Tag Archives: Poem

sometimes

dעr tאlmid

in the evenings
we danced.

sometimes.

when the kids were asleep.

we turned the radio on
that was tuned to NPR Jazz.

and it played jazz.

it played Brubeck and Coltrane,
it played Stan Getz and Ellington.

and we danced,
sipping the port wine,
making shades on the brick wall.

and the candle flames danced with us.

and we didn’t care about neighbors
yelling at each other
or barking dog
or a car alarm that went on
and our annoying old cat.

sometimes.

candle flames danced,
without
us.

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Thinking of Li Po at Sky’s End (after Tu Fu)

O at the Edges

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Thinking of Li Po at Sky’s End (after Tu Fu)

Cold wind rises at the sky’s end.
What does he consider?
And when will the geese arrive?
The rivers and lakes are full this autumn
but poets’ fates are seldom pleasant.
Demons love to see us fail.
Let’s think of dead Ch’u Yuan
and offer poems to the river.

The transliteration on Chinesepoems.com reads:

Thinking of Li Po at the End of the Sky

Cold wind rise sky end
Gentleman thought resemble what?
Goose what time come?
River lake autumn water much
Literature hate fate eminent
Demons happy people failure
Respond together wronged person language
Throw poems give Miluo

According to the notes at Chinesepoems.com, the wild goose is a symbol of autumn, letters and travellers in difficulties. The wronged person is Qu Yuan, a poet of the fourth century BC who drowned himself in the Miluo river – another…

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Employee Value

Let it come from the heart

He is
14013
That stands for
Easily replaceable

It’s the number
Some office worker
Somewhere
Uses to get his wages
Wrong
Every month

It stands for
Being overworked

It stands for
Disrespect
From management
And customers
Five days a week

It stands for
Misery
Knowing that he has
No choice
But to take the abuse
If he wants
To keep his job
And take home
Some money

It is nothing
To the executives
Who would be
Disgusted
If it was the value
Of their
Yearly bonus

But it’s more
Than he earns
In a year

He’s heard that
There are some companies
Out there
Who respect their
Employees

But he’s never
Worked for one

It doesn’t matter
He won’t be working here
For much longer

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The Seed Shop

Secret Gardener

hugo de vriesHugo Marie de Vries ForMemRS (February, 1848 – May, 1935)

The Seed Shop

Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry –
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
That will drink deeply of a century’s streams;
These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

Here in their safe and simple house of death,
Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;
Here I can blow a garden with my breath,
And in my hand a forest lies asleep.


Muriel Stuart Irwin (1885 — 1967)

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A Poem of Belief by a Jewish Prisoner in a Nazi Concentration Camp

sairyd

I thought I’d share this poem that I found on the internet. It was written during WW2, on the wall of a cellar, by a Jew in the Cologne concentration camp.

“I believe in the sun
even when it is not shining
And I believe in love,
even when there’s no one there.
And I believe in God,
even when he is silent.

I believe through any trial,
there is always a way
But sometimes in this suffering
and hopeless despair
My heart cries for shelter,
to know someone’s there
But a voice rises within me, saying hold on
my child, I’ll give you strength,
I’ll give you hope. Just stay a little while.

I believe in the sun
even when it is not shining
And I believe in love
even when there’s no one there
But I believe in God
even when he is silent
I believe through any…

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We Will Remember Them

Madkentdragon's Blog

“We will remember them”, how many times have you heard those words?

Watch the Royal British Legion Festival of Remembrance, the Remembrance Service at the Cenotaph or attend a local Remembrance Service and you will hear the “Exhortation”; 

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

But did you know that these words come from a poem by Laurence Binyon called “For the Fallen” written in 1919?  And do you think that these people are only remembering the death of the WWI troops?

But wait a minute, someone is now saying something else – what did he say?  Oh yes it was:

“When You Go Home, Tell Them Of Us And Say, 
For Their Tomorrow, We Gave Our Today”

Now where did…

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POEM: THE TEARS FROM ABOVE

Reblogged with kind permission.

Nathan B. Poetry

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The rain to us is life from above
But what if they were the tears from above?
From those long gone and those in our thoughts
From our past brothers and sisters that are now long gone
The tears on the glass are a witness to this
There they stain the glass with those thoughts from above
Oh to hear what each drop could pronounce
A journey long awaited to drop on us
The tears from above is the way I see them
Calling us today to remember their names
The tears from above are for me to remember
In times lapse of wonders will I never forget
And when you see those tears from above
Those that we call rain
Just remember the name
Of those gone before as they watch from above
And give a thought from what comes from above
And never forget the tears from above

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“The Changeling” – Charlotte Mary Mew

Linda Catherine

Toll no bell for me, dear Father dear Mother, 
Waste no sighs; 
There are my sisters, there is my little brother 
Who plays in the place called Paradise, 
Your children all, your children for ever; 
But I, so wild, 
Your disgrace, with the queer brown face, was never, 
Never, I know, but half your child! 

In the garden at play, all day, last summer, 
Far and away I heard 
The sweet “tweet-tweet” of a strange new-comer, 
The dearest, clearest call of a bird. 
It lived down there in the deep green hollow, 
My own old home, and the fairies say 
The word of a bird is a thing to follow, 
So I was away a night and a day. 

One evening, too, by the nursery fire, 
We snuggled close and sat round so still, 
When suddenly as the wind blew higher, 
Something scratched on the window-sill, 
A pinched brown face…

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