mind.
But beauty came from the paint he used.
The black and white became infused
with the extracted senses of who he was,
a man filled with passion for what he does.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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White And Black
He painted a picture all white and black
because in his life all color did he lack.
He lacked the yellow of the sun each day
for the sun had never come his way.
He lacked the green of fresh green grass
for the cement of the city he couldn't get past.
He lacked the blue of the sky above
for no one had ever showed him love.
He lacked the red that the rose did give
for no roses grew where he did live.
He lacked all color from his sight.
All he knew was black and white.
The picture he painted could never tell
of how his life was a living hell.
He'd lost his sight when he was three
and the colors were a lost memory.
His sole memory was of dark and light,
night being dark, day being white.
And now he created art to define
everything that was in his mind.
But beauty came from the paint he used.
The black and white became infused
with the extracted senses of who he was,
a man filled with passion for what he does.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Young Fellow My Lad
"Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad,
On this glittering morn of May?"
"I'm going to join the Colours, Dad;
They're looking for men, they say."
"But you're only a boy, Young Fellow My Lad;
You aren't obliged to go."
"I'm seventeen and a quarter, Dad,
And ever so strong, you know."
* * * *
"So you're off to France, Young Fellow My Lad,
And you're looking so fit and bright."
"I'm terribly sorry to leave you, Dad,
But I feel that I'm doing right."
"God bless you and keep you, Young Fellow My Lad,
You're all of my life, you know."
"Don't worry. I'll soon be back, dear Dad,
And I'm awfully proud to go."
* * * *
"Why don't you write, Young Fellow My Lad?
I watch for the post each day;
And I miss you so, and I'm awfully sad,
And it's months since you went away.
And I've had the fire in the parlour lit,
And I'm keeping it burning bright
Till my boy comes home; and here I sit
Into the quiet night.
* * * *
"What is the matter, Young Fellow My Lad?
No letter again to-day.
Why did the postman look so sad,
And sigh as he turned away?
I hear them tell that we've gained new ground,
But a terrible price we've paid:
God grant, my boy, that you're safe and sound;
But oh I'm afraid, afraid."
* * * *
"They've told me the truth, Young Fellow My Lad:
You'll never come back again:
(Oh God! the dreams and the dreams I've had,
and the hopes I've nursed in vain!)
For you passed in the night, Young Fellow My Lad,
And you proved in the cruel test
Of the screaming shell and the battle hell
That my boy was one of the best.
"So you'll live, you'll live, Young Fellow My Lad,
In the gleam of the evening star,
In the wood-note wild and the laugh of the child,
In all sweet things that are.
And you'll never die, my wonderful boy,
While life is noble and true;
For all our beauty and hope and joy
We will owe to our lads like you."
poem by Robert William Service
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When you walked in my life...
When you walked in my life
You wiped my tears
When you walked in my life
You built my heart strong
When you walked in my life
You made my life precious
When you walked in my life
You taught me meaning of love
When you walked in my life
You showed me many things
When you walked in my life
You made my love grow for you
When you walked in my life
You told me how much I mean to you
When you walked in my life
You made your caring soul inside me
When you walked in my life
You gave me memories to cherish forever
And I will there for you till my eyes close dear
poem by Ravi Sathasivam
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Three Lazy Bulky Women
Three lazy bulky women,
Sleeping on a bed,
What a loud snore they have,
Almost busted my ear drums,
If you see them watching TV,
Or you know how they eat,
They have such untidy manners,
You’ll feel to vomit in that scene,
Three lazy bulky women,
How disgusting they are,
Don’t comb their hair,
Or brush their teeth,
Just walk around the way they are,
Three lazy bulky women,
Don’t go too near them,
For you r going to get a disease,
That is lazy-yendriya.
poem by Meriam Joseph
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One Princess to Another
Sleeping Beauty stroked
Her blonde hair
And sighed and
Longed for the woods
Snow White stared
At her reflection
And watched as
Her face aged and her life faded
Cinderella pulled at
Her long dress
And looked at
The glass shoes of enslavement
And then Cinderella
Found Sleeping Beauty
And asked:
“Did we ever have a choice? ”
Sleeping Beauty went
To Snow White
And told her:
“I hate my life.”
Then they went
Home to the princes
Who owned them
Because they were the first to kiss them
Cinderella broke her glass slippers
And ran away from the prince
With a nice teacher from the village
Leaving behind a note and glass slippers
Sleeping Beauty
Bore her prince a son
Before she turned to the woods
And never came out again
Snow White took
A poison apple from the
Wicked Witch’s dungeon and bit down into it
And died this time
poem by Elizabeth Rebel
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My Memories Shall Bury Me
Tremendous distress slashes through my mortifying memories,
Classic epitaphs creeping into my dreams; scattering when I wake.
