Quotes about snares
Hieroglyphic Beguile Meant
HIEROGLYPHIC BEGUILE...MEANT
I sought inspiring way to play “beguile”
blood's flood rush-blushing flush, then hibernate,
lush, hid ‘mid hieroglyphics of soft smile.
It dawned that very few can reconcile
emotions' brakes while breaking conscious state,
to draw more definitions for “beguile”.
Most, blind behind closed minds, can’t conjugate
dimensions manifold, unfold, translate,
decypher hieroglyphics of soft smile.
It takes so many lifetimes to compile
right signals light, bright eyes communicate
decoding definitions for “beguile”
into word worlds both varied, versatile,
deep, difficult to truly contemplate -
expanding hieroglyphics of soft smile.
Content observing content, context, style,
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Son Of Africa
Listen Africa listen!
Listen to the words of a stallion
Listen as I speak of a giant,
An African giant
A giant entangled by his own hand made snares
Yes! Indodana ya se Africa
Un-wax your ears and Listen
Great warrior of the chimurenga,
Phela you stood against white powers
And liberated black wishes
Against the Blairs and Bushes you stood.
Courageous, you battled the spite of the Smith.
Now listen Ndodana ya se Africa
Hear this young stallion galloping towards the truth.
In Limbo you stand snared by your own snares
In Limbo, you warrior remain just a memory
Hau lalela son of the soil,
It’s your people who go under the soil
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poem by David Lekoba
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Save the Boys
Like Dives in the deeps of Hell
I cannot break this fearful spell,
Nor quench the fires I've madly nursed,
Nor cool this dreadful raging thirst.
Take back your pledge--ye come too late!
Ye cannot save me from my fate,
Nor bring me back departed joys;
But ye can try to save the boys.
Ye bid me break my fiery chain,
Arise and be a man again,
When every street with snares is spread,
And nets of sin where'er I tread.
No; I must reap as I did sow.
The seeds of sin bring crops of woe;
But with my latest breath I'll crave
That ye will try the boys to save.
These bloodshot eyes were once so bright;
This sin-crushed heart was glad and light;
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poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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In the spirit of Rumi - 41 - Prayer
In the street outside the window
a beautiful young maiden passes;
only her eyes, looking straight ahead, demurely down,
are to be seen of her, above her veil, below her headscarf; and yet –
around her, as we draw our breath, transfixed –
around her, all the air is radiant with the light of love…
and in the following days, for hours each day,
we, love-smitten, wait in hope to catch her
as she passes; and the more we see her passing,
the more we seek to snare her attention;
hoping for the day when, as she passes,
her lovely eyes may glance so briefly, glance this way…
and on that day, the day of days
which we have waited for, for weeks and months -
then, it is no longer all we want:
how to ensnare her gaze? so that, one day,
our burning ears and lips may draw one single word from her…
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Suche Waiwarde Waies Hath Love That Moste Parte In Discorde
Suche waiwarde waies hath love that moste parte in discorde;
Our willes do stand wherby our hartes but seldom dooth accorde.
Disceyte is his delight, and to begyle and mocke
The symple hertes which he doth stryke with froward dyvers stroke.
He cawseth hertes to rage with golden burninge darte,
And doth alaye with ledden cold agayne the tothers harte.
Hot gleames of burning fyre and easye sparkes of flame
In balaunce of unegall weight he pondereth by ame.
From easye fourde, where I might wade and passe full well,
He me withdrawes, and doth me drive into the darke diep well;
And me withholdes where I am cald and offerd place,
And wooll that still my mortall foo I do beseche of grace.
He lettes me to pursue a conquest well nere woon,
To follow where my paynes were spilt or that my sute begune.
Lo, by these rules I know how sone a hart can turne
From warr to peace, from trewce to stryf, and so again returne.
I know how to convert my will in others lust;
Of litle stuff unto my self to weyve a webb of trust;
And how to hide my harme with soft dissembled chere,
When in my face the paynted thoughtes wolde owtwardlye appere.
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poem by Henry Howard
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The Song Of Hiawatha XIII: Blessing The Cornfields
Sing, O Song of Hiawatha,
Of the happy days that followed,
In the land of the Ojibways,
In the pleasant land and peaceful!
Sing the mysteries of Mondamin,
Sing the Blessing of the Cornfields!
Buried was the bloody hatchet,
Buried was the dreadful war-club,
Buried were all warlike weapons,
And the war-cry was forgotten.
There was peace among the nations;
Unmolested roved the hunters,
Built the birch canoe for sailing,
Caught the fish in lake and river,
Shot the deer and trapped the beaver;
Unmolested worked the women,
Made their sugar from the maple,
Gathered wild rice in the meadows,
Dressed the skins of deer and beaver.
All around the happy village
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Blessing The Cornfields
Sing, O Song of Hiawatha,
Of the happy days that followed,
In the land of the Ojibways,
In the pleasant land and peaceful!
Sing the mysteries of Mondamin,
Sing the Blessing of the Cornfields!
Buried was the bloody hatchet,
Buried was the dreadful war-club,
Buried were all warlike weapons,
And the war-cry was forgotten.
There was peace among the nations;
Unmolested roved the hunters,
Built the birch canoe for sailing,
Caught the fish in lake and river,
Shot the deer and trapped the beaver;
Unmolested worked the women,
Made their sugar from the maple,
Gathered wild rice in the meadows,
Dressed the skins of deer and beaver.
All around the happy village
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Quid Pro Quo; Or The Mistakes
DAME FORTUNE often loves a laugh to raise,
And, playing off her tricks and roguish ways,
Instead of giving us what we desire,
Mere quid pro quo permits us to acquire.
I've found her gambols such from first to last,
And judge the future by experience past.
Fair Cloris and myself felt mutual flame;
And, when a year had run, the sprightly dame
Prepared to grant me, if I may be plain,
Some slight concessions that would ease my pain.
This was her aim; but whatsoe'er in view,
'Tis opportunity we should pursue;
The lover, who's discreet, will moments seize;
And ev'ry effort then will tend to please.
ONE eve I went this charming fair to see;
The husband happened (luckily for me)
To be abroad; but just as it was night
The master came, not doubting all was right;
No Cloris howsoe'er was in the way;
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poem by La Fontaine
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The Sinner and The Spider
Sinner.
What black, what ugly crawling thing art thou?
Spider.
I am a spider——————-
Sinner.
A spider, ay, also a filthy creature.
Spider.
Not filthy as thyself in name or feature.
My name entailed is to my creation,
My features from the God of thy salvation.
Sinner.
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poem by John Bunyan
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Hero And Leander. The Fourth Sestiad
Now from Leander's place she rose, and found
Her hair and rent robe scatter'd on the ground;
Which taking up, she every piece did lay
Upon an altar, where in youth of day
She us'd t' exhibit private sacrifice:
Those would she offer to the deities
Of her fair goddess and her powerful son,
As relics of her late-felt passion;
And in that holy sort she vow'd to end them,
In hope her violent fancies, that did rend them,
Would as quite fade in her love's holy fire,
As they should in the flames she meant t' inspire.
Then put she on all her religious weeds,
That decked her in her secret sacred deeds;
A crown of icicles, that sun nor fire
Could ever melt, and figur'd chaste desire;
A golden star shined in her naked breast,
In honour of the queen-light of the east.
In her right hand she held a silver wand,
On whose bright top Peristera did stand.
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poem by George Chapman
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