Who sieves too much keeps the rubbish.
Belgian proverbs
Added by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Rubbish Sad Salary Somber N
rubbish sad salary somber n'
exquisite
influenced by everything.
rubbish sad salary somber n'
intricate a
Rubiks Cube, Waldo was found
in an outhouse by the summit of an epoch
the 1920s washed out into depressive oblivion. Simon included
this in his autobiography, written in the 3rd person.
rubbish sad salary somber n'
infinite.
rubbish sad salary
rubbish sad salary
a sombering quintet.
The Rinkhals in Muckleneuk Ridge
We were living in the mansion
in Muckleneuk Ridge
when Heinrich wheeled the
rubbish bin out to the street
to leave it for the collectors,
and the red haired neighbour woman
started to shout at him.
I was just getting out of my Volkswagen Polo
and within a minute I was there
like a avenging angel,
telling her to leave the boy alone
and that the pavement
doesn’t belong to her
and that we have got the right
to put out the rubbish bin
for the rubbish collectors.
She got red with anger in her face,
hissed like a snake trying to spit
and cursed me in English
and I told her to get lost.
That woman was aquatically
quite funny and always dressed
in a track suit,
(as if she had no other
type of clothes)
living in a dilapidated house
like a hermit
with rusting sink plate roof
and weeds standing knee high
in her garden
in that rich man’s neighbourhood.
It was when the dogs
tried to catch a half grown coucal
which the wind had blown
out of its nest
and I jumped down the steps
of some terraces
to rescue the poor thing
and I and that wild bird
got to love each other
and it would start to scream
with excitement as soon
as it heard my car
coming near
[...] Read more
poem by Gert Strydom
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One stone two birds
rubbish, rubbish, rubbish
it not innocent game to finish
it is brilliance and execution of skill
That fulfills your aim and will
what best can be the option?
where you have to last long with no ration
maintaining strong bond without any relation
according warm reception to foes with citation
It s mastery stroke with fine precision
you may take split second decision
the arrow may travel and strike in bull
The result may be appreciated even by fool
It is move to keep enemy in suspension
He may not come out with its dispensation
there is still more waiting in sensation
when it will be enjoyed with elation
it is realization of goal in one stroke
the move may be concealed in smoke
the enemy may be simply compelled to provoke
here it may force her to surrender and accept the yoke
its usage is not limited to end result
it is not revenge for any insult
it is total surprise and delivered as deadly blow
Its impact may be known later on or very slow
Shoot with precision and prove the alertness
may be possible it is shot in air with firmness
the result is achieved without any bloodshed
this may be considered as an example and watershed
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Prejudice
IN yonder red-brick mansion, tight and square,
Just at the town's commencement, lives the mayor.
Some yards of shining gravel, fenced with box,
Lead to the painted portal--where one knocks :
There, in the left-hand parlour, all in state,
Sit he and she, on either side the grate.
But though their goods and chattels, sound and new,
Bespeak the owners very well to do,
His worship's wig and morning suit betray
Slight indications of an humbler day
That long, low shop, where still the name appears,
Some doors below, they kept for forty years :
And there, with various fortunes, smooth and rough,
They sold tobacco, coffee, tea, and snuff.
There labelled drawers display their spicy row--
Clove, mace, and nutmeg : from the ceiling low
Dangle long twelves and eights , and slender rush,
Mix'd with the varied forms of genus brush ;
Cask, firkin, bag, and barrel, crowd the floor,
And piles of country cheeses guard the door.
The frugal dames came in from far and near,
To buy their ounces and their quarterns here.
Hard was the toil, the profits slow to count,
And yet the mole-hill was at last a mount.
Those petty gains were hoarded day by day,
With little cost, for not a child had they ;
Till, long proceeding on the saving plan,
He found himself a warm, fore-handed man :
And being now arrived at life's decline,
Both he and she, they formed the bold design,
(Although it touched their prudence to the quick)
To turn their savings into stone and brick.
How many an ounce of tea and ounce of snuff,
There must have been consumed to make enough !
