Quotes about relics, page 6
One Knows
One knows one can repel
The forces of evil with cannons
After the view is taken by some.
The views expressed occur for us,
At the beginning of wars we fought,
Yesterday was a year, festivals came.
At the top of certain relics
Is a view around, the full one,
The panoramic compulsion of years,
A fully forming enigma of certainty.
Empires are theories so bold,
One is repulsed by their longing.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Game Of Senses
That domination loathed me when I danced
And sang my way home, further than the sun.
Those who dominate shall reach the maturity,
Anybody with a reality to conceive shall inherit.
That domination lessened my fortune, futile relic,
This fortune is futile relics, full-time religion.
Blindness mastered by some can bring new sight,
Whereas the deaf-eared regain their senses once again.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Words Dressed
A tailor of your words has dressed you up
And your old speech, to make you better for it.
The release of relics is sacred, all this completion
Seems to question the authority.
My tailor has clothing so pure, and words so pristine,
That everyone respects, holding their hair on the head.
The answer to the thoughts posed by certain educated men,
Reflects the whole issue of grandeur and importance.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Home Is Home
Here is home
Home is home
No place like home
Home is where u are welcome
Come home,
Come back home
You yearn for their zone
But it can't be your home,
Your relics are here,
You are only there
Where you can only desire
But can never acquire.
They quit you when they please
For you are only there on lease.
Come home with your cream,
Come home with your dream,
Come lets build ours
In these fleeting hours.
poem by Influence Salubi
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Oh! Breathe Not His Name
Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid:
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.
But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Logic?
Logic?
Only those idealistic,
Struggle with it.
And those with common sense,
Are regarded as relics.
Long replaced by the invention,
Of video games.
To 'update' the entertaining,
Of transfixed minds soon to be erased.
To one day rely entirely on computers,
Interfacing with one another.
And eventually determining all validity of thought.
To have the enjoyment of expressing ignorance,
Something done encouraged at one time to be important.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Grampa's Grampa
something about the ancient poetry
of the classic age
something calls to mind an isolated cemetary
brittle sparks of snow crystallized over the surface
cheek-chapping cold cones breath in visible steam
a lone raven looks over the lost yet
meticulously landscaped disaster.
this is lost on our pallets of now, and always have been.
even Percy Shelly drew these images of beauty and luster
as relics of a past, traditions of wordsmiths of fantasy of another age
that never existed.
poem by Barry Donegan
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Connived
Weaving fine fibres of unripe
beliefs, from a fire base, a blue bird
scrambles, shading the stone valley.
There was no thrift for the cadavers.
The burnt relics were eating away the greens
of tearful eyes. Sun was slugging again.
A gag, a prison, a list; the trial was not
ending. A smell of burning leaves from a
guilt of smouldering garden, seeps through
the procession of thoughts, something which
cannot be questioned. Red blossoms of
clouds distract the blue flames of stars.
poem by Satish Verma
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The Sparrow`s Order
I walk between a forest and a river,
one male, one female,
they are both grey.
They are filled with relics,
skulls peek through trees,
the path is ringed with rainwater.
The wind is before time,
I am a black box in a falling plane,
unable to register panic.
Cat children whine in the undergrowth,
like lovers tumbling in fern.
A lost playing card, the nine of hearts.
A dead sparrow, frozen in the track of
a departed tractor. seems to say,
This is not your place!
[...] Read more
poem by Leslie Philibert
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Pomposity
Pompous talk carries benefit for the cranium to break,
Its use was essential, yet abandoned now, but how?
Mildewy relics smash the head, like an ache of redness,
The blood will turn into cake, or whatever the brain decides.
Hidden and covert, a blunder has occurred on the neck
From an attacker not existent, but why do they roar?
Blood gushes out of a wound in the head, and heart,
For what do combinations of cells exist?
The bombastic conversation has expired
Leaving the heart with a really sound noise.
poem by Naveed Akram
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