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Little Baby & A Good Woman's Love!

LITTLE BABY Little baby, I love you
For you are a part of me
Each and every inch you'll grow
I want to be there to see.

Someday you'll chase fireflies
Who ride the breath of the winds.
Someday you'll be all grown up
And out on the town with friends.

You have your daddy 's freckles
You've got your mommy's eyes.
I pray to God every day
You'll survive all of life's lies.

Little babies shoot up fast
As they need to stretch and grow.
They do such things as children do
In a world they've yet to know.

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poem by Tom Zart
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From abroad [Din străinătate]

When everybody's happy, when benefits are pouring,
When people are delighted and spend their time with style,
Only a soul is crying, only a soul is longing
For its enchanting homeland with fields that always smile.

That heart, which is despondent and feels the irritation,
That soul, which suffers greatly and sings its silent song,
Is my own heart, which finds no peace, no consolation,
Is my own soul, which burns with yearning all along.

I'd like to see my birthplace, that dale I held so dearly
Along which flows a river with waters clear and cold,
To see what made me happy and what I loved sincerely:
The shadow of the forest, its labyrinth of old;

And once again to welcome the shanties in the valley,
Which used to look so peaceful in that relaxing place,
Where they could breathe in secret and the sweet pleasures tally,
The mystic dreams, the whispers, the poems full of grace.

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poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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Fame [One thousand years I slept beneath the sod]

One thousand years I slept beneath the sod,
My sleep in 1901 beginning,
Then, by the action of some scurvy god
Who happened then to recollect my sinning,
I was revived and given another inning.
On breaking from my grave I saw a crowd
A formless multitude of men and women,
Gathered about a ruin. Clamors loud
I heard, and curses deep enough to swim in;
And, pointing at me, one said: 'Let's put _him_ in.'
Then each turned on me with an evil look,
As in my ragged shroud I stood and shook.

'Nay, good Posterity,' I cried, 'forbear!
If that's a jail I fain would be remaining
Outside, for truly I should little care
To catch my death of cold. I'm just regaining
The life lost long ago by my disdaining
To take precautions against draughts like those
That, haply, penetrate that cracked and splitting

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poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Paris By Night

I’ve decided to spend a few days away,
To celebrate one of life’s big birthdays.
So, here I am in the famous ‘city of love’,
Wrapped up in my coat, scarf and gloves.

I’m at the Eiffel Tower, up on the second floor;
Taking in the City’s panoramic views, with awe.
I text my friends, but my fingers are frozen cold;
So that my mobile, my hand can hardly now hold.

Being less than a week into the brand New Year,
It isn’t long before the daylight begins to disappear.
It’s nearly six o’clock and, soon, the tour bus departs,
So my descent of the Tower, in earnest, now starts.

But, when I reach the bottom, I find I’m a little too late:
The back of the tour bus is just pulling out of the gate.
At first, I feel worried, and I admit, just a little bit scared,
But, the sights I see are ones, which, are beyond compare.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Think of you

I shall not think of you to miss
Till I finally bid you and wish
It will not be once, twice or thrice
It may remain till its demise

How I feel greatly at heart
I don’t know where from to think or start
I have not done it this before
I continue to think seriously therefore

What appeals me much about you?
What do I get message through?
Do your lovely eyes openly invite?
Arouse the passion and desire to ignite

I may never find answer again
That may not remain as worry or concern
How can I claim to dissociate or remain discern
When it comes to reality and favorable turn

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Pity For Poor Africans

I own I am shocked at the purchase of slaves,
And fear those who buy them and sell them are knaves;
What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, and groans
Is almost enough to draw pity from stones.

I pity them greatly, but I must be mum,
For how could we do without sugar and rum?
Especially sugar, so needful we see;
What, give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea?

Besides, if we do, the French, Dutch, and Danes,
Will heartily thank us, no doubt, for our pains:
If we do not buy the poor creatures, they will:
And tortures and groans will be multiplied still.

If foreigners likewise would give up the trade,
Much more in behalf of your wish might be said;
But, while they got riches by purchasing blacks,
Pray tell me why we may not also go snacks?

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poem by William Cowper
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In The Doldrums

Friends!
Have you, too, noticed that calm which descends
Upon affairs today?
Search as we may,
The papers have few things indeed to say
Of even world affairs, and, as to local,
Why, they are hardly vocal.
They even lack news of diverting crimes.
These be dull times.

Even the seething world of politics
Where factions mix,
And cause, most days, at least some mild commotion,
Seem like a placid ocean -
Like some blue tropic sea, peaceful and calm.
Floored with pink coral, fringed by wavy palm,
Where all is gentleness and holy calm...
Talking of topics, even Mister Hughes
Seems, in these days, steadfastly to refuse
To air his views.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Mr. What's-His-Name

They called him Mr. What's-his-name:
From where he was, or why he came,
Or when, or what he found to do,
Nobody in the city knew.

He lived, it seemed, shut up alone
In a low hovel of his own;
There cooked his meals and made his bed,
Careless of all his neighbors said.

His neighbors, too, said many things
Expressive of grave wonderings,
Since none of them had ever been
Within his doors, or peered therein.

In fact, grown watchful, they became
Assured that Mr. What's-his-name
Was up to something wrong--indeed,
Small doubt of it, we all agreed.

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poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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A Voice In the Wildness

I hate and I love.
How much I hunger
For the days when I was younger,
for the days when I was really free,
for the days when I was a real me.
And what is happening now?
Has the world turned upside down?
I do not say any more “Wow! ”
Nothing surprises me.
I can only realize
this horrible situation
with discomfort and even frustration.
Am I on another stage?
Is it connected with my age?
I don’t think so.
I can see today the youth
who can’t find the truth.
Isn’t it strange that
having two higher educations
I am on the edge of starvation?

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poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Poems of great poets

I used to read poems of great poets
They had great sense of humor but looked quiet
They were all in their late seventies
Full of experience and knowledge to influence young of twenties

I was not at all fascinated but greatly influenced
I looked with shame as some of words were not correctly pronounced
I was shocked in disbelief and it was quite disheartening
This all seemed to me as if end of career and its shortening

I used to wonder and watch at the sky
How easily the birds could roam and fly!
They had no restriction and could easily sing
They were armed with liberty and powerful wings

I used to hear great stories about the hard way and plight
How much great people were to struggle and fight?
Today I see them usher in great fame and in new era
This was made possible with additional effort or extra

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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