At length, with paint and paper, bright and gay,
The box was finished, and they went away.
But when their faces were no longer seen
Amongst the canisters of black and green ,
--Those well-known faces, all the country round--
'Twas said that had they levelled to the ground
The two old walnut trees before the door,
The customers would not have missed them more.
Now, like a pair of parrots in a cage,
They live, and civic honours crown their age :
Thrice, since the Whitsuntide they settled there,
Seven years ago, has he been chosen mayor ;
And now you'd scarcely know they were the same ;
Conscious he struts, of power, and wealth, and fame ;
[...] Read more
poem by Jane Taylor
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Rubbish Tip
At the rubbish tip they place their words
Just on the edge of
Surreal and absurd
A gold leafed edge
A lettered page
At teh rubbish tip
They stage
Their acts in
'THREE PARTS SCENE ONE'
Then you arrive
By stage door three
With a broken heart
All at sea
With the rythmn
Of the words
They left you to say
Can't see the wood for the trees today
At the rubbish dump
The hungry sit
Wide eyed
Death in their mouths
Waiting to eat
The bread of the words
The crumbs from a table
Of rotten verse
[...] Read more
poem by Yvette Smith
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A dealer in rubbish sounds the praises of rubbish.
Latin proverbs
Added by Lucian Velea
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If you're going to make rubbish, be the best rubbish in it.
quote by Richard Burton
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There’s a male baboon loose in town
There’s a male baboon loose in town
walking on its hands and feet
opening all the rubbish bins in town
where eagerly it looks for any food
and it’s easier for him than the bush,
while cursing he talks to the dogs.
There’s a male baboon loose in town
walking on its hands and feet
stripping everything that it finds
and as an outcast it did desert,
he scratches between rubbish, old papers and mail,
trying to baptize himself in the sewerage,
there’s a male baboon loose in town
walking on its hands and feet.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Hermann And Dorothea - II. Terpsichore
HERMANN.
THEN when into the room the well-built son made his entry,
Straightway with piercing glances the minister eyed him intently,
And with carefulness watch'd his looks and the whole of his bearing,
With an inquiring eye which easily faces decyphers;
Then he smiled, and with cordial words address'd him as follows
'How you are changed in appearance, my friend! I never have seen you
Half so lively before; your looks are thoroughly cheerful.
You have return'd quite joyous and merry. You've doubtless divided
All of the presents amongst the poor, their blessings receiving.'
Then in calm accents replied the son, with gravity speaking
'Whether I've laudably acted, I know not; I follow'd the impulse
Of my own heart, as now I'll proceed to describe with exactness.
Mother, you rummaged so long, in looking over old pieces,
And in making your choice, that 'twas late when the bundle was ready,
And the wine and the beer were slowly and carefully pack'd up.
When I at length emerged at the gate, and came on the highway,
Streams of citizens met I returning, with women and children,
For the train of the exiles had long disappear'd in the distance.
So I quicken'd my pace, and hastily drove to the village
Where I had heard that to-night to rest and to sleep they intended.
Well, as I went on my way, the newly-made causeway ascending,
Suddenly saw I a waggon, of excellent timber constructed,
Drawn by a couple of oxen, the best and the strongest of foreign.
Close beside it there walk'd, with sturdy footsteps, a maiden,
Guiding the two strong beasts with a long kind of staff, which with skill she
Knew how to use, now driving, and now restraining their progress.
When the maiden observed me, she quietly came near the horses,
And address'd me as follows:--'Our usual condition, believe me,
Is not so sad as perchance you might judge from our present appearance.
I am not yet accustom'd to ask for alms from a stranger,
Who so often but gives, to rid himself of a beggar.
But I'm compell'd to speak by necessity. Here on the straw now
Lies the lately-confined poor wife of a wealthy landowner,
Whom with much trouble I managed to save with oxen and waggon.
We were late in arriving, and scarcely with life she escaped.
Now the newly-born child in her arms is lying, all naked,
And our friends will be able to give them but little assistance,
E'en if in the next village, to which to-night we are going,
We should still find them, although I fear they have left it already.
