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Shared sorrow is half sorrow.

Danish proverbs
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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

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Warchild ('78 Demo)

Warchild, your heart is broken
Your mind is breakin', it's such a shame
Warchild, your body's broken
Your woman's taken, it's not a game
People once shared your wisdom
Shared your memory, shared your dreams
Now your thoughts have all been shattered
What once was rhythm are now just screams
Warchild, I used to love you
The whole world loved you, we used to care
Warchild, your mind has been emptied
So all you do now is just sit n' stare
People once shared your wisdom
Shared your memory, shared your dreams
Now your thoughts have all been shattered
What once was rhythm are now just screams
Your lady's waiting, she's hesitating
Not knowing why
Warchild, the pain you're showing
The pain is knowing that you're gonna die
People once shared your wisdom
Shared your memory, shared your dreams
Now your thoughts have all been shattered
What once was rhythm are now just screams

song performed by Def Leppard
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Three Women

My love is young, so young;
Young is her cheek, and her throat,
And life is a song to be sung
With love the word for each note.

Young is her cheek and her throat;
Her eyes have the smile o' May.
And love is the word for each note
In the song of my life to-day.

Her eyes have the smile o' May;
Her heart is the heart of a dove,
And the song of my life to-day
Is love, beautiful love.

Her heart is the heart of a dove,
Ah, would it but fly to my breast
Where love, beautiful love,
Has made it a downy nest.

Ah, would she but fly to my breast,
My love who is young, so young;
I have made her a downy nest
And life is a song to be sung.

1
I.
A dull little station, a man with the eye
Of a dreamer; a bevy of girls moving by;
A swift moving train and a hot Summer sun,
The curtain goes up, and our play is begun.
The drama of passion, of sorrow, of strife,
Which always is billed for the theatre Life.
It runs on forever, from year unto year,
With scarcely a change when new actors appear.
It is old as the world is-far older in truth,
For the world is a crude little planet of youth.
And back in the eras before it was formed,
The passions of hearts through the Universe stormed.

Maurice Somerville passed the cluster of girls
Who twisted their ribbons and fluttered their curls
In vain to attract him; his mind it was plain
Was wholly intent on the incoming train.
That great one eyed monster puffed out its black breath,
Shrieked, snorted and hissed, like a thing bent on death,

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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Sorrow Makes One A Hero Tomorrow

Without sorrow life is zero
We must accept fate's arrow
If our efforts are thorough
Our sorrow, God will borrow

Sorrows nicely shape our mind
Sorrows stop our being blind
Via sorrows, remedies we find
Sorrows are indirectly kind

In the absence of sorrow
Our mind does not grow
We think not like a hero
Our attitude is made narrow

Sorrows must be overcome
For which efforts we welcome
At last strong we become
This is sorrows' outcome

Our will-power, sorrows increase
To our heart, sorrows supply grease
Our talents, only sorrows release
In a gist, sorrows supply peace

Every sorrow at last dies
Not because of our cries
But because our soul tries
Life and success, sorrow ties

Sorrow less person is none
Sorrow is sure, if life has begun
'Sorrow trains brains' is a slogan
Sorrow is a tamable dragon

In sorrow, all must dip
By coming under its grip
All are lashed by sorrow's whip
To every life, sorrow makes a trip

Now sorrow will somehow vanish
But you cannot fully relinquish
Further sorrows, time will furnish
From life, sorrow, none can banish

Life and sorrow are closely associated
By life, sorrow is very much fascinated
By sorrow, peace is initially confiscated
Sorrow grows when life is sophisticated.

poem by Mailrangam Visvanathan Venkataraman
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OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII (Entire)

Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove;
Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
Thou madest Life in man and brute;
Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot
Is on the skull which thou hast made.

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
Thou madest man, he knows not why,
He thinks he was not made to die;
And thou hast made him: thou art just.

Thou seemest human and divine,
The highest, holiest manhood, thou:
Our wills are ours, we know not how;
Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

Our little systems have their day;
They have their day and cease to be:
They are but broken lights of thee,
And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

We have but faith: we cannot know;
For knowledge is of things we see;
And yet we trust it comes from thee,
A beam in darkness: let it grow.

Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But more of reverence in us dwell;
That mind and soul, according well,
May make one music as before,

But vaster. We are fools and slight;
We mock thee when we do not fear:
But help thy foolish ones to bear;
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.

Forgive what seem’d my sin in me;
What seem’d my worth since I began;
For merit lives from man to man,
And not from man, O Lord, to thee.

Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair.
I trust he lives in thee, and there
I find him worthier to be loved.

Forgive these wild and wandering cries,

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poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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The Same Mother

They each shared
the same mother
shared the same loss of her

when the time came
gave the same
last wave

when she was
driven off
to crematorium

and then grave
but each had
their own mother

whom they shared
with no other
one with whom

they shared
a particular time
or place

sitting quietly
face to face
sharing a secret

or confessing
a deed done
or just

the mother to child meeting
with just the two
at some given time

at some particular place
some given year
to share a problem

or tears or anxieties
or deeper fears
and knowing

she would listen
as only mother's can
or do

sharing the time and love
with each particular

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poem by Terry Collett
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At First Sight

Before false interferences twist mind,
distort perceptions caught, one ought to try
to focus clearly, spirit satisfy,
sharing impressions which should never die
while magic taps into soul’s spring to bind
one day’s events to sense. Here's underlined
empathy with which all identify,
walls fall, emotions' limitless supply.
One chance glance dance askance left half-truth, lie.

Replete with red rose, awed, decor refined,
two former strangers kismet met, good-bye
forever was forgotten as July
supplanted January on the sly.
Earth's seasons topsy-turvy turned as eye
encountered eye which rich dreams decked behind
blocks' veil to comfort karma pre-designed.
Charmed pair shared earth, air, water, fire, entwined,
rebirth freed from dearth's desert dusty, dry.
27 October 1990 revised1 7 June 1991 3 May 2005 and
0 January 2012 for previous version see below

Once in a lifetime favoured few may find
such inspiration words can’t even try
to pin down, predefine, or qualify,
limit, understate or question why,
scorn karma as coincidence or lie.
Yesterday, by more than chance, I dined
across from eyes whose energies unwind,
sensed shocks synaptic instantly defy
Time itself, felt souls electrify.

Here differences dissolved, fears undermined.
That first glance opened understanding. Blind
before ‘one’ must have been, with every tie
from gravity released, - no low, no high -
as everywhere twinned spirits teamed, naught awry.
Base substance shed, trite trammels left behind,
We walked on air, all purer felt, refined,
senses swam, consumed - hedged bets unwind -
completion's joy few mortals quantify.

The message all embraced and somehow signed
dimensions new whose rainbow hues deny
time and space, displace doubts, multiply
empathy, empowering wings to fly.
Magnified magnficence might find
its place in all, for all was redefined ~
impression that itself was heightened by
acceptance shared, that nothing could deny.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Share With Me

to verify and rework may 14 2009

0,18
Share with me, my dear, Care with me, my dear,
vision clear to trace future fair, where time and place flow fair
joy’s grace to share space, to replace motives base
sunrise, sunset serene. with garden green serene.

0,45
Sharing, giving, and forgiving, Sharing, choosing not refusing,
joining joy for living, - trusting, not accusing,
living me and you for you and me. living me and you for you and me.

1,03
Joy tender, long we’ll remember, - Joy tender, long we’ll remember, -
past and present, future seen past and present, future seen

1,15
as honeymoon happiness as contentment where pleasure
hand in hand advancing, none measure enhancing
eyes to bright eyes glancing. fun’s treasure, joy dancing.

1,30
This shared gift from me to you, This shared gift from me to you,
from you to me – felicity. from you to me – felicity.

1,45
Love in life rejoices, Love in life revoices,
life in love rejoices, life in love shared choices,
united in serenity. united in serenity.

1,57
This shared gift from me to you, This shared gift from me to you,
from you to me – felicity. from you to me – felicity.

2,04
Heart through heart charts tomorrow Friend in friend finds fulfilment
part in part, nor apart, ends unease, mends resentment,
nor in parts, torn to sorrow. energies frees, - contentment

Each through each is completed links two minds in true fusion
reach goals, teach to outreach lending love not illusion
each through each, undefeated. ending heartache, confusion.

