Quotes about wizened, page 4
To a Senior Pediatrician, on His Turning Sixty-Seven
Fondly dedicated to Dr.N. Ramachandran MD. DCH
Formerly HOD of Paediatrics & DS IRT PMC & H, Perundurai.
A child
Grew up
To be a man;
And donned
The cap
Of an expert on
Children’s ailments.
Dressed in white,
He taught the art
To medicos right,
From the start.
And now,
He’s touched years
Sixty-seven;
Wizened and wise,
Still, first to rise!
He’s spick and span;
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poem by John Celes (20 September 2007)
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The (quiet) ornament of Jakarta
What are belongs to a major city?
Besides of any busy interrupting reverie
At each stop along the sidewalk
There are going to say hello but did not
Above the height of the horror
Phobia looked at the cars passing by
Wind perched atop, the penthouse and a flying heart
Your own!
At the wizened, big cities have always wanted to look pretty
The streets are perforated faces but always returned
Tuter sirens and the hum of cars endlessly
'How would budge, when traffic is just a marker, a symbol
of the metro's and loneliness,
of ignorance? '
Is that a convoy of official cars
or is there a fire?
Common people always serve the extraordinary people
Buildings replacing the peaceful forest clusters
At most, I found a
paintings of the forest impresion
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poem by Imam Setiaji Ronoatmojo
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The Castle
All through that summer at ease we lay,
And daily from the turret wall
We watched the mowers in the hay
And the enemy half a mile away
They seemed no threat to us at all.
For what, we thought, had we to fear
With our arms and provender, load on load,
Our towering battlements, tier on tier,
And friendly allies drawing near
On every leafy summer road.
Our gates were strong, our walls were thick,
So smooth and high, no man could win
A foothold there, no clever trick
Could take us, have us dead or quick.
Only a bird could have got in.
What could they offer us for bait?
Our captain was brave and we were true....
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poem by Edwin Muir
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A Death At Sea
(Coral Sea, Australia)
I
DEAD in the sheep-pen he lies,
Wrapped in an old brown sail.
The smiling blue sea and the skies
Know not sorrow nor wail.
Dragged up out of the hold,
Dead on his last way home,
Worn-out, wizened, a Chinee old, —
O he is safe — at home!
Brother, I stand not as these
Staring upon you here.
One of earth's patient toilers at peace
I see, I revere!
II
In the warm cloudy night we go
From the motionless ship;
Our lanterns feebly glow;
Our oars drop and drip.
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poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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Funnyossities
Where silliness borders on the realm of possibility –
that’s the blissful land where children play;
inventing for themselves, or helped
by those never-quite-grown-ups
who spend their working week
chortle-gurgle-wham-ouch-eeuucchh! -‘****? ’-
EEEKK! -AAaarrgghh! ! ! ,
illustrating Kidz Komix and such
in that blissful land
and there were books called ‘Funnyossities’
(they’d be nothing now)
the pages chopped laterally in three:
heads in the top section, every possible caricature,
bodies of every size, shape, dress, the middle section;
then legs of all sorts (lots of hairy ones, of course)
occupied the lower section;
and you turned them over, this way, that way,
to make the most ludicrous combinations…
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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To Alexander Berkman
Can you see me, Sasha?
I can see you….
A tentacle of the vast dawn is resting on your face
that floats as though detached
in a sultry and greenish vapor.
I cannot reach my hands to you…
would not if I could,
though I know how warmly yours would close about them.
Why?
I do not know…
I have a sense of shame.
Your eyes hurt me… mysterious openings in the gray stone of your face
through which your spirit streams out taut as a flag
bearing strange symbols to the new dawn.
If I stay… projected, trembling against these bars filtering emaciated light… will your eyes… that bore their lonely way through mine… stop as at a friendly gate… grow warm… and luminous? … but I cannot stay… for the smell… I know… how the days pass… The prison squats with granite haunches on the young spring, battened under with its twisting green… and you… socket for every bolt piercing like a driven nail. Eyes stare you through the bars… eyes blank as a graveled yard… and the silence shuffles heavy dice of feet in iron corridors… until the day… that has soiled herself in this black hole to caress the pale mask of your face… withdraws the last wizened ray to wash in the infinite her discolored hands. Can you hear me, Sasha, in your surrounded darkness?
poem by Lola Ridge
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Port Isaac's Fishermen's Friends
Ten Cornishmen, of a mature age
Stand together, taking centre stage.
Singing together, in close harmony,
They sing out shanties of the sea.
Their voices are lifted loud in song;
They sing out proud; they sing out strong.
Each of the men knows his part,
And sings it out from his heart.
These men, who appear very down to earth,
Sing about Cornwall: the place of their birth.
They are hoping to keep the old songs alive;
Hoping that, forever, the old songs survive.
Amongst the group, there is much respect;
A real sense of camaraderie, you can detect.
Each man appears casual and very laid back,
But, of enthusiasm, there certainly is no lack.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Our Warmth Seeking Souls
The sun, she kisses my lover's cheek,
forehead, nose, and lips,
Caresses my eyelids.
One final embrace before she departs,
leaving us, to continue her maternal journey
breaking the night's raucous hold over the globe
Though it pains our warmth seeking souls
we know we have no say in the matter,
we must let her go.
And though she is certain
she will once again cast her warm,
glowing embrace upon us
in the light of dawn's new morning dew,
inside ourselves we must harbor the notion,
the drowning possibility,
we may never again cast our glances upon her
free burning
ever nurturing face
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poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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Colourful Camden
Today, I found myself in Camden Town;
I had time to spare, so I looked around.
It was a place that I had not visited before,
But it's a part of London, I'd love to visit more.
That area of London has a great atmosphere;
It is packed full of fun and full of real cheer.
Everywhere I went, there were massive crowds;
The colours and the sounds were extremely loud.
There were stalls selling food from around the world;
Stalls that sold everything, from books to fake pearls.
There was furniture, footwear, and patterned throws,
Cards, collectables, candles, and all kinds of clothes.
I could have had almost any type of food that I desired;
My taste-buds were tingling, and were almost set on fire;
Of colour and smells and sounds, there was a total riot;
The atmosphere in the marketplace was anything but quiet.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Tomorrow Will Be A Good Day To Die
Buckskin brown eyes stare deep into the fire
Leathery brown faces turn up toward the sky
Sinewy brown muscles tensed up like wire
Tomorrow will be a good day to die
Shell necklace enclosed in long brown fingers
Aquiline nose streaked with red ocher dye
On his brave brown brothers, his gaze achingly lingers
Tomorrow will be a good day to die
Crackling mesquite, sparks rush into the night
Great horned Owl glides over, wind thru wings giving sigh
Wizened warriors look up, brown eyes reflecting firelight
Tomorrow will be a good day to die
Piebald and pinto ponies, ripping sparse desert fare
For pitiful provenance from land so desolate and dry
Long manes brushed by gentle strokes of sage scented air
Tomorrow will be a good day to die
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poem by David Whalen
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