If you belong to the neighbourhood, any available linen
These poor people will deem a most acceptable present.
'Thus she spake, and wearily raised herself the pale patient
Up from the straw and gazed upon me, while thus I made answer
'Oft doth a heavenly spirit whisper to kind-hearted people,
So that they feel the distress o'er their poorer brethren impending;
For my mother, your troubles foreboding, gave me a bundle
[...] Read more
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Annus Mirabilis, The Year Of Wonders, 1666
1
In thriving arts long time had Holland grown,
Crouching at home and cruel when abroad:
Scarce leaving us the means to claim our own;
Our King they courted, and our merchants awed.
2
Trade, which, like blood, should circularly flow,
Stopp'd in their channels, found its freedom lost:
Thither the wealth of all the world did go,
And seem'd but shipwreck'd on so base a coast.
3
For them alone the heavens had kindly heat;
In eastern quarries ripening precious dew:
For them the Idumaean balm did sweat,
And in hot Ceylon spicy forests grew.
4
The sun but seem'd the labourer of the year;
Each waxing moon supplied her watery store,
To swell those tides, which from the line did bear
Their brimful vessels to the Belgian shore.
5
Thus mighty in her ships, stood Carthage long,
And swept the riches of the world from far;
Yet stoop'd to Rome, less wealthy, but more strong:
And this may prove our second Punic war.
6
What peace can be, where both to one pretend?
(But they more diligent, and we more strong)
Or if a peace, it soon must have an end;
For they would grow too powerful, were it long.
7
Behold two nations, then, engaged so far
That each seven years the fit must shake each land:
Where France will side to weaken us by war,
Who only can his vast designs withstand.
8
See how he feeds the Iberian with delays,
To render us his timely friendship vain:
And while his secret soul on Flanders preys,
He rocks the cradle of the babe of Spain.
9
Such deep designs of empire does he lay
[...] Read more
poem by John Dryden
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A Carbon Copy
Rubbish, written rubbish
I can't show it to anyone I know
They'll get the wrong idea,
They'll think I am fatalistic,
A desperate soul...
(But isn't he clever!)
Too bad he can't control his thoughts
They should be more like ours
We are society, the community,
We dictate the acceptable attitude,
The right way to think and write...
But who-are we
But individuals, first
And finally individuals
Suffocating from individualism...
Or lack of it-...!
©All Rights Reserved-2010
poem by Romeo Della Valle
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A Critic
That from _you_, neighbor! to whose vacant lot
Each rhyming literary knacker scourges
His cart-compelling Pegasus to trot,
As folly, fame or famine smartly urges?
Admonished by the stimulating goad,
How gaily, lo! the spavined crow-bait prances
Its cart before it-eager to unload
The dead-dog sentiments and swill-tub fancies.
Gravely the sweating scavenger pulls out
The tail-board of his curst imagination,
Shoots all his rascal rubbish, and, no doubt,
Thanks Fortune for so good a dumping-station.
To improve your property, the vile cascade
Your thrift invites-to make a higher level.
In vain: with tons of garbage overlaid,
Your baseless bog sinks slowly to the devil.
'Rubbish may be shot here'-familiar sign!
I seem to see it in your every column.
You have your wishes, but if I had mine
'Twould to your editor mean something solemn.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Separation
I
You have left and I am missing life
do miss sitting in the mornings or evenings on the porch
or under the old pepper tree
to hear doves coo, small birds calling each other
or to see you making food in the kitchen
where you fry feta cheese with spinach,
where your are involved in conversations with me,
where I see you busy making fruit salad
where I at times pour a glass of wine for you
but more to hold you tightly against me,
to see the stars shining against the heaven
when the day grows faint from blue to black,
to hear you play a song over and over again,
to share maybe a hundred times with me.
II
To share maybe a hundred times with me
that you really love me
or did I only imagine it?
Sometimes I try to understand
the meaning behind all of your words,
slowly I become aware of feelings,
as if something magical hides somewhere
in the loving deed and hungry kiss.
