Quotes about advent, page 7
Pangs of Deliverance
I watched you spin the tables
And reduce the forsaken fables
To an ostensible cacophony
And peel the enswathed naïveté
You stepped out of threshold
Your calloused hands groping
For the advent of an extra age
And your sallow eyes shattering
In the rancor miasma of derision
It may not be a debonair memory
But I remembered it too clearly
And I am ready to regurgitate
The living ghost in my cranial vault
And I do not intend to procrastinate,
Nor do I need a fire to instigate,
What I need is a hollering nostrum
From an insolent dilettante
To acquaint myself with
The point of self deception
An abandonment that recoils
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poem by Norman Santos
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To The Grasshopper
HAPPY art thou, darling insect,
Who, upon the trees' tall branches,
By a modest draught inspired,
Singing, like a monarch livest!
Thou possessest as thy portion
All that on the plains thou seest,
All that by the hours is brought thee
'Mongst the husbandmen thou livest,
As a friend, uninjured by them,
Thou whom mortals love to honour,
Herald sweet of sweet Spring's advent!
Yes, thou'rt loved by all the Muses,
Phoebus' self, too, needs must love thee;
They their silver voices gave thee,
Age can never steal upon thee.
Wise and gentle friend of poets,
Born a creature fleshless, bloodless,
Though Earth's daughter, free from suff'ring,
To the gods e'en almost equal.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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I shall carry your icon
I shall carry your icon with me, I have said
because an icon is a burst of feel spread
a deity submits it's absences oblation
without caring for our life's destination
The waves come, go, return I have said
because we care to worship our lost, dead
an ornament to an impertinent Maenad advent
Or just because a Hydra barks to the world
My words have fled upon Boreas wind
to reach a form, a dream, your silken lint
as they whiff, a world's oblation of this hint
my soul flies, adorning a lingering feast
And I recall your inner thoughts, a smile of doll
your image of a cumulus to carry my extol
as if we engaged upon our worshiped fervor
as our pains became obtuse, Nymphs enthrall
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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A Musical Loo (Fun Poem 74)
Does anyone remember
the advent of the musical toilet
that sprang up in the 1970’s?
Where you would sit
and do your business
while listening to a pleasant tune.
There was only one drawback, y
ou would sit there relaxing
listening to the music
and the biggest problem
was that when the music finished
the door would swing open
and reveal you still sitting on the throne.
The music they played,
now that was another thing
and it did make you wonder a bit.
Tunes like
Keep On Running
and On Top Of Old Smokey.
In one,
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poem by David Harris
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The Month of Poush
Lo! Winter comes!
She comes across an ocean of sorrow and tears.
Beware! Beware!
She comes from behind the horizon enveloped
in thick mist.
With her advent, alas! in the Ieafy forest
A farewell dirge seems to go round
The parting Day (Ah me!) casts a sad look
Losing as she does-the Evening Star that
lights her path.
See! Winter sets in -
She represents the sadness of the year's
journey, a loss of Eternity,
The farewell season of ripe paddy,
the dread of new arrival-
Beware! Beware! She is come! -
Dry breath, and Oh! the choked voice
of a farewell deeply laden with tears -
Arise, wayfarer! Thou hast to cover
a long distance casting a sad look
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poem by Kazi Nazrul Islam
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Sheffield knife
On equinox coastal unguarded brims,
forever far spent beacon's life,
small imperfection, a riddance still,
moon-flash on a Sheffield knife.
I hear his voices in this mauve dawn,
a resolution of his life's altruism,
the images he left before gone,
of odd Styx rife adventism..
One instant of hypothesis his glance,
a tragic wilt, distance of stare,
it was a never equation to solve,
a wine's spill, dim marquee of despair.
I 'll go away from that coastal of Aden,
assuming earth will be mine,
Sunday's sweet, mane of a maiden's mist
and a recall of a wilted sign..
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Ceasefire
Believers, stoked by a thirst-quenching fire
scale mountains with hope-braided rope.
Atheists, being damper and drier
tackle gentler slopes of Mope and Cope.
Some ride a pendulum high, to inspire
music and art beyond mortal scope.
Others, content in a logical mire
wash layers of mud with plain soap.
Unflinching believers aspire, won't tire
aligned by an inner gyroscope.
Less particular atheists acquire
bits, here and there in a whimsical grope.
Once, creation myths were shaped by desire
like a slow turning kaleidoscope.
Advent of printing fixed faith to require
no deviation from dogma's tightrope.
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poem by Diane Hine
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Aestivate Stare
Eye glance in aestivate air,
staring at your serene grace,
a beauty adorned with a grin
Whispers hymn a benign face,
so I mind-trace this vitrine,
with you a becoming prayer...
I attend links and my insight,
adores your aura; I never had
as ornament your emitted light,
blossom on water, a lily pad.
I trace a face of soft curves,
advent on emerald sea shore,
to file my cause as blue waves,
sparkle foam's dance to adore.
A beatific flight above my past,
memory is my companionship,
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Pen Friend Days
PEN FRIEND DAYS
A few thousand miles away
I had a nice friend to share
our continuous thoughts and moods
through the medium of words by post
For years together, we were in touch
yet, every time we felt afresh
with every new mail, in hand, that went to vouch
our bond was secure, in the absence of one to one contact
Exchange of gifts and photos, of course
Kept us to shoulders abreast
respecting each others tastes and wishes
cocktail cultures and crude emotional mix-ups
But, I regret, on self-examination
That I do seldom love my fellow Indian
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poem by Santhana Louis
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The Cave of the Unborn
I rose at night and visited
The Cave of the Unborn,
And crowding shapes surrounded me
For tidings of the life to be,
Who long had prayed the silent Head
To speed their advent morn.
Their eyes were lit with artless trust;
Hope thrilled their every tone:
"A place the loveliest, is it not?
A pure delight, a beauty-spot
Where all is gentle, pure and just
And ??violence?? is unknown?"
My heart was anguished for their sake;
I could not frame a word;
But they descried my sunken face
And seemed to read therein, and trace
The news which Pity would not break
Nor Truth leave unaverred.
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poem by Thomas Hardy
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