People with their snarling humor, viciously reporting my hysterics to one another.
Afraid of the thunder, but my troublesome dignity won’t let me scream.
I shall be buried electrically with the thunder, which is frighteningly vigorous in its pursuit of me.
Pace your vicious reports of my ingenious burial.
poem by Airohng Liebe
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The Eyes of Age
I’m looking through the eyes of an aged man
who has lived his life the best he can.
I’ve made countless mistakes before arriving here,
suffered broken hearts and shed many a tear.
And now I see young men doing exactly the same,
making similar mistakes and suffering pain.
If only they would ask, I could save so much grief,
but their silly pride is beyond belief.
Most young people see me as a burned out old man;
but I can see as a youngster can.
I look at middle aged men and consider myself the same,
but I forget about my looks, my shape, and ageing pain.
When I see a young lady, who takes the time to smile at me,
I straighten my back, breathe in, and smile anxiously,
but then I realise I’m not a young man, so dream on old fool,
she’s only being polite and you’re beginning to drool.
Some days I’m full of energy and think I could sprint for a mile,
but after a ten paces I have to rest and catch my breath for a while.
When you become old it’s a fact that your eyes and body don’t unite,
and your memory and mind are held up by the brains delay to ignite.
I’m not ready for aging and I don’t want to get used to being old,
okay, so I’ve had a new hip, a new knee, and I’m slightly bald,
maybe I am a bit deaf, and my eyesight isn’t what it should be,
oh yes, I almost forgot - I have a lousy memory.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Summer Song
THERE are white moon daisies in the mist of the meadow
Where the flowered grass scatters its seeds like spray,
There are purple orchis by the wood-ways' shadow,
There are pale dog-roses by the white highway;
And the grass, the grass is tall, the grass is up for hay,
With daisies white like silver and buttercups like gold,
And it's oh! for once to play thro' the long, the lovely day,
To laugh before the year grows old!
There is silver moonlight on the breast of the river
Where the willows tremble to the kiss of night,
Where the nine tall aspens in the meadow shiver,
Shiver in the night wind that turns them white.
And the lamps, the lamps are lit, the lamps are glow-worms light,
Between the silver aspens and the west's last gold.
And it's oh! to drink delight in the lovely lonely night,
To be young before the heart grows old!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Have hues a role?
Grass lends beauty to ‘green’;
Tooth lends beauty to ‘white’;
Sky lends beauty to ‘blue’.
So do lips to ‘red’.
Red lips excel red blood;
Brown horse excel brown ass;
Yellow gold excels yellow brass.
So does black hair, black skin.
Black hair yields to white hair;
Green meadow yields to gray one.
Brown curls yield to fallen leaves
So does tender skin to one wrinkled.
The stuff rules; the merit rules;
The young rules. Have hues a role?
13.03.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Good Old Days
Oh some times I think back to when I was younger
Life was so much simpler then
Dad would be up at dawn
Hed be watering the lawn
Or maybe going fishing again
Oh and mom would be fixing up something in the kitchen
Fresh biscuits or hot apple pie
And Id spend all day long in the basement
Torturing rats with a hack-saw
And pulling the wings off of flies
Those were the good old days
Those were the good old days
The years go by but the memory stays
And those were the good old days
I can still remember good old mr. fender
Who ran the corner grocery store
Oh, hed strolled down the aisle with a big friendly smile
And hed say howdy when you walked in the door
Always treated me nice, gave me kindly advice
I dont know why I set fire to his place
Oh Ill never forget the day I bashed in his head
Well you shouldve seen the look on his face
Let me tell ya now
Those were the good old days
Those were the good old days
The years go by but the memory stays
And those were the good old days
Do you remember sweet michelle
She was my high school romance
She was fun to talk to and nice to smell
So I took her to the homecoming dance
Then I tied her to a chair and I shaved off all her hair
And I left her in the desert all alone
Well sometimes in my dreams
I can still hear the screams
Oh I wonder if she ever made it home
I tell ya
Those were the good old days
Those were the good old days
The years go by but the memory stays
And those were the good old days
Let me tell ya buddy
Those were the good old days
Those were the good old days
The years go by but the memory stays
And those were the good old days
song performed by by Weird Al Yankovic
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Judith and a Wedding Day
You and Judith
sang in the choir
at the major's
daughter's wedding
and after
you walked along
to the house and gardens
where the reception
was being held
where there were marquees
for food of various kinds
and a huge beer tent
where there was champagne
and beer and wine
and soft drinks and lemonade
and she said
I will never have
a wedding like this
and she glanced around
at the marquees
and the people
in their fine clothes
and large hats
and waitresses walking
with trays of drink
maybe not
you said
taking two glasses
of champagne
from the tray
of a passing waitress
not with the money
my dad gets
from farm work
she added
taking the glass
you offered her
and sipping
and you watched her lips
and how they worked
the crystal glass
and her fingers
holding the stem
as if it were a gold gem
worth more
than her father earned
in a lifetime
but I can always pretend
she said
and placed her arm
under yours
and walked you forward
over the grass
we can always pretend
it's our wedding day
and these are our guests
and over the way
in the entrance
of one of the marquees
Hill stood with his
schoolgirl girlfriend Shirley
both supping the bubbly
him in his Sunday best
and she in a pink
and white dress
and her blonde hair
and stockings
and white shoes
and you said
would we invite Hill
and his girlfriend
or Tidy and his thick
caterpillar eyebrows?