I do not know the direction to take
when I am caught in a labyrinth,
where I wander goalless without ever finding you
and I have got to go on my own way,
when my plans and dreams fall apart,
when you stay out of my life.
III
When you stay out of my life,
then I loose you
as you hide your face from mine,
when your pretty eyes do not shine anymore.
When we lead lives at other places,
when I have no desire for you,
it makes me totally free from you,
with a harsh unapproachable law
where your love turns to hatred
to fall only on your new lover,
then let me find someone else as partner
where your anger cannot fall on me.
At a time I trusted you far too much,
I did build my whole world on you.
[...] Read more
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Journey And Back Again
Introduction:
I live a life full of incidents
especially whenever I go away.
As the years tumble by
and as I look at them,
they seem quite amusing now
than on the day they happened.
The following records a journey
my wife and I took many years ago
to The Viking Hotel then owned
by Irish singer Daniel O’Donnell.
My wife is a great fan of his
and I have to confess
I have met him a few times myself.
Day One:
We arrived at the coach station early
with overnight bags packed, waited,
and waited until finally
our coach turned up a half an hour late.
A bad omen for a start
for all the misadventures that were to follow.
We travelled up to north Wales incident free
to stay in a hotel for the night.
Day Two:
After breakfast, we boarded our coach
and then down to the Ferry Port
only to find there was no Ferry there.
Someone had forgotten to inform everyone
that at this time in the morning the tide was out
and a Ferry cannot sail without water.
Finally, the tide decided to come back in an hour later
and with it came our Ferry.
The crossing was quite quiet
even for the Irish Sea
and soon we were on the other side
on dear old Ireland’s shore
an hour late, but what is an hour between friends.
We drove up to Dublin
and all its road works there
with detours to run us around in circles
and more time lost there.
Finally, out of Dublin we headed north
and an all day drive to Donegal.
Now we were only halfway through day two
and the incidents were piling up.
A Ferry with no water on which to sail,
detours to hamper us on our way
and still a long journey ahead.
[...] Read more
poem by David Harris
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Sue me if you can
Sometimes I wonder
what kind of criminals
is doing business today
in the new South Africa
and steal time, labour
and life
from their employees
and claim money
for undelivered services?
The rubbish collectors strike,
as they are not paid
and there is nobody
to collect the rubbish
and still the municipality
charges its fees
while you have to dispose of it
or have to pay other people
to remove it.
Mine workers are in revolt
since from November
they got no salaries
and it’s already the end of march
and some more promises
are made by the mine
that maybe later
fire them all.
A salesman’s sales
goes through the books
and money is received for it
and the boss
transfers all her property
to her children
and says that he
will get no commission
as she is bankrupt:
“sue me if you can.”
poem by Gert Strydom
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Bares Thru Us?
BARES THRU US?
by Alex Lewis
i'm taking out the TRASh (of society) :
the only way to set all the others free.
i will dispose of all of it:
those healthy in mind and body-fit.
in this, RUbbish, you won't find the needy,
only the selfish and the greedy.
i have no garbagE-collecting mechanism
to pick up all of the racism
i'll put them in the traSH bag next to the ignoramus.
i'm talking, of course, about the rich and famous.
at the request of the children,
i'll be rid of each republican.
finally, i can take the garBage out
before the scum see what's about.
now, everyone else will be at peace,
especially the lazy and the police.
i have only one word of warning for you all:
once again, the rUbbish bag will get full. ?
poem by Alex Lewis
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Poesie De Paris
Poesie de Paris
Current racing, yet the boat holds still;
moored fast beside the edges of the Seine.
Floating debris passes by, broken free
from rubbish dumped on the banks carelessly.
The ship’s bilge, rank! Disgorged
adds to the brown disturbed river.
Mistletoe Pom Poms hang unhindered
in the trees: stripped bare by winter solitude
now begins signs of being pushed aside-
to bear the inevitable advent of spring,
which will transform the rubbish
and the murky anguished water
to reveal, the reflection of the green
bedecked trees, garlanded, lining the river-
becoming a romantic dream lover once again
alive on the banks of the Seine.
