Quotes about girth, page 9
Fate's Watershed Awaits Ahead 1722
I who was king, taught all to sing, when Greenland still was green,
scoff at the way most homage pay today to progress crowned.
Fat profit's ring, its scorpion sting shall strike, spike anguish keen,
oh lack a day! Man's lost his way, with motives so unsound.
I who foresaw from shore to shore how wonderlust would mean
no stone unturned, deserved, ill earned, in search of mirage dreams
when rotten core exploits the poor, when little in between
extremes is learned, with justice spurned and bridges burned it seems.
I who remain in etching plain, on bone forever set
call all to see that history for vengeance cries aloud.
Fate's watershed awaits ahead to help this world forget
that man once walked, at nothing balked, to stand out from the crowd,
exploiting earth throughout its girth, ambitions daily whet
by hubris swank and reasons rank, by ways in which rank proud
sought to oppress, yet nonetheless Time, grinning, will not let
poor jokes to last, and very fast shall flood man's pride low bowed.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Second Coming (Cavatina Sequence)
(after William Butler Yeats)
Anarchy, mere madness is loose,
a president
for life is enthroned (while voted out) ,
an incident
of total corruption occurs daily,
not diffident
a country is laid waist, in merriment
brought to an utter impoverishment.
His fifth brigade cleans Matabeleland;
killing, raping;
farmers are driven from their property
just escaping
with their bare lives from some murderous crowds,
with mouth gaping
he smiles on the conquest of fertile farmland,
causing famine, in victory holds up a hand.
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poem by Gert Strydom
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Monsoon
Father sun isn't rude anymore
For he is in his transition chore more
Aippasi is all set at Libra's door
Farther monsoon is nearer to pour
Heigh ho sing, 'clouds are scudding forth'
Sultry souls are out to graze
In the field of showery grace
Aippasi embarks on with revenent mirth
Sunbaked earth is in quenching race
Monsoon is merry with magnified girth
Interim events illumine monsoon
Celebrated celestials marry soon
Sin-hewn demons defeated to maroon
Ravana, Narakasura slain to a festive boon
Heigh ho sing merrily 'merry merry Deepavali'
May the ignorant heart doesn't croon
But let the lit up soul tune
Monsoon thence on cloud nine rapturously
Monsoon is heaven of bliss-immune
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poem by Indira Renganathan
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September Villanelle
SEPTEMBER VILLANELLE
September invokes something special in my ancient country
No 'Fall' here, no amber leaves, upon her crowded earth
Her billion people stand united, share the Indian psyche
Post monsoon, the land is a lush green mostly
Amid her crowded cities, one feels the warmth of her burning hearth
September invokes something special in my ancient country
In this land of a thousand festivals, one stands primary
It's the worship of Lord Ganesha, the elephant God of divine birth
Her billion people stand united, share the Indian psyche
The son of Shiva is worshipped by all with glee
Massive idols of Ganesha smile and spread the mirth
September invokes something special in my ancient country
India has cultures, religions and castes aplenty
Open to all festivals; of a free spirit no dearth
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poem by Manjula Reddy
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Things to Come
When you have gone and I have gone
Beyond the ken of earthly things,
Yet watch the old race carry on
As to precarious life it clings,
Gazing together from afar,
Perched on some fixed or unfixed star,
We may find cause to meditate
Full thankfully upon our fate.
And you shall say - or I shall say:
Those were man's great days, yours and mine,
Before his glories passed away,
His kingship fell into decline,
When he walked proudly o'er the earth
Questing his joy at its broad girth
Ere fear and folly claimed his soul
And bade him emulate the mole.
And you shall gaze and I shall gaze
In pity from our distant star
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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First Of All, Santa...The Roof Is Pitched
Dear Santa...
It is easier for me to accept I have been scammed,
Most of my life.
Than to continue playing the same mental games,
That you ride in a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer.
And that you land on my roof...
To then fit your enormous girth through a chimney.
First of all, Santa...
The roof is pitched.
And I doubt if you and your flying reindeer,
Could balance on it.
And the closest thing we have to a chimney,
Is a hole in the roof...
The landlord has been promising to fix,
Since my folks tried to pass off a stuffed chicken...
As a turkey for Thanksgiving a month ago.
However...
IF you are real and you find this note,
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Forest Magic
I've stood here for a thousand years
the wind my breath, the rain my tears
My skin is bark, the leaves my hair,
From here I can see everywhere.
My wings they span the universe
The Cosmic tide of ebb and flow
Like graceful birds in joyful flight
And crystal dreams of purest snow.
The Fox tickles his way
around my roots,
'The food is all down here', he says
'You cannot see, you are too tall!
Your leaves don't touch the ground 'til Fall!
Everything worthwhile escapes your notice...'
But the Eagle,
nesting there high on my brow
can tease the wind with his feathers somehow...
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poem by Lynne FincherSpringarden
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The Princess: A Medley: Our Enemies have Fall'n
Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: the seed,
The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark,
Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk
Of spanless girth, that lays on every side
A thousand arms and rushes to the Sun.
Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they came;
The leaves were wet with women's tears: they heard
A noise of songs they would not understand:
They mark'd it with the red cross to the fall,
And would have strown it, and are fall'n themselves.
Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they came,
The woodmen with their axes: lo the tree!
But we will make it faggots for the hearth,
And shape it plank and beam for roof and floor,
And boats and bridges for the use of men.
Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they struck;
With their own blows they hurt themselves, nor knew
There dwelt an iron nature in the grain:
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poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Eulogy At Midnight
Eulogy At Midnight
Date: December 1,2011
Night songs whisper through the air
Wind ghosts comb her twisted hair
With time bent back and furrowed brow
Love vows carved upon her bough
A hundred years of age to show
A splendid sight come rain or snow
With roots entwined beneath the sod
Her arms held high, in praise to God
Moonbeams gloss her rugged skin
She mourns the loss of youth and kin
Across the valleys, timbers fall
Making way for human sprawl
Yesterday majestic, tomorrow bleak
Nothing more to hide or seek
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poem by Leria Hawkins
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From Weeds' Ground to Seeds Found
As weeds which struggle spite capricious light,
each generation reaches out for space,
each generation fights to mark its place
before the next, forgetful, frets Time’s night.
As weeds we wither when our mortal plight
severs theme's thread, dreams seem too often vain
before most seek beyond pain's wi[n]dow pane
which separates won world from Nature’s bite.
Few glow within, wing free flight holiday,
few fail to compromise, in any case
few dare prolong the moment’s state of grace
when faced with choice – heed winning voice “We may! ”
Where rare exception to fools’ rule is found,
weeds fail to fuel foul play, rot healthy ground.
Where chance encounter contradicts Earth's dearth
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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