Quotes about vista, page 5
Barfly
Barfly.
Outside a bar, Bella Vista, in the sleepy town of Barranquilla-
Colombia- a donkey wore a hat with holes for its ears, dozed.
Hot day, its serenity was endless. Around its closed eyes blue
flies crawled. I’m kind to animals, waved my hand in front of
its eyes to get rid of flies. The beast saw it differently, kicked.
In the street only the donkey, me and the cruel midday sun,
everyone else had sought refuge the dark interior of houses.
Looked at the bar’s dark, cool interior, since the beast didn’t
care for my sympathy I limped back in there and had a beer.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Love Lost
LOVE LOST
Love lost spreads frost where once was light,
Or rime which rhyme's frieze turns to freeze,
Vista's visa parodies
Enchantment, past of pure delight.
Lovelorn, wings shorn, heart feels bite
Of cold, sold short, caught in unease
Scorning romance's fallacies,
Turning yearning into spite.
Love lost with bitterness agrees,
Or poison for both biter, bite,
Venom self-destructive quite,
Eden expels, discards its keys.
LOst should be found as founding faith
STorm weathering, not wasted wraith...
17 July 2008
robi03_1785_robi03_0000 ASX_LUX
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Rhythm Of Life
Welcoming world, with the birth thyself thee get;
With a genial-sweet happiness thee made.
A pestilence revelation objective thou you hates;
That is the Rhythm of the Life thyself you gets.
Understand the monstrous schooled meaning,
Thyself expected from the ordiance having.
Work hard with the worth you arrayed;
Try the picture of the future thy made.
Arrange your surrounding with a vista tags,
Buy thy Age with the degree thee has.
Make sure life give us only a chance;
To make history as long as you can.
Don't obsure about the thrill of death,
It's the ultimate truth of the life thyself you get...
poem by Kumarjeet Basu
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Thoughts
OF ownership--As if one fit to own things could not at pleasure enter
upon all, and incorporate them into himself or herself.
Of waters, forests, hills;
Of the earth at large, whispering through medium of me;
Of vista--Suppose some sight in arriere, through the formative chaos,
presuming the growth, fulness, life, now attain'd on the
journey;
(But I see the road continued, and the journey ever continued;)
--Of what was once lacking on earth, and in due time has become
supplied--And of what will yet be supplied,
Because all I see and know, I believe to have purport in what will
yet be supplied.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Am amorous night
An amorous night with you on my side
Walking on the seashore hand in hand
Engraving our love in the sand
The footprint fades, the milky foam engrosses
Touches million souls, echoing the tale
Silent glances exchange, no word is uttered
But everything is said, everything is understood
An enthralling conversation that could create an epic
The tides etches the saga, in the rocks
Softening the rocks, it sheds tears of joy
The breeze plays a mellow tune
Silent whispers magically sing
Moon the silent spectator, admirably acknowledges
And in this ardent vista, two souls merge slowly
And slowly they becomes one
poem by Kavitha Krishnamurthy
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Southerndown South Wales No3
History Writ Large
Like layered cake the tide washes
The crumbled mix of history
Laid down in times that ceased so long ago
Yet stand so resolute for all to see.
Peering through the lens of time
We scan the distant vista with impunity
The cliffs that tower over all the bays
Along this ragged coastline etched in time
We feel the hand of God writ large
Yet most who pass this way see nothing
Nothing but the weathered view
Transient and ephemeral, short lived
But here history was made and carved
In the mind of God and in eternity
Southerndown South Wales
November 2004
No 3 in the Southerndown Trilogy
poem by James Tipp
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The Allegory Of Pleasure...
there is more
to find in this mountain
the snails have not reached here
the birds are not telling the complete view
a vista of clouds
and little white houses beside a river
there is more on top of the trees
you have seen a lot
but there is nothing that can be touched
for the pleasure of the hands
so what is the use?
the feet are ready
and tomorrow is the final leaving
there is no regret
somehow he will try getting into the body of the cow
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Forgiveness
Now bury with the dead years conflicts dead
And with fresh days let all begin anew.
Why longer amid shrivelled leaf-drifts tread,
When buds are swelling, flower-sheaths peeping through?
Seen through the vista of the vanished years,
How trivial seem the struggle and the crown,
How vain past feuds, when reconciling tears
Course down the channel worn by vanished frown.
How few mean half the bitterness they speak!
Words more than feelings keep us still apart,
And, in the heat of passion or of pique,
The tongue is far more cruel than the heart.
Since love alone makes it worth while to live,
Let all be now forgiven, and forgive.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Art Of Lotus
Murky the heart soilure sad
Impatient the mind tainted
Dark and benighted
Absolving of sins
Meditate and contemplate multiple sittings
Resting like a lotus visioning a lotus
Does bloom a lotus?
Mire the pond muddy the aqua
Mucky mossy grimy etcetera
Afoul never the blooming flora
Lotus red and white and blue aesthetic vista
Aeonian seed speaks flowered to aura
Its austere affinity to climatic aroma
Extends over cosmology the hidden dogma
Conserves murky though a pond a seed
Ages later a lotus to bloom and heed
Nerves mucky heart its enigma
Births later enlightened to defeat stigma
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poem by Indira Renganathan
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For Some Poems by Matthew Arnold
Sweeping the chords of Hellas with firm hand,
He wakes lost echoes from song's classic shore,
And brings their crystal cadence back once more
To touch the clouds and sorrows of a land
Where God's truth, cramped and fettered with a band
Of iron creeds, he cheers with golden lore
Of heroes and the men that long before
Wrought the romance of ages yet unscanned.
Still does a cry through sad Valhalla go
For Balder, pierced with Lok's unhappy spray --
For Balder, all but spared by Frea's charms;
And still does art's imperial vista show,
On the hushed sands of Oxus, far away,
Young Sohrab dying in his father's arms.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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