Quotes about mention, page 5
448
Walls
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I know your name from what they are
Telling me.
They say that cruelty is born. That cruelty
Has a tendency to stay.
It is you. They mention the name of your
Husband. He died with a forlorn heart.
It is you. They say you never mentioned
His name. Not even once. You are cruel.
We meet today in this room. I am not afraid.
I am prepared. I will not be fooled
When you call me. You mention my name.
You appear sweet. Like some candy bar.
I cannot be fooled.
I tell myself. I am a wall. I am inside a very
Thick wall. I cannot hear you.
I do not wish
To be a part of you. No matter how sweet
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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May...Be...A Bit Uneasy With the 'Peeps
I can understand,
You are overwhelmed and shocked.
Afterall...
It only has taken,
Fourty years or more...
For the activities of this environment to sink in.
Remember when they were first brought to your attention?
And you had stated then,
My comments were too negative to mention?
And today 'my' comments seem to flow from your lips.
With a cursing done that you can not resist.
Don't you think...
Your lack of communal unity,
Is too negative to mention?
I believe your comments are a repetitive visit!
Even though you seem to have a clear grasp,
Of the lingo!
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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If To Just Listen
I can give you my attention.
But please do not mention,
The time I spend.
Or the quality of it.
When yours I can not depend.
I care about your welfare.
If I did not,
I would not be here.
When I'm in need of your appearance...
It is as if you have disappeared.
And I am not here to compare cares!
I am here to make it clear,
I care whether you are aware of it or not!
Am I the only one...
That has come to knock on your door?
Am I the only one...
To come to you,
When my wants and wishes you have ignored?
But then I remember too...
This 'is' all about you!
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I try
I try to let go but the pull is so strong, I try to hold on but it feels so wrong.
I try to grasp you but you are slipping away, I try to go on but am forced to stay Hey… Let me walk away I shad to many tears, I fought hard still I have to face my fears.
I try to forget that face; try to run away from this place…
Ooh your body, perfectly shaped it drives me insane again and again, did I mention you drive me insane oh yes I did, but had to mention it again.
But Now I’m sitting here trying to explain, how can I translate? But what comes to mind is a clean slate. I can’t indicate which direction we can take, I gave you your space, in tried to relate, now I comprehend.
I’m trying to let go but the pull is so strong, I try to hold on but it still feels wrong…
Please come home, Hold my hand let’s get lost, create our own world, fly beyond the sky I already feel at home with you within my soul.
Make my heart your home, ‘cause yours is already, Already My home…
poem by Thato Maluleka
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Bedbooks
(There is said to be a steady demand for 'bedbooks'
in England. There are readers who find in Gibbon a
sedative for tired nerves; there are others who enjoy
Trollope's quiet humour. Some people find in Henry
James's tangled syntax the restful diversion they seek,
and others enjoy Mr. Howells's unexciting realism.
-_The Sun_.)
How sleep the brave who sink to rest,
Lulled by the waves of dreamy diction,
Like that appearing in the best
Of modern fiction!
When sleeplessness the Briton claims,
And hits him with her wakeful wallop,
He goes to Gibbon or to James,
Or maybe Trollope.
No paltry limit, such as those
The craving-slumber Yankee curses-
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poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Warning
A man there was, a gentle soul,
Of mild enquiring mind,
Who came into this neighbourhood
Its wonders for to find [ … ]
They told him who had put the lid
On Lydney; who the ale
Misspelt in Aylburton. And he
Delighted in the tale.
And still, like little Oliver,
He softly asked for more;
And with the utmost courtesy
Was answered as before.
Until one sleepy summer's eve
He came all unaware
Unto a place called Ruardean,
And asked ‘Who killed the bear?'
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poem by Frederick William Harvey
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Only funny
It is not only funny
But very astonishing and clumsy
We all know about the holiness of boobs
Holy mention too can be found in books
Women are much more praiseworthy
Some may wear the ugliness gifted from almighty
The deformity and unnatural growth is not in our hands
The body as such will be submerged and melted at the end
All nourishment and food is catered from that part
Our life gets shape and growth from the very start
Let us adore and praise the ladies for commendable job
We should not denigrate their honor and rob
It may be shown as world record
Many may take it as mere reference for looking forward
Any good looking natural piece deserves to be praised
But wrong way of projection should also be outrightly condemned
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Easter Sunday (and not a word from McD's)
Today I solemnly resolve to say nothing
Not to observe nor write a single line
I won't even mention the man dressed like a cowboy
Nor that voluptuous chick lookin' fine
I'll not fixate on the fat,
nor lay praise on the lean
Not one single comment
Be it kindly or mean
The tall skinny lady sitting opposite me
With the red fright-wig hair
Well today I shan't make mention
That she's even there
For this Easter Sunday
I shall refrain from writing
Of people no matter be they
Strange and funky
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poem by David Whalen
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Every New Invention
Every New Invention
The Press has still to mention,
we’ve yet to know about,
every new invention
that we can’t live without.
Prosperity seems fleeting,
mankind must comprehend
it can't continue cheating
Earth's resources pretend
they’re ever self-repeating
eternally extend
all generations greeting -
so spendthrift ways amend.
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Hero's Acre
Brave Mary Magdalene of Magdala
She stood by Jesus' side after
The treacherous disciples had fled!
She was there when he died on
The cross.Oh Mary! She did not
Cross question and interrogate
The son of God when He demonstrated
How feeble death in reality is!
But don't mention her in
The presence of the pen
Pushers of Hero's Acre!
They will glare at you and
Claim the fame for themselves
Mother Theresa Of The gutters
She worked like a slave in the slum
Woe unto the robbers of Hero's Acre
The credit they say is theirs!
Her name they're content to
Bury in the mud of the gutter
The lesser known Blanche Moyilwa
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poem by Ngaka Motaung
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