Citatepedia^®.com

It's difficult to compare coaches. You really can't compare them.

quote by Cobi Jones
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Easy and Difficult

Easy and Difficult

Easy to get a place in someone’s address book
Difficult is to get a place in someone’s heart
Easy is to judge the mistakes of others
Difficult is to recognize our own mistakes
Easy is to talk without thinking
Difficult is to control the tongue
Easy is to hurt someone who loves us
Difficult is to heal the wound
Easy is to forgive others
Difficult is to ask for forgiveness
Easy is to set rules
Difficult is to follow them
Easy is to dream every night
Difficult is to fight for a dream
Easy is to show victory
Difficult is to accommodate defeat with dignity
Easy is to admire a full moon
Difficult is to see the other side
Easy is to stumble on a stone
Difficult is to get up
Easy is to enjoy life every day
Difficult is to give its real value
Easy is to pray every night
Difficult is to find God in small things
Easy is to promise something to someone
Difficult is to fulfill the promise
Easy is to say we love
Difficult is to show it every day
Easy is to criticize others
Difficult is to improve oneself
Easy is to make mistakes
Difficult is to learn from them
Easy is to weep for lost love
Difficult is to take care of it so as not to lose it
Easy is to think about improving
Difficult is to stop thinking and putting it into action
Easy is to think bad of others
Difficult is to give them the benefit of doubt
Easy is to receive
Difficult is to give

poem by Bashyam Narayanan
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Trivia ; or, the Art of Walking the Streets of London : Book III

Of Walking the Streets by Night.

O Trivia, goddess, leave these low abodes,
And traverse o'er the wide ethereal roads,
Celestial queen, put on thy robes of light,
Now Cynthia nam'd, fair regent of the night.
At sight of thee the villain sheaths his sword,
Nor scales the wall, to steal the wealthy hoard.
O may thy silver lamp from heaven's high bower
Direct my footsteps in the midnight hour!
When night first bids the twinkling stars appear,
Or with her cloudy vest enwraps the air,
Then swarms the busy street; with caution tread
Where the shop-windows falling threat thy head;
Now labourers home return, and join their strength
To bear the tottering plank, or ladder's length;
Still fix thy eyes intent upon the throng,
And as the passes open, wind along.
Where the fair columns of St. Clement stand,
Whose straighten'd bounds encroach upon the Strand
Where the low pent-house bows the walker's head,
And the rough pavement wounds the yielding tread;
Where not a post protects the narrow space,
And strung in twines, combs dangle in thy face;
Summon at once thy courage, rouse thy care,
Stand firm, look back, be resolute, beware,
Forth issuing from steep lanes, the collier's steeds
Drag the black load; another cart succeeds,
Team follows team, crowds heap'd on crowds appear,
And wait impatient, 'till the road grow clear.
Now all the pavement sounds with trampling feet,
And the mixt hurry barricades the street;
Entangled here, the waggon's lengthen'd team
Cracks the tough harness; here a ponderous beam
Lies overturn'd athwart; for slaughter fed
Here lowing bullocks raise their horned head.
Now oaths grow loud, with coaches coaches jar,
And the smart blow provokes the sturdy war;
From the high box they whirl the thong around,
And with the twining lash their shins resound;
Their rage ferments, more dangerous wounds they try,
And the blood gushes down their painful eye,
And now on foot the frowning warriors light,
And with their ponderous fists renew the fight;
Blow after blow, the cheeks are smear'd with blood,
Till down they fall, and grappling roll in mud.
So when two boars, in wild Ytene bred,
Or on Westphalia's fattening chestnuts fed,
Gnash their sharp tusks, and rous'd with equal fire,
Dispute the reign of some luxurious mire;

[...] Read more

poem by John Gay
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Yips

When focusing too hard on putts
golfers suffer from the yips,
and those who focus hard on butts
and breasts and what’s below the hips
may not obtain a hole in one
because most eagles fly away,
and though a birdie can be fun
you’ll never catch one if you play
too focused. Nonchalance will launch
in sex, as golf, a thousand ships,
and when you’re ready for some raunch,
soft-focus rescues you from yips.

Inspired by an article by Katie Thomas in the NYT on August 1 explaining the phenomenon of yip[s which plagues archersm, golfers and all people who aim to carefully at targets (“The Secret Curse of Expert Archers”) :