she looked over at Hill
and pretty Shirley
and said
we have to be generous
when in love
and it's our wedding day
and she lay her head
on your shoulder
and you watched
the bride and groom
over by the main marquee
kissing and embracing
and the people
around them
were cheering
and as you both
moved on
she said
where shall we go
for our honeymoon?
the south of France
you said
somewhere warm
and glancing at the sky
it carried a promise
of a coming storm.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Former Rose Of Casterton
From Casterton in Victoria she lives far away
With hair dyes and hair tints does she hide her gray?
With shoulder length dark hair and lovely eyes of brown
She was a former Rose of Casterton Town.
In her prime she was one lovely to behold
But now in her late fifties she is getting old
Did she marry, mother children or lead a single life
For some lucky fellow she would have been a beautiful wife.
The wanderlust in her and when she was nineteen
She left and in Casterton was never more seen
The Rose of Glenelg and Casterton's Pride
She was missed from the Town in the brown countryside.
With anti ageing creams and hair dyes does she cloak time's decay
For she surely has known a far better day
Good memories of her with those who knew her to this day remain
Though in Casterton she never may be seen again.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Singapore Border Blues
I came by bus in a swirl of dust in the summer of seventy two.
I was young, I was poor, I hoped to score but I really hadn't a clue.
The seats were hard; I was on my guard when we bolted from the bus.
The border was there, but I had long hair so they readied to hassle us.
They were men in blue, a few women too, taking our arrival card.
They saw my face, they knew their place, they were going to make it hard.
"You have an air; you have long hair so you must observe our laws"
So Kate my friend did a bend and pulled out her best scissors.
She got to work, without a jerk and as quick as a Christmas sale,
She snip here, she snip there until my scalp was bare and pale.
His face turned sour, this was not my hour and he gave me back my case,
"You littered the floor, there's the door, you're not welcomed at this place."
So I left my hair and without much care, I turned and went on with our trip.
My head was bald but I wasn't cold and we eventually caught a ship.
It's been many a year, and Kate's gone from here since that incident.
I have a wife, I have a life and I have been quite content.
I travelled wide, gone with the tide and corners of the world I saw.
I made it a rule, it was even cool, to make sure to avoid Singapore.
Until one day, it would be fair to say, that the city needed my skills,
Return this way, there's plenty of pay, enough to cover my bills.
The flight was easy, I was never queasy, so I walked into the arrival hall:
Airport was clean, like a big machine, but the impression: good overall.
The men were in blue, a woman there too, who took the pass from my hand,
She gave a smile to greet, offered a sweet and welcomed me to this land.
For a small fee, I took the M.R.T., and the ad. there made me stare
Phone Beijing 101*, to have this done: Singapore will re-grow my hair.
In memory of
Kate Langley
1953 - 2006
*Beijing 101 have hair restoration clinics in Singapore
September Grass
Well, the suns not so hot in the sky today
And you know I can see summertime slipping on away
A few more geese are gone, a few more leaves turning red
But the grass is as soft as a feather in a featherbed
So Ill be king and youll be queen
Our kingdoms gonna be this little patch of green
Wont you lie down here right now
In this september grass
Wont you lie down with me now
September grass
Oh the memory is like the sweetest pain
Yeah, I kissed the girl at a football game
I can still smell the sweat and the grass stains
We walked home together. I was never the same.
But that was a long time ago
And where is she now? I dont know
Wont you lie down here right now
In this september grass
Wont you lie down with me now
September grass
Oh, september grass is the sweetest kind
It goes down easy like apple wine
Hope you dont mind if I pour you some
Made that much sweeter by the winter to come
Do you see those ants dancing on a blade of grass?
Do you know what I know? thats you and me, baby
Were so small and the worlds so vast
We found each other down in the grass
Wont you lie down with me right here
September grass
Wont you lie down with me now
In this september grass
Lie down
Lie down
Lie down
Lie down
(repeat)
Wont you lie down here right now
In this september grass
Wont you lie down here now
In this september grass
song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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