2.42 Cupid’s dart need not borrow Heart in heart signal sent meant
surface art causing smart – silence melts, shared investment
quarrels start, hurtful stones throw. soul to soul in complement.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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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,

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Sorrow And My Nation

Nation is drowned in sorrow,
School, college, hospitals and office;
Cinema halls, all are lost in sorrow.
Wrinkles on the bed narrate the tale of sorrow,
Of newly wed.
Even the flowers of gajra are sad,
Spreading the stench of sorrow.

Sorrow here and sorrow there,
Sorrow every where,
Even the sorrow is dancing on
The dancing floor
And hugging sadness and sorrow.

Nation has decomposed due to sorrow,
By her own creations,
As the unending greed for quotas,
From the obnoxious citizens,
But all the cruel palms,
Giving, delivering only sorrow.

Sorrow! My bosom companion,
Filling the nook and corners,
In all one sick breathing,
I have seen and met only you.
In the calm nights, cool mornings;
In thunder, in rain and tempests;
Only has spread the shoots of dark,
No way seems to get rid off.

Nation is crying and crying,
Leaders erect crumbling sand houses,
Ground was covered with broken glasses,
Only, the dark and dark visible;
My nation, a failed land;
Of secular and social justice game.

Where people always beg with begging bowl,
Play cheating, looting, killing and raping;
Where nation is completely filled,
With the sigh boards of,
Sorrow and sorrow.

poem by Dr. Yogesh Sharma
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In Sorrow

In sorrow
She mourns her beloved son
What's next to follow
No one knows

In sorrow
He mourns his beloved daughter
What's next to follow
His heart is hollow

In sorrow
She mourns her beloved husband
What's next to follow
She is now a widow

In sorrow
He mourns his beloved wife
What's next to follow
His desire for life is renounced to zero

In sorrow
They mourn the passing of a dear friend
Someone they wished to be there tomorrow
It hurts without pretext, whatever sorrow sends

And we know and I know
Sorrow returns not the life's it borrows
Sorrow is a walking deadly shadow
Sorrow is the virus we dread tomorrow
Sorrow is the devils spell of lethal horrors

Therefore my dear fellows
In sorrow no more I mourn her sorrow
In sorrow
I have closed on her all my doors and windows

Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi

www.sylviachidi.co.uk

poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Some Things You Weep Over Forever

Some things you weep over forever.
Fathomless watersheds of infinite sorrow.
Others last as long as it takes the rain
to get a flower to bloom and perish,
with promises of good things to come.
Beauty cherishes a lock of wisdom.
Separation, departure, exile, severance, change,
since the womb, and a good chance earlier,
things coming apart like a mother giving birth
to the ghost of herself she gave up
to facilitate your coming forth upon the earth.
Here you are in the splendour of your mystic specificity.
And who knows how many lifetimes
had to be achieved and forgotten just as they were
so you could show up here so uniquely?
Point is. Goodbye's always half of the greeting
and sorrow uses the same hand to hang on to life
as it does to let go of it with.
Our entrance is a back-handed exit.
We celebrate the seance and mourn the exorcism
depending upon which way the wind
is blowing our mother's ghost in our face.

Out of sorrow was born compassion
as our eyes were born of the light
flirting with nerve cells, as the sky and the stars
adapted to our ocularity and soft-bodied animals
grew shells and thousands of scales like eyelids
and the Burgess shale became the communal gravestone
for millions, and all the new angels
were snow blind lab technicians in white coats
and the goddess who embodied life
in a ceremony of picture-music
became a particle and a Hox gene.

Do you see how it all transmorphs surrealistically
as it sings you to sleep in a dream of life
that fits the typography of your mindscape perfectly
like the skin of moonlight brushing up like a feather
against the skin of water, mutually realizing
the millions of waterbirds that arise
like oceanically enlightened emotions from them both?

I've heard the sea weep. The sky release the tears
that others pray for like rain. The earth groan in its agony.
I've sat at the bedside of dying friends
and said nothing the numbing silence
wanted to overhear whether it was wisdom or a prayer.
Here. Then it's There. Now it's Where?
We die into a mirror we can't look into.

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poem by Patrick White
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The Undying One- Canto III

'THERE is a sound the autumn wind doth make
Howling and moaning, listlessly and low:
Methinks that to a heart that ought to break
All the earth's voices seem to murmur so.
The visions that crost
Our path in light--
The things that we lost
In the dim dark night--
The faces for which we vainly yearn--
The voices whose tones will not return--
That low sad wailing breeze doth bring
Borne on its swift and rushing wing.
Have ye sat alone when that wind was loud,
And the moon shone dim from the wintry cloud?
When the fire was quench'd on your lonely hearth,
And the voices were still which spoke of mirth?

If such an evening, tho' but one,
It hath been yours to spend alone--
Never,--though years may roll along
Cheer'd by the merry dance and song;
Though you mark'd not that bleak wind's sound before,
When louder perchance it used to roar--
Never shall sound of that wintry gale
Be aught to you but a voice of wail!
So o'er the careless heart and eye
The storms of the world go sweeping by;
But oh! when once we have learn'd to weep,
Well doth sorrow his stern watch keep.
Let one of our airy joys decay--
Let one of our blossoms fade away--
And all the griefs that others share
Seem ours, as well as theirs, to bear:
And the sound of wail, like that rushing wind
Shall bring all our own deep woe to mind!

'I went through the world, but I paused not now
At the gladsome heart and the joyous brow:
I went through the world, and I stay'd to mark
Where the heart was sore, and the spirit dark:
And the grief of others, though sad to see,
Was fraught with a demon's joy to me!

'I saw the inconstant lover come to take
Farewell of her he loved in better days,
And, coldly careless, watch the heart-strings break--
Which beat so fondly at his words of praise.
She was a faded, painted, guilt-bow'd thing,
Seeking to mock the hues of early spring,
When misery and years had done their worst

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poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Beowulf

LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings
of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,
we have heard, and what honor the athelings won!
Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,
from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,
awing the earls. Since erst he lay
friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him:
for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve,
till before him the folk, both far and near,
who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate,
gave him gifts: a good king he!
To him an heir was afterward born,
a son in his halls, whom heaven sent
to favor the folk, feeling their woe
that erst they had lacked an earl for leader
so long a while; the Lord endowed him,
the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown.
Famed was this Beowulf: far flew the boast of him,
son of Scyld, in the Scandian lands.
So becomes it a youth to quit him well
with his father's friends, by fee and gift,
that to aid him, aged, in after days,
come warriors willing, should war draw nigh,
liegemen loyal: by lauded deeds
shall an earl have honor in every clan.
Forth he fared at the fated moment,
sturdy Scyld to the shelter of God.
Then they bore him over to ocean's billow,
loving clansmen, as late he charged them,
while wielded words the winsome Scyld,
the leader beloved who long had ruled….
In the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel,
ice-flecked, outbound, atheling's barge:
there laid they down their darling lord
on the breast of the boat, the breaker-of-rings,
by the mast the mighty one. Many a treasure
fetched from far was freighted with him.
No ship have I known so nobly dight
with weapons of war and weeds of battle,
with breastplate and blade: on his bosom lay
a heaped hoard that hence should go
far o'er the flood with him floating away.
No less these loaded the lordly gifts,
thanes' huge treasure, than those had done
who in former time forth had sent him
sole on the seas, a suckling child.
High o'er his head they hoist the standard,
a gold-wove banner; let billows take him,
gave him to ocean. Grave were their spirits,
mournful their mood. No man is able

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poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Endymion: Book IV

Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
O first-born on the mountains! by the hues
Of heaven on the spiritual air begot:
Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot,
While yet our England was a wolfish den;
Before our forests heard the talk of men;
Before the first of Druids was a child;--
Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild
Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude.
There came an eastern voice of solemn mood:--
Yet wast thou patient. Then sang forth the Nine,
Apollo's garland:--yet didst thou divine
Such home-bred glory, that they cry'd in vain,
"Come hither, Sister of the Island!" Plain
Spake fair Ausonia; and once more she spake
A higher summons:--still didst thou betake
Thee to thy native hopes. O thou hast won
A full accomplishment! The thing is done,
Which undone, these our latter days had risen
On barren souls. Great Muse, thou know'st what prison
Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and frets
Our spirit's wings: despondency besets
Our pillows; and the fresh to-morrow morn
Seems to give forth its light in very scorn
Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives.
Long have I said, how happy he who shrives
To thee! But then I thought on poets gone,
And could not pray:--nor can I now--so on
I move to the end in lowliness of heart.----