There is an affliction so feared by elite archers that many in the sport refuse to even say its name. Archery coaches who specialize in treating the problem are sworn not to reveal the identities of archers in its grip, even though they estimate that 90 percent of high-level competitors will fall victim at least once in their careers. Target panic, as the condition is known, causes crack shots to suddenly lose control of their bows and their composure. Mysteriously, sufferers start releasing the bow the instant they see the target, sabotaging any chance of a gold-medal shot. Others freeze up and cannot release at all. Target panic is akin to the yips in baseball and golf, when accomplished athletes can no longer make a simple throw to first base or stroke an easy putt. The results can be mortifying, and archery is filled with tales of those who have caught the curse, never to shoot again. The problem has spawned a cottage industry of coaches, books and specialized accessories that claim to cure target panic….Lanny Bassham, a former Olympic rifle shooter and mental coach whose clients include the Olympic archer Brady Ellison, said the archery community had a peculiar obsession with target panic, which he noted had a horrifying ring. “The words target panic have induced an unnecessary amount of severity and concern about this condition among archers, ” he said. “I think if they had a better word for it, they’d have a lot less problem trying to cure it.” Many archers and their coaches refuse to say target panic. Those words are forbidden around the Nichols household, which is home to the Olympic archer Jennifer Nichols and her younger sister, Amanda, also a world-class competitor. “We try to stay away from the labels that are put on things by people in the archery industry because once you feel you’ve got that label, it’s hard to stay away from it, ” said their father, Brent Nichols. “We don’t want to hear those things.” Theories vary on how to cure target panic. Some switch their shooting hand, or change their grip slightly — techniques that have also proved successful in golf. Others use visualization techniques and positive reinforcement. Wunderle advises his clients to imagine seeing and feeling what a good shot is, without focusing on aiming the arrow. “Do not focus on results, ” he said. “When you focus on results, it builds anxiety. And anxiety is the kiss of death.” One of the most popular cures is to entirely remove the target. Sufferers instead practice shooting at a blank target, sometimes for weeks at a time, to retrain the mind. “The empty bale restores your confidence in your subconscious, ” said Bernie Pellerite, author of the book “Idiot Proof Archery” and a self-described expert on target panic. “Nobody flinches or punches or chokes on an empty bale.” Hunt spent weeks shooting at blank targets, but he also purchased a special release for his bow, which helped retrain him when to shoot. “It’s trying to engrave in your head when you should shoot, ” he said. “You just pull it back, let the safety off, and pull it until it decides to go. Then you get used to every shot being perfect.” Hunt placed second in his age group at the Junior Olympic Archery Development national championships in Oklahoma City earlier this month. His target panic, he said, had been cured. For now. There is an affliction so feared by elite archers that many in the sport refuse to even say its name. Archery coaches who specialize in treating the problem are sworn not to reveal the identities of archers in its grip, even though they estimate that 90 percent of high-level competitors will fall victim at least once in their careers. Target panic, as the condition is known, causes crack shots to suddenly lose control of their bows and their composure. Mysteriously, sufferers start releasing the bow the instant they see the target, sabotaging any chance of a gold-medal shot. Others freeze up and cannot release at all. Target panic is akin to the yips in baseball and golf, when accomplished athletes can no longer make a simple throw to first base or stroke an easy putt. The results can be mortifying, and archery is filled with tales of those who have caught the curse, never to shoot again. The problem has spawned a cottage industry of coaches, books and specialized accessories that claim to cure target panic.

8/20/08

poem by Gershon Hepner
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Trivia; or the Art of Walking the Streets of London: Book I.

Of the Implements for Walking the Streets,
and Signs of the Weather.

Through winter streets to steer your courses aright,
How to walk clean by day, and safe by night,
How jostling crowds, with prudence to decline,
When to assert the wall, and when resign,
I sing: thou, Trivia, goddess, aid my song,
Through spacious streets conduct thy bard along;
By thee transported, I securely stray
Where winding alleys lead the doubtful way,
The silent court, and opening square explore,
And long perplexing lanes untrod before.
To pave thy realm, and smooth the broken ways,
Earth from her womb a flinty tribute pays;
For thee, the sturdy paver thumps the ground,
Whilst every stroke his labouring lungs resound;
For thee the scavenger bids kennels glide
Within their bounds, and heaps of dirt subside,
My youthful bosom burns with thirst of fame.
From the great theme to build a glorious name,
And bind my temples with a civic crown:
But more, my country's love demands the lays,
My country's be the profit, mine the praise.
When the black youth at chosen stands rejoice,
And 'clean your shoes' resounds from every voice;
When late their miry sides stage-coaches show,
And their stiff horses through the town move slow;
When all the Mall in leafy ruin lies,
And damsels first renew their oyster-cries:
Then let the prudent walker shoes provide,
Not of the Spanish or Morocco hide;
The wooden heel may raise the dancer's bound,
And with the scallop'd top his step be crown'd:
Let firm, well-hammer'd soles protect thy feet
Through freezing snows, and rains, and soaking sleet.
Should the big last extend the shoe too wide,
Each stone will wrench the unwary step aside:
The sudden turn may stretch the swelling vein,
Thy cracking joint unhinge, or ankle sprain;
And then too short the modish shoes are worn,
You'll judge the seasons by your shooting corn.
Nor should it prove thy less important care,
To choose a proper coat for winter's wear.
Now in thy trunk thy D'oily habit fold,
The silken drugget ill can fence the cold;
The frieze's spongy nap is soak'd with rain,
And showers soon drench the camlet's cockled grain,
True Witney broad-cloth with its shag unshorