Latest quotes | Random quotes | Vote! | Latest comments | Add quote

I started when I was six years old. My first coach was my granny, she was the best player in Slovakia.

quote by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Related quotes

When I Was The Devil

When I was the devil
I sent many a devil
To my brother the devil
In Hell his abode.
.
When I was the devil
I lived half my years
In darkness and fear
I never had rest.
.
So glad I found Christ
Who brought me light
Never again shall
I wander from your sight.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

There Was A Time / When Poetry Was The Poet's Only Life

THERE WAS A TIME/ WHEN POETRY WAS THE POET’S ONLY LIFE

There was a time
When Poetry was the Poet’s only life-
All that was in his experience
Had its meaning
Only as Poetry.

But when he began to understand
‘Poetry’ had primarily become a ‘means’
For his own Greed and Ego.
Poetry was lost.

But as he was a Poet in his soul,
He and his life too were also lost.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Leaving Was The Best Thing

My home I opened without restrictions.
No conditions were you required to meet.
I wanted to treat you to peace,
And hospitality!
But you wanted to keep secrets.
And disrespected my privacy.
The same I afforded you.
You made my business yours...
As you provided none to share.
I once cared.
My peace of mind is not yours to dissect!
Leaving was the best thing,
You left between us!

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

120 Years Old

Mosheh was buried in the plains of Moab,
And he was 120 years old;
But your sex-symbols are everywhere today in the anme of your gods! !
However, i will give my respect to 'Uncle Sam' in peace.
Testimony,
Fulfilling,
And the first born opened the womb!
But the voice of the Mighty One came out from the midst of the fire,
And the truth was revealed to us.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Four Years Old

Hey
Why'd you wake me from my nap?
I'm not in the mood
To play your games
Or sit on your lap

You
Where's my Yankees drinking glass?
I want some juice
And I want it now
So you better move your ass
And feel bad for me
'Cuz I'm just getting over a cold

I'm four years old!
I'm four years old!
I'm four years old!
Somebody better tie my shoes!

Now
I run down the hall
I scream and I yell
And I cry 'cuz I fell
Bring the rubbing alcohol

Outside
I get mud on my shoe
I come back in the house
I get it on the rug
The cleanging's up to you
And I won't take a bath
Unless you make me Spaghetti-O's

I'm four years old!
I'm four years old!
I'm four years old!
Mommy reads to me at night
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

Well
I can't have a job
And I can't go to school
If no grownups are around
I can't go near the pool
I'm not alowed to climb
My neighbor's apple tree
I'm not allowed to sit
Too close to the TV
I don't know how to drive
And I don't know how to spell
But if I hear my brother cursing
I do know how to tell
'Cuz he made me eat some bread
That was covered in mold

I'm four years old!
I'm four years old!
I'm four years old!
I just threw up on my grandmother

song performed by Adam SandlerReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
Patrick White

Thirty-nine Children

Thirty-nine children destroyed.
Four of them, sisters.
Their blood a red atlas, spattered roses
on the bedroom walls they cringed behind,
their unfinished bodies and minds,
finished. Does anyone remember
what a child is
when it is not collaterally dismembered
into small feet and hands and faces
that had no choice but to trust the world
that savaged it like roses?
Five toes, an ankle and a heel
still occupy the floral running shoe
that never made it all the way to school.
Your bootprints on the throats of baby swans
like the bombpits of mass graves
where the hysterical mothers rave
in grief and rage
over what you have damaged
like ferocious boars who wear
the tusks of the moon like missiles
to gore children embedded like roots in the night
out of their sleep
like a plague of angels
sanitized by the height
you kill from.
You are not a man.
You are not human.
The lightning is more merciful than you.
Don't let the medals
or the protocols of murder
you glory in
fool you,
you're a ghoul in a cockpit,
death's eye in a dropp of dew.
Nine civilians killed for every soldier,
the cowards are herded into the military
for their own safety
and for the civilians who take it by the millions
on the chin,
they don't hand out medals,
there's nothing to win or promote.
Do you know how much courage it takes
to die when you're nine years old
to gratify a general's heart,
to advance the campaigns of the politicians,
to appall the pundits into passionate opinions
that suckle the mob at the faucets of their fangs
with the milk and honey
of primetime bedside stories
to make hate and war
and the obscenities of human lovelessness,
rape, disease, indifference, and mutilation
seem the reasonable acts of old men
whose hearts clamour like swords and anvils
like hammers and gavels
to inspire others to kill children
in the arms of their mothers
so they can stand like a lighthouse of history
on the coast of an idea
lost in the smog of their ghosts?
Hideous, geriatric monkeys raging
against their own androphobic hallucinations,
fashioning nooses out of umbilical cords
and fuses out of the spine
to ambush a shopping mall,
a school, a hospital
to expedite the death of innocence
as the necessitous consequence
of their long, hard experience
as seasoned executioners
trying to get it up
like flags in the morning
to sway spring blood into dying for them
even before it's fully unfolded
like the proxies of autumn
shedding their patchwork comforters
over the coffins of the dead
who are forsaken by the earth
like the windfall of a poisonous tree
rooted in their hearts like a foreign policy.
Thirty-nine children destroyed.
Thirty-nine candles of life
it took a universe to tallow and ignite
snuffed out like thirty-nine birthdays by cordite
dropping like serpents from a sky
through bomb-bay doors
that open like ovens of manna
to make bitter, black bread
out of the bodies of children
who thought of God as the pantry behind their prayers.
Is your god leavened by the dead?
Does your country own a concentration camp yet?
Does it sow and reap and thresh like a cannibal?
Does it eat its own and those of the others
who were born of the same mothers as you
until you unbound your thread of blood
from the strong rope of our common humanity
and singling yourself out for a manifest destiny
you expeditiously improvise out of your lies as you go along
threatened by Goliath in Gaza
throwing rocks at David in an F-l8,
you remember the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising,
you remember how the Nazis fought
and obliterate the neighbourhood
as if the only thing you understood
of all that courage and suffering
were merely a change of jackboots
and the star-crossed symbols of blood
that drive the people out of their homes
like the innocent scapegoats of the tribes
that drove their sins out into the wilderness solitude
to turn into Azazel, Satan's standard-bearer,
master of all evil, spawn of the void, returning.
Thirty-nine children destroyed
and the whole neighbourhood burning.
The new crematoria fall from the sky
and it's ashes in the blink of an eye
for thirty-nine children in sneakers
who had the wrong ally,
who did their homework
and went to bed to bed early
to learn how to die.
I'm sick of your holy wars. Muhammad,
peace be upon him,
would cover himself up again
under his cloak,
this time like an eclipse of shame
when the angel came
to demand he recite light upon light,
nur wa nur,
were he asked about the blood
of the mothers and the children you killed
like hashashim in the shadows of noon,
to rewrite the book that makes things clear
like a blood smear
you can't wash off the light.
And I'm sick of the supermen,
the ubermensch
and the chosen people,
and all the righteous bells
that have been shoved down the throat
of the crooked church steeple
like a goose that's been stuffed
for spiritual pate.
I'm sick of the indifference
of the glossy, intellectual versions
of the human perversions
they discuss with rubber gloves
fitted neatly like theories over their hearts.
What theory ever picked up
a child's body parts?
See a naked man. See
a naked woman and a child.
No sound. But the man batters
the woman and child to death
whether with a bomb or a club, no matter,
until all that's left is splintered bone, blood
and a pulpy mess.
Now ask yourself,
the sound back on,
what could the man say,
what could the man possibly say
that would make these exactions okay?
What reason, what ideology, government
faith, loyalty, career, political advantage,
what military passion, or zeal
for revengeful reform,
what lie to caress the mob,
or bobbing apple of truth
could be recited
even out of the mouth of an angel,
or the orifice of a demon, or worse,
both ends of a human
in front of a microphone
to justify what was expedited
to get the voters excited,
convinced of your will to kill?
To get the job done?
Thirty-nine children destroyed,
and their spirits stream through the void
like small thoughts that were easily forgotten,
their lives unravelled like stars
before they had a chance to shine,
and their hearts, crushed like young grapes
before they could taste their own wine,
and in the souls of the mothers,
thorns, and feral blossoms on the vine
that hold their wombs hostage with razor-wire
as the one-eyed liars,
their magnetic hair on fire,
take questions from the choir.
Thirty-nine children destroyed,
tiny hands like starfish and flowers
blooming through the rubble of cement
you broke like bread over them.
That is not what Jesus meant.
That is not what Moses meant.
That is not what Muhammad meant.
That is not what Buddha meant.
You burn butterflies with an airforce
you say was heaven-sent
as if they were children
to scourge the rockets in the snakepit
and embellish the odour of hatred.
But you don't get it.
That isn't what life means
when a child screams out in the night
at you in her dreams
descending from hell
like the mouth
of a terrible, blood-stained bell with teeth
that look like crescent moons
and the long, prophetic scars
of the black stars on your wings
to eat her.
And if I were to curse, and I won't,
what could be worse
if you were to meet her,
after her death, after your death
after the fanatical insanity of the slaughter,
is the footnote of a slugline
that impaled the matter
on the stakes of axial cliches,
if you were to remember what a child is,
if you were to meet her
and know in the flash
of a bomb to the slaughter,
as she looks up at you like the sky,
like thirty-nine flowers in terror,
you fell upon your own daughter
like a perversion of rain
again and again and again?

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Without question, no hesitation, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar was the best player I ever played against.

quote by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

I Was Born When Cameras Were A Luxury

i was born when cameras were a luxury
far removed from the middle-class homes-
no faded and moth-eaten photographs
to spring memories of my lost childhood
from those frozen frames-
what were my thoughts and fancies then?
memories are blind and dumb
till i was six years old-
none cared too to remember my acts
to retell when i yearned to learn about my baby life-
really sad that i am unaware of those casual days
when life was given no special importance,
soaking in flashes of lights-
who knows what i prattled
and how i spent my idle hours in play-
o how many years of autobiography
have i lost in dim darkness?
must be the same for every guy of my age-
o time, walk back in slow steps into my toddler's days;
reveal me the imprints of my kid steps on your sands-
as i ripen in age, the hunger grows more for my baby years!

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

I started skating when I was six years old.

quote by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
Billie Holiday

I never had a chance to play with dolls like other kids. I started working when I was six years old.

quote by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
Billie Holiday

I never had a chance to play with dolls like other kids. I started working when I was six years old.

quote by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

I Was 10 Years Old

I was 10 years old at that time and,
It occurred to me;
But today,
I am a grown up person with much experiences!
However, deadly things are done everywhere today.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

When Living Was Real!

old men,
gnarled hands,
missing fingers,

backs bent with time....
standing in front of
an abandoned service station,

down by the tracks
where the train dont run....
talking about the years,

talking about the work....
or not talking at all.
postcards from a time

when living was real!

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

I Was Not When You Were Born, You Were Old When I Was Born

I was not when you were born,
You were old when I was born.
You regret that I was late born,
I regret that you were early born.
I was not when you were born,
You were old when I was born.
I wished to have been born together,
We could enjoy our time together.
You were not when I was born,
I was old when you were born.
I was so far away from you,
You were so distant from me.
You were not when I was born,
I was old when you were born.
I’d become a flower-seeking butterfly,
And sleep on the fragrant grass every night.

poem by anonymReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Dan Costinaş
1 comment - Comment! | Vote! | Copy! | In Romanian

Share

In Old Claraghatlea When I Was A Young Boy

In old Claraghatlea when I was a young boy
Walks in the old fields I used to enjoy
And Summer evenings out hunting in Pomeroy's bog
With Pudsy our dark brown hairy cattle dog
The boy of the fifties is now looking gray
One might say he has known a far better day
But memories of the past in the memory remain
And in memory the past we re-visit again
Old Pudsy long gone she is in time's decay
In Mother earth's bosom forever she lay
And time ticks away and nothing seems to last
And in memory we only can go to the past
And in old Claraghatlea far north and far away
A boy with his dog is out hunting today.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

When Life was Simple

When life was simple
Was when I was in mother's womb?
but wait we were poor so my mom got no prenatal care.

When life was simple
Was when my mother gave birth to me...?
but wait I was born premature with a collapsed lung unable to breathe.

When life was simple
Was when I was 6 month old?
but wait that was when my mom found out I have Cerebral Palsy.

When life was simple
Was when I was about ten?
but wait that when I was called the little cripple boy who has no friends.

When life was simple
I was about 26
but wait that when my mother scoffed at my poetic gift.

Well I'm 41 now
and throughout the years there's one thing I have learned
Life is never simple.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

Nineteen Years Is Long Enough (Revised)

For the first time in nineteen years I'm planning
Christmas with my parents, to be with them as
one singing Carols, preparing delicacies to eat -
but particularly singing songs mother wrote,
presenting the play she designed for us ages
ago when we twins were just six years old

Back then my brothers and dad spoiled things -
but this time we can present mother's songs less
their interference, and afterwards I can go for a
spin on brother-in-law's motorbike, making up
for events we missed when small - yes, this
Christmas will be a grand reunion ball

For the first time in nineteen years I shan't be
home; it's either or, never parents and hubby
together, and though he was angry hearing
my plans - after nineteen years he cannot
really complain - it is the first time I shall be
with them - I think it is fair,

Nineteen years is long enough

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

At only 9 years old

At only 9 years old

At age you see your father as a hero
Reads you bedtimes stories and sings lullaby even in your dreams
Your night and shinning amour of a fortress in which you sleep
A friend when you have your mind to speak
But at nine years old, you learn life is cold
He is your pimp so as to feed his alcoholic need
When you are born your soul is of renaissance
But how abusive he is, it took no rocket science
A mother who was suppose to have a heart of paradise
And yet she stood aside as you where raped and vandalized
At only nine years old you tiny flesh ripped apart and sold
Filled with dirt and dressed with mold


By your own father you learnt how to hate a man
By your own mother you never really had a friend
As day in day out elderly man had a feast upon you breasts
With tears in your eyes you felt his thrust and heavy bosoms upon you chest
Only for a couple of rands, like rent to be met for his appetite
At only nine years you saw your hole life deteriorate
The school you learnt was that of life
Education syllabus was how to survive
They sat in the living like nothing had happened
And when one was done another would approach like a pattern in segment
Did they not father their own children?
Or was the greed of lust more devilish then satan


That these molesters and rappers confined to without remorse
And a mother and father who perceived you as their biggest resource
At age nine the real reason you lived was because you where afraid to die
But the real you was dead keeping you alive
I cry the tears you cry even if I not know you
Having your own father rape you because your mother allows him to
She says that’s the way of learning life
Maybe in her death she will realize you are just a child
Locked in your room butler windows for now escape
And yet everyday you prayed and still had faith
At age nine you never had a doll to play
Reality had forced you to a sex slave
How can a father upon his own child prey?
How can a father upon his own child prey?
How can a father upon his own child prey?

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

When I Lost Myself

There are those who are forever searching and
After many decades have passed lose themselves to another world-
Although with much certainty and disillusionment
I can hardly remember living much of a life in
This world where people walk with confidence and self-assurance everyday-
Memories of nights as a child so young
Hearing voices others did not hear and
Seeing frightening sights others did not see-
Feeling alone although in the midst of myriads of others, afraid to speak,
Fearful to walk the streets others took for granted-
I was only six years old when voices threatened to kill
Would invade my already troubled mind and
I found myself an outcast for reasons I hardly understood-
The purple tree with golden flowers that grew inside of my bedroom-
As strikingly stunning as it was,
I fell to the floor when I tried to climb,
Because it only existed in the fortress of my mind-
My journey to find myself began when I learned to walk-
I learned to scream before I learned to speak-
Decades have passed and memories are evading me-
Walking the same path day by day-
While others are looking for a place in a world I feel I am not a part of,
My journey to find myself continues-
I walk upon a different path and have climbed many mountains
Seeking purple trees and my own garden of Eden-
Or merely for others that would accept and just remotely understand
The person I am and the world I have lost myself to-
Although my spirit at times evades me,
In the back of my mind I know in reality there must be a place for me and
Although at times my only wish is to climb that phantasmal purple tree
Until I reach the sky and disappear within only a moment’s notice
I will not give up the fight- I was born into this world so there must be a place for me-
Many decades have passed and today I see the sunlight peering through the clouds,
Though an outcast, I have a heart, a mind and feelings as does everybody else-
I continue to walk the streets everyday and my visions of purple trees, and
My dogged determination are what makes me unique- and someday people shall
Respect the person that I am and understand that flowers grow on every tree and
Every flower is unique, has its own special scent and every flower is
In its own way- magnificent and beautiful…

