Quotes about robust, page 14
1861
ARM’D year! year of the struggle!
No dainty rhymes or sentimental love verses for you, terrible year!
Not you as some pale poetling, seated at a desk, lisping cadenzas
piano;
But as a strong man, erect, clothed in blue clothes, advancing,
carrying a rifle on your shoulder,
With well-gristled body and sunburnt face and hands–with a knife in
the belt at your side,
As I heard you shouting loud–your sonorous voice ringing across the
continent;
Your masculine voice, O year, as rising amid the great cities,
Amid the men of Manhattan I saw you, as one of the workmen, the
dwellers in Manhattan;
Or with large steps crossing the prairies out of Illinois and
Indiana,
Rapidly crossing the West with springy gait, and descending the
Alleghanies;
Or down from the great lakes, or in Pennsylvania, or on deck along
the Ohio river;
Or southward along the Tennessee or Cumberland rivers, or at
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poem by Walt Whitman
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Catafractos
Coal - dark nomadic eyes, under an icy sky,
a steppe robust stallion of wild breed canters,
a blowing Boreas wind, a whipping drizzle,
form of a winter tundra's frost, white embrace..
Form to oblate his destiny on own volition,
only exception maybe, his higher challenge,
to overpass his fortified scold ambition,
to master in a Gods forsaken earth's edge.
A cavalry paid mercenary, a Pontian Scyth,
warrior of Byzantine deathly squadrons,
his aptitude close to Charon's duel myth,
a great honor is to be war-slain by sword!
Two wolves run by his side, ready to clash,
howl to infinity, Orthodox Crucifix contrite,
their obstinacy will redeem his sword's slash,
astute dark Charon will be a visitor to invite.
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Thundering On (Cavatina Sequence)
(after Thom Gunn)
A far off hum breaks the noon time silence,
rumbling thunder
of a manmade kind draws near, grazing cows
pause in wonder,
swallows, some in wheeling flight,
nesting under
a highway bridge swish about in some fear,
as some oncoming danger they do hear.
Men and women sit astride motorbikes,
with legs touching,
in almost a solemn intimate ritual,
everything,
even their black helmets, leather jackets,
is vibrating
to the essence of acceleration
of being in powerful forward motion.
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poem by Gert Strydom
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Bitter Is The Taste Left On Tongues
Had he not destroyed the lives,
Of millions of people...
With deceit and lies.
And arrogant displays of ignorance.
Something he now says...
May have made some empathetic sense.
He was the first to say there was no recession.
Now he wishes to make claims,
That was inherited.
He lead conservative ideals,
To ruin and deplete a robust economy.
And not a word did he listen to others.
Preferring to succeed...
From a position of egotistic needs.
A forgiving people hear and see this.
With grateful wishes,
He and his corrupted followers...
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Titillate The Asylum
A slow waltz of klutz feet
Stalled in the gray floor
And jaded walls, interpolating
Raddled frantic words
Siphoning the senses
Like a sapped blood
From a pierced neck
Encumbering the souls
To sleep, to rest,
But the fatigue can
Not be quelled
Bolted inside the corolla
Of petals cloaked with enigma
Butterflies shall attend to you
Gorge your skepticism
With their virulent dusts
And you will be inveigled
To sedate the blossoming
Until the petals are toppling
From the lambent withering
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poem by Norman Santos
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Truce
Your nacreous eyes is a mirror
Palled by a multitude of horror
A window swung open
But shuttered by a void emptiness
In its hazel glaze I implored
My own lifeless reflection
Still - like a metallic lake
Concealing a surreptitious daemon
Whilst the myopia of vision won
And stifled any sanguine climate
We never batted an eyelash
In hope for a drifting light
And in fear of total eclipse
So eye to eye, we confabulated
With metaphors and false-analogies
As our thoughts morph into blindness
White as oblivion and black as its shadow
Piercing the robust chamber of life
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poem by Norman Santos
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Bells of Barangay San Jose
The Bells of Barangay San Jose
The bells of Barangay San Jose
Rang against the din of the windblown rain
Struck from bell towers from four directions
The wet July weather deadened the tolling
Unable to reverberate in the thick as soup fog
Eager acolytes swinging on strong bell ropes
Coaxing the brass cones to clang out loud
The bells furiously called out the faithful at dawn
Loud summons to attend the eucharistic celebration
Nuns in white with colorful umbrellas stepped lively,
Matrons with missals tucked in braided belts
Waddled through the half opened seminary doors
Rosary beads dangling, in quickened half steps
Hurrying before the wet fog turns to cold rain
A blessed Sunday morning in Barangay San Jose
My love and I eavesdropped on the early birdsong
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poem by Eddie Roa
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Two Lost Souls
Surrounded by a sea of black.
Not knowing how to find the things they lack.
Two lost souls that need true love.
Noone understands these complex beings.
Their wants and needs far exceed than than others can read.
They cannot see the depth which bounds within them,
they'd get lost among the trees.
Two lost souls that need eachothers trust,
but opportunity has passed things rough.
They need to see,
they need to touch.
Upon these things that they must trust,
to make the thrust into a future robust.
They search and search,
forever seeming stuck in a lurch.
They get to know others,
finding noone they trust.
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poem by Michael McParland
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A POW’s VERSE
Absolute loneliness
Lost in this dungeon
Nowhere to go
No friends
No companion
But the walls of my cell
Which re-echo back my thoughts
For breakfast
strokes of bulala
For lunch de-humanization
For super frustration
Indefinite fasting
For how long
For how long echoed the walls
The walls, my only companion
Dreamt last night of home
Walked familiar paths
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poem by Ike Chime
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Of Liberation
Holy these shackles of utopian citadel,
Profane this constant vying in veils,
Sine of great filters to parcel
The lifeless body from the ageless soul
We resume our astray meander
As seraphs round their patios above
And fiends lurk and beat around the bushes
Yonder this finite circumference
Calculating the starved preying,
Pouring more dreams in the cloying
We kneel before carnivals with sentiments
And flounder hazily with the cinders
Of charred scripts in escritoires
Come, breathe in the daunted air
To congeal a leonine heart
And stand in the piercing pinnacle
Of a robust warfare between
Existence, angels, demons and
The hedonistic souls capitulated
Inside the labyrinth of this poetry
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poem by Norman Santos
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