Quotes about relics, page 11
My Name That Runs
Underneath the sea stands a river of silk and milk that runs,
Opening thoughts of you, the dispute of a month that runs.
I have a maze of worries that tortures the depths of the mind,
Offering me a solution shall be the ocean that is the millionth that runs.
One person is one antagonist, the anatomy of whom excretes blood,
Fetching horrible nightmares like those heroes of the labyrinth that runs.
Let the heavens be attached to the barbarians and soldiers,
One masters them as a battle that rages on as the zillionth that runs.
One will escape the rigours of youth to face a war on the frontline,
Battle systems need generals and wizards of the heavens, the seventh that runs.
I have my name engraved like a stone of weight, the grave so morbid,
One masters my writing as if the relics are as morbid as the trillionth that runs.
poem by Naveed Akram
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To A Lady, Who Presented The Author With The Velvet Band Which Bound Her Tresses
This Band, which bound thy yellow hair,
Is mine, sweet girl! Thy pledge of love;
It claims my warmest, dearest care,
Like relics left of saints above.
Oh! I will wear it next my heart;
'Twill blind my soul in bonds to thee;
From me again 't will ne'er depart,
But mingle in the grave with me.
The dew I gather from thy lip
Is not so dear to me as this;
That I but for a moment sip,
And banquet on a transient bliss:
This will recall each youthful scene,
E'en when our lives are on the wane;
The leaves of Love will still be green
When Memory bids them bud again.
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The Earth Of Mankind
And I breathed my loudest to die tonight,
The relics of the past were forgotten due to health.
By the way of the resonance, my happiness left
To complete an ordeal of the likeliest kind,
Feelings and inner feelings were immense
Like the professors, of the days we studied together.
Seeing a craft was like sighting godly inferences,
Manifold reasons were proclaimed
In this forward motion,
In these completely new formations
That utilized the strength and haste
Of a majestic being in trouble.
My breathing was inside the road we told,
Yet a bliss concerned the dealings of men,
The very same righteous men who walked
The Earth.
Sending the spices of reality and questions
Was then to interrogate, and sending was a
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poem by Naveed Akram
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To Allow Me
To allow me the rests complains to my spirit,
This spirit that rests inside my heart shall never cease,
This spirit is a ghost of the sums of gold and silver,
Forming me aright, from the icons that are displayed.
A real reason rests with the righteousness of relics,
My angers are asked by the rest of the angry crowd,
Turbulent times call for the truer punishments
In the heart of mine that bleeds.
Do not be mean to my spirit that sentences a man
To deathly encounters, fixed in their realms
As the eyes have calling of tears, rests are afoot,
And about them the wrestling is about.
To allow me a solution to these problems
Causes me to found a society where I
Judge the right punishments and sports
For the hearty men and women who live.
Those who love and inhabit their daily habits
Shall mime with the heavenly maidens
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poem by Naveed Akram
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Mind Song
You do not see where I am.
Nor where I have been.
Only the shadow...
of my have been.
In fullness of alternative realities
I live and wonder quest dream.
In sights mind sound
a world by blind unseen.
Where few dare flare
alas leavened of life.
Have ever been.
I live with mindsong.
The hand of yesterday’s child
passing over dimension’s evolving
change reaches out to touch me.
Lingering in spirit moods relics
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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A Song of Derivations
I come from nothing; but from where
Come the undying thoughts I bear?
Down, through the long links of death and birth,
From the past poets of the earth,
My immortality is there.
I am like the blossom of an hour.
But long, long vanished sun and shower
Awoke my breath i' the young world's air;
I track the past back everywhere
Through seed and flower and seed and flower.
Or I am like a stream that flows
Full of the cold springs that arose
In morning lands, in distant hills;
And down the plain my channel fills
With melting of forgotten snows.
Voices, I have not heard, possessed
My own fresh songs; my thoughts are blessed
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poem by Alice Meynell
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Mephistopheles Perverted
(Or Goethe for the Times)
ONCE long ago lived a Flea
Who kept such a fine, fat King,
Not that he held with royalty,
But more for the appearance of the thing,
And gave his Majesty to hold
(Such pageantries are far too few)
A sword of ruby-hilted gold
That possibly might hack a cheese in two;
But lest this glory might begin
To prove the regency too far,
His thunderbolt they made of tin,
And changed his godship for another Star.
Thus when the Monarch drove abroad,
With stars like buttons round his chest,
God-fearing Fleas would all applaud,
And alien Lice be grudgingly impressed.
Such relics every Flea must flaunt,
If only as the final trump
That mocks Materialism's taunt,
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poem by Kenneth Slessor
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Renaissance
The fifties and earlier were the ignorant past of ideals
The people then didn’t know nor could conceive great ideas
Like dating, together living and mini-bars at the homes
Generations have changed; the once kids are now epitomes
Of elegance, newness and souring up social renaissance
The elders at home started looking obsolete and vacuous
Like the relics of the Stone Age; to remain at the homes
As obelisks of the past; not supposed to raise their voices;
Stop trumpeting about their past and to youth giving advices
And in silence wait for the days they proceed to their tombs
But I can’t help thinking of the days ahead, when today’s kids
Become elders and the way the kids of that future day think
When social renaissance picks up further momentum and in a bid
To cleanse the world of all the old, useless and stagnant stink
Send all those above fifty to live in catacombs waiting for death
poem by Sathya Narayana
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Filling In The Blank Spaces Of Ardor
The weather drops off on the Chesapeake
and shallow gray waves fall on gray waves
outside the window of our clapboard
where I live with you my water fowl,
my love shy husband sullen and colorless
two steps from the end of the continent.
The low, flat curves of the dredge hills
and sober, noisy roll of the bay,
the folded ankle socks on fishmongers,
my bra straps lowered for my husband
whose eyes roll beyond my shoulders
to the wet plants and pots stuck outside.
I burn a Marlboro in my fingers;
my husband opens a paint tin,
wets the blue brush, drips a green
across spaces of sea blank ardor.
I throw away relics of a life
that no longer exists.
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poem by Bernard Henrie
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Tell Me Of Your Dreams Child
Blood pyramid rising
Stood before the Christ child crucified
The solar god is dead and dying still.
Fresh from the kill.
The temples erected in his honor are sour in grandeur,
the mason’s secret concealed
Solomon's temple - Solomon's Key
Where are the prophets of our age?
Left to rot behind locked doors?
Labeled lunatics and forgotten.
Beggers are the merchants of sympathy?
Give them gold for the story told.
Take me now to a world where I can feel myself as real.
How many life’s have we lived within each others arms?
Tell me of heaven?
Tell me of hell?
The clouds are moving spectres of freedom at rest.
Barefooted, adorned in the rags of decadence
The faces of the hillside are grim - relics of an industrial age.
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poem by David Lacey
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