The noisy strength of the engine’s wake up call,
cruising to Conflans in the misty morn, cold,
as we go, we can see the snow
resting on a distant field.
The boat joins the flow of the river
and a lone Magpie seeking the jewels of the night,
Is left behind
as we go to find the Versailles Château.
There, symmetrical flowerless boxed gardens-
apt for a cold day.
The palace in its gaudy grandeur
lures and welcomes us to view its splendour
and go away,
knowing, ’every dog has its day’.
All the Gods depicted in the ceilings- play
in heavenly grace,
[...] Read more
poem by Kathleen Bartholomew
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To My Friend Cat
Cat
Right now i’m feeling all blue
I dnt know what to do
For i feel like i’m a shit of rubbish
A rubbish that u can easily use and throw away
Cat
Right now i’m feeling all confused
I dnt know what to believe
All i hear that he’s “busy”
Well maybe he is,
But i feel like a shit bomb man
Cat
Right now i dnt feel loved
I dont know he loves me anymore
It’s like a trust has fades away
And this is to say
It’s similar to beautiful rose dying away
Cat
Right now i’m hurting all over
I dnt know who i could tell it to
I have nobody at the moment
Tell me what shall i do today?
Cat
What shall i do?
I hardly know u guys
I hardly know the world
I hardly go out
I hardly do normal things
I hardly to anything man
It’s not my fault if i can’t do things
How can i put it into words?
So that all of my mates and ppl may understand
Cat
I see myself as a shit
Soon i might see u breaking with me
Just like my other mates
I dnt know what to do
I’m a piece of shit
Cat
Plzz plzz...
Don’t hurt me
Like others did
Coz’ it already having an affect on me
Dnt be the one
[...] Read more
poem by Hindy Nobody
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Rembrandt to Rembrandt
(AMSTERDAM, 1645)
And there you are again, now as you are.
Observe yourself as you discern yourself
In your discredited ascendency;
Without your velvet or your feathers now,
Commend your new condition to your fate,
And your conviction to the sieves of time.
Meanwhile appraise yourself, Rembrandt van Ryn,
Now as you are—formerly more or less
Distinguished in the civil scenery,
And once a painter. There you are again,
Where you may see that you have on your shoulders
No lovelier burden for an ornament
Than one man’s head that’s yours. Praise be to God
That you have that; for you are like enough
To need it now, my friend, and from now on;
For there are shadows and obscurities
Immediate or impending on your view,
That may be worse than you have ever painted
For the bewildered and unhappy scorn
Of injured Hollanders in Amsterdam
Who cannot find their fifty florins’ worth
Of Holland face where you have hidden it
In your new golden shadow that excites them,
Or see that when the Lord made color and light
He made not one thing only, or believe
That shadows are not nothing. Saskia said,
Before she died, how they would swear at you,
And in commiseration at themselves.
She laughed a little, too, to think of them—
And then at me.… That was before she died.
And I could wonder, as I look at you,
There as I have you now, there as you are,
Or nearly so as any skill of mine
Has ever caught you in a bilious mirror,—
Yes, I could wonder long, and with a reason,
If all but everything achievable
In me were not achieved and lost already,
Like a fool’s gold. But you there in the glass,
And you there on the canvas, have a sort
Of solemn doubt about it; and that’s well
For Rembrandt and for Titus. All that’s left
Of all that was is here; and all that’s here
Is one man who remembers, and one child
Beginning to forget. One, two, and three,
The others died, and then—then Saskia died;
And then, so men believe, the painter died.
[...] Read more
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Bellville
I stand on the dark balcony
while the almost endless rain
sieves down continually
and the streets of Bellville below me shines
where lights gleam everywhere, with cars
that continually drives up and down
and I wonder
how a lightning bolt that decent over the city
would look like
if it would also branch out
like in the Transvaal of my childhood day
before it touches down blue-white
but I only see rain, concrete and glass.
poem by Gert Strydom
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