Quotes about encircle, page 6
What Is Courage?
Courage is bravery
Courage is strong
Courage is fighting dragons
Or riding all night long.
Through the snowstorms
Through the wind
Cut through thorns
To battle within.
But why, might I ask, is this the stereotype?
Can’t you be courageous
Without muscles or armor
Without having to fight?
Depends on the person,
But if you ask the right one,
Then your answer is yes.
But wait, we’re not done.
To be courageous,
I said with a grin
You don’t need to fight,
You can always depend on
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poem by Ry Weeks
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A nation to be loved
I loved the nation as anybody did
Who may not prefer prosperous nation to lead?
It is great honor to be a part of any nation
Our existence has been linked with strong relation
What can be situation if we have to live under domination?
Whole of area under occupation and total subjugation
Complete control on movements and limited supply of ration
What all these speak and give indication?
You have heart, body but no soul
The nights may be threatened with the noise of owl
Not good omen for any sensible good citizens
What can be alternatives when all options are frozen?
It is deep love and belonging to nationhood
Most sacred to defend along with motherhood
Thousands of death can be preferred to defend the country
Who else will come and guard like sentry?
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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A steel wall
I was confined to steel wall
With no permission to receive out side call
Strict neutrality with no female intrusion
As matter of principle but not at all any confusion
It was almost prison guarded by security’
Not a bird can enter with surety
Such was fine abode for a lone person!
Very secluded place without any reason
Life ism strange and one has to believe
There has to be some medicine for pain to relieve
Female is inseparable part of male
Without her life can be termed as solitary jail
I felt like out from jail on parole
Yes it was her named Carole
I became keen with hopes
The height was risky with slopes
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The Indications
THE indications, and tally of time;
Perfect sanity shows the master among philosophs;
Time, always without flaw, indicates itself in parts;
What always indicates the poet, is the crowd of the pleasant company
of singers, and their words;
The words of the singers are the hours or minutes of the light or
dark--but the words of the maker of poems are the general light
and dark;
The maker of poems settles justice, reality, immortality,
His insight and power encircle things and the human race,
He is the glory and extract thus far, of things, and of the human
race.
The singers do not beget--only the POET begets;
The singers are welcom'd, understood, appear often enough--but rare
has the day been, likewise the spot, of the birth of the maker
of poems, the Answerer, 10
(Not every century, or every five centuries, has contain'd such a
day, for all its names.)
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poem by Walt Whitman
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Three Friends Of Mine
When I remember them, those friends of mine,
Who are no longer here, the noble three,
Who half my life were more than friends to me,
And whose discourse was like a generous wine,
I most of all remember the divine
Something, that shone in them, and made us see
The archetypal man, and what might be
The amplitude of Nature's first design.
In vain I stretch my hands to clasp their hands;
I cannot find them. Nothing now is left
But a majestic memory. They meanwhile
Wander together in Elysian lands,
Perchance remembering me, who am bereft
Of their dear presence, and, remembering, smile.
II.
In Attica thy birthplace should have been,
Or the Ionian Isles, or where the seas
Encircle in their arms the Cyclades,
So wholly Greek wast thou in thy serene
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Come Together
As mystery ferments within the womb of Our Mother
We anticipate the rebirth of appreciation.
Meditate within your shell,
Build your heaven from the remnants of a hollow hell.
Ramble little lamb, forever onwards towards the horizon,
As clouds above form as child flown chariots, raining down
Strikes on inspiration. Forget regret.
The Muse she stirs my heart a blur,
As spiral constructs obstruct the glare
Of Apollo in his pride
High above, oh yellow yoke
The higher he’s a getting
The sooner will his race be run
The nearer he’ll be to setting.
Towers cooling bellow smoke into the purity of the skyline.
Tainting yellow, a sickly shade the skin of those fools
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poem by David Lacey
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Rigoletto – Mobile Verse Parody Verdi
In this opera by Verdi, with the choicest of libretti
ranging up to alto, down to double bass,
to avoid the nitty-gritty of the plot would be a pity,
so in nineteen stanzas scan the rhymes encased.
Scene is set in some fair city where the search for someone pretty
was the past-time of a Duke with time to waste,
he’s the subject of this ditty which runs true to subject, witty,
wise, and well within the boundaries of taste.
.
Now this Duke had roving eyes bright, marriage ties seemed to despise quite,
all affection had forgotten for Her Grace,
Countess Cipriano one night spies at a party, quickly tries tight
to encircle, during dancing, by fair waist.
Noting, not without surprise where, anger blazing through his eyes’ stare,
the Count in fury fumed at the unchaste, -
she appeared a pretty prize there, perfect in both features, size, fair
and, despite his presence, to the dance made haste.
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Black Rain: From Hiroshima To Nagasaki
We dropped the Bomb
though we apologized.
Said we’re sorry
in solid cold cash.
Couldn’t do better
radiant improvised.
Skin-graft surgery.
Medical emergency aid.
Is ground funded in cash.
Memory dedication burns
racial inflamed scorch scar.
Black ash devastation falls
assassinated civil public facts.
Japanese superb marshal arts
somatic sate skilled disciples.
Mystic mind merge mystify.
Discipline defensive army warriors
can’t demoralize kamikaze deny.
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Rescue
THERE’S a sudden, fierce clang of the knocker, then the sound of a voice in the shaft,
Shrieking words that drum hard on the centres, and the braceman goes suddenly daft:
‘Set the whistle a-blowing like blazes! Billy, run, give old Mackie a call—
Run, you fool! Number Two’s gone to pieces, and Fred Baker is caught in the fall!
Say, hello! there below—any hope, boys, any chances of saving his life?
‘Heave away!’ says the knocker. ‘They’ve started. God be praised, he’s no youngsters or wife!’
Screams the whistle in fearful entreaty, and the wild echo raves on the spur,
And the night, that was still as a sleeper in soft, charmed sleep, is astir
With the fluttering of wings in the wattles, and the vague frightened murmur of birds,
With far cooeys that carry the warning, running feet, inarticulate words.
From the black belt of bush come the miners, and they gather by Mack on the brace,
Out of breath, barely clad, and half-wakened, with a question in every face.
‘Who’s below?’ ‘Where’s the fall?’ Didn’t I tell you?—Didn’t I say that them sets wasn’t sound?’
‘Is it Fred? He was reckless was Baker; now he’s seen his last shift underground.’
‘And his mate? Where is Sandy M‘Fadyn?’ ’Sandy’s snoring at home on his bunk.’
‘Not at work! Name o’ God! a foreboding?’ ‘A foreboding be hanged! He is drunk!’
Take it steady there, lads!’ the boss orders. He is white to the roots of his hair.
We may get him alive before daybreak if he’s close to the face and has air.’
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poem by Edward George Dyson
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You're Lonely
You're lonely
and you think it's because
you're not understood
in a small town
where extraordinarily ordinary people
go about the business of living
without expecting glorious results.
You show up catastrophically
on my doorstep
at three in the morning
and ask if I'll let you in like a wound
that has slashed you open like a mouth
and you know I won't turn you away.
You don't know what to do with your beauty
and neither do I
without a prelude to the encounter
and so you ask me how to live.
I turn myself inside out
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poem by Patrick White
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