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share

1992

It was 1992, just before the Watts riots, one of the family's on my cases invited me to attend Raymond's party. It was his eighth birthday. Many scenes from this party stand out in my mind, in a way such are in time capsules that expand in time while compressing it at the same time. Well the children, the girl children were playing in the small front yard in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the hood. I was amazed by the rhythm, the pure joy, and athletic agility of the young girls' double ductching with two long jump ropes. It was not one double duch going, but two or more going on at once with three girls jumping between the two ropes in each, most of them had their hair tightly braided in the fashions of the time, or in pig tails, or both. They still have not shed their baby features.

Then, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG all of the children hit the ground, rope stopped. Color plastic hair elastics no longer bouncing on the girls' heads in carefree innocent singing child rapturous wonder that seemed completely oblivious to all of life's darker forces; now they are covered with clenched hands. It is as we were in the middle of an air raid.

By the time I hit the ground, they had already said to one another, it was only falling boards. A burst of laughter and sigh of release, shuu, as they instantly resumed their sophisticated jump roping as if nothing had happened.

I was still seeing my life flash in front of me, feeling the shock of experiencing a drive by. Thoughts still ringing, 'this could be it, 'Please god help me, ' and of course the sublime wonder and terror when glimpsing death. Such thoughts flashed through the children's minds as well, but they automatically dismissed them and went on as if nothing had happen, monthly, weekly daily hourly, intrusions of random madness are the norm.

One of the kids stood out, she jumped rope just as effortlessly as the other girls. Many things are unique about her, she was darker than the rest, almost pure black, she had even more energy and was more daring than the other girls and boys for that matter, all of whom already over flowed with gumption. She was about six years old, cute, girlly yet compact with assertive vitality, bursting with energy and life, 'Mom' she yelled, 'play hopscotch with me.' She made a hopscotch path out of color cholk. 'No Tam, can't you see I am busy, I have to pay attention to the other kids, it is not fair if I only pay attention to you, ' her mother Neesee yelled out. To this Tam started crying.

Well watching her cry, it felt to me that all of the disappointment of the world was coming out of her. A tide of sadness and despair that threatened to wash over the world with a force greater than Noah's flood, this coming from a child, this concentrated innocent precocious wonder who had more life, more joy, then the world could contain. Where is her uckine father I thought, why let the poor kid suffer like this.

I played hopscotch with her, The adults looked at me as if I was from another world, which I was, she, Tam looked at me as if I was Jesus Christ himself, Santa, summer incarnated, god himself.

She hopscotch's with skill, with finesse, with abandonment she hopscotch's into the obstacle she set for herself. She set the challenge and she was going to do it, no matter how impossible. She made it through. I thought she was going to break a leg. The only thing broken was my heart. But she, this kid, hopscotch right into it, my heart, into my soul. The accomplishment of this incredible task meant nothing to her, she would have done it again, blindfolded and backwards. What mattered to her was that someone was there seeing her do this, that she did matter, that someone on this earth was witnessing her life, was cherishing it. Tam, 'you are going to fall and cut your ucken legs, you already have ucken knees like a boy from all the time you ucken fell before, ' her mother says. Mom watch. Her mother hold's up the back of her hand, 'watch this.'

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Share
 

Search


Recent searches | Top searches