"Ah, woe is me! that I should fondly part
From my dear native land! Ah, foolish maid!
Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myriads bade
Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields!
To one so friendless the clear freshet yields
A bitter coolness, the ripe grape is sour:
Yet I would have, great gods! but one short hour
Of native air--let me but die at home."

Endymion to heaven's airy dome
Was offering up a hecatomb of vows,
When these words reach'd him. Whereupon he bows
His head through thorny-green entanglement
Of underwood, and to the sound is bent,
Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn.

"Is no one near to help me? No fair dawn
Of life from charitable voice? No sweet saying
To set my dull and sadden'd spirit playing?
No hand to toy with mine? No lips so sweet

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poem by John Keats
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The Dream

'TWAS summer eve; the changeful beams still play'd
On the fir-bark and through the beechen shade;
Still with soft crimson glow'd each floating cloud;
Still the stream glitter'd where the willow bow'd;
Still the pale moon sate silent and alone,
Nor yet the stars had rallied round her throne;
Those diamond courtiers, who, while yet the West
Wears the red shield above his dying breast,
Dare not assume the loss they all desire,
Nor pay their homage to the fainter fire,
But wait in trembling till the Sun's fair light
Fading, shall leave them free to welcome Night!

So when some Chief, whose name through realms afar
Was still the watchword of succesful war,
Met by the fatal hour which waits for all,
Is, on the field he rallied, forced to fall,
The conquerors pause to watch his parting breath,
Awed by the terrors of that mighty death;
Nor dare the meed of victory to claim,
Nor lift the standard to a meaner name,
Till every spark of soul hath ebb'd away,
And leaves what was a hero, common clay.

Oh! Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth
To dim enchantments; melting Heaven with Earth,
Leaving on craggy hills and rumning streams
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams;
Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and sweet
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet,
Who, slow returning from his task of toil,
Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil,
And, tho' such radliance round him brightly glows,
Marks the small spark his cottage window throws.
Still as his heart forestals his weary pace,
Fondly he dreams of each familiar face,
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life,
His rosy children, and his sunburnt wife,

To whom his coming is the chief event
Of simple days in cheerful labour spent.
The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past,
And those poor cottagers have only cast
One careless glance on all that show of pride,
Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside;
But him they wait for, him they welcome home,
Fond sentinels look forth to see him come;
The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim,
The frugal meal prepared, are all for him;
For him the watching of that sturdy boy,

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poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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The Teares of the Muses

Rehearse to me ye sacred Sisters nine:
The golden brood of great Apolloes wit,
Those piteous plaints and sorrowful sad tine,
Which late ye powred forth as ye did sit
Beside the siluer Springs of Helicone,
Making your musick of hart-breaking mone.
For since the time that Phoebus foolish sonne
Ythundered through Ioues auengefull wrath,
For trauersing the charret of the Sunne
Beyond the compasse of his pointed path,
Of you his mournfull Sisters was lamented,
Such mournfull tunes were neuer since inuented.

Nor since that faire Calliope did lose
Her loued Twinnes, the dearlings of her ioy,
Her Palici, whom her vnkindly foes
The fatall Sisters, did for spight destroy,
Whom all the Muses did bewaile long space;
Was euer heard such wayling in this place.

For all their groues, which with the heauenly noyses,
Of their sweete instruments were wont to sound,
And th' hollow hills, from which their siluer voyces
Were wont redoubled Echoes to rebound,
Did now rebound with nought but rufull cries,
And yelling shrieks throwne vp into the skies.

The trembling streames, which wont in chanels cleare
To romble gently downe with murmur soft,
And were by them right tunefull taught to beare
A Bases part amongst their consorts oft;
Now forst to ouerflowe with brackish teares,
With troublous noyse did dull their daintie eares.

The ioyous Nymphes and lightfoote Faeries
Which thether came to heare their musick sweet,
And to the measure of their melodies
Did learne to moue their nimble shifting feete;
Now hearing them so heauily lament,
Like heauily lamenting from them went.

And all that els was wont to worke delight
Through the diuine infusion of their skill,
And all that els seemd faire and fresh in sight,
So made by nature for to serue their will,
Was turned now to dismall heauinesse,
Was turned now to dreadfull vglinesse.

Ay me, what thing on earth that all thing breeds,
Might be the cause of so impatient plight?

[...] Read more

poem by Edmund Spenser
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Love and Tragedy

Yes, I have loved with love
that was more than love
more than love,
Drove myself mad with this love
with this love,
Hoping to catch a glimpse of my love
my love,
Just seeing was not enough for me
seeing my love
my love,
So I met her, my true love,
And so true it was.

Yes, I married this girl with joy
with joy,
The splendid sense of so much joy
so much joy,
And I felt so much,
My heart melt,
melt with all my joy,
my joy,
Going to sleep with her, my true joy,
And so true it was.

Yes, I watched this girl die with sorrow
my sorrow,
The fire that did it also ignited my sorrow
my sorrow,
And there was nothing to console this sorrow
this sorrow,
my sorrow,
Even still into tomorrow,
No cope in hope to borrow,
so I stayed in sorrow,
my sorrow,
Going to sleep without my love,
my true sorrow,
And so true it was.

Yes, I heard those gruesome tolls alone
just me alone,
I stood looking at her stone while alone
so alone,
Minding on what to do, now that I'm alone,
alone,
so alone,
Listening to the bells of malicious tones,
Those horrifying, loud drones,
Those dreadful, terrible moans,
Those agonizing, tumultuous groans,

[...] Read more

poem by Andy Greenwald
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Siblings Are Friends You Just Can't Get Rid Of

Siblings are enemies you cannot escape
Bound by blood
Bound by history
You know the real me
What's behind the mask I wear for others to see
Shared parents and vacations, and long Sunday drives
You always got the window seat ‘cause you got car sick - yeah right!
We shared a dinner table and breakfast...and bad manners too
A shared room, a shared mess, a shared bed, (the wetting was you)
We made mud pies together, and ate them, (or at least we tasted)
You gave me measles. I gave you mumps. (Those fevers truly sucked)
We nursed one another's heartbreaks
We dried each other's tears
We yelled and screamed, you said you hated me
You're a day person. I'm a night
You wanted to be early but I made you late
We became adults together
Buried our parents side-by-side
I hurt your feelings. You made me angry
We were callous and mean without even thinking
You weren't my friend, just a sibling, biologically speaking
Just someone I'm stuck with who lives down the hall
Or in the next town, or the far side of the planet....that's all
I didn't choose you, you know
And you would never have picked me
We only share parents
And some, (well a lot) , of memories
And a hometown, and I guess a private joke or two
I don't have to like you just because of those things, true?
But others in the family keep dragging us back together
Christmas lunch, family picnics, if I could stay home I'd rather
Then I forget what you did
You forget what I said
So we hug and we cry
It's been so long. Why?
We're just friends, (bound by blood) , that we just can't get rid of
Nor would we want to
Because....what in this world would I do
If ever I had to live my life without you

poem by DonnaJ York
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Peace Award to Barack Obama

Awarded to one head of nation
Who thinks he doesn't deserve
But feels honoured to be
in the company of those
who in centuries have worked for peace.

Awarded to one head of a nation
with his shared vision on peace
in political campaigns, dialogues
and speeches, a shared aspiration
of all the international communities..

An award to one head of states, worthy
to be shared with those who actively
and silently have worked for peace
and upheld the dignity of all persons
irrespective of their colour, sex and ages.

A Nobel Peace Prize of Peace to Obama,
a common award worthy to be shared
with soldiers and mothers, common citizens
and philanthropists, students, teachers, scientists
and activists and all those who fight that the world
we live in maybe a safe habitat for all.

Yes, let this shared peace award to one head of state
be a continuous call to common action
against the grave economic crises in treasuries,
the climate change in the globe of earth,
the escalation of military weapons
and the wage against the tentacles of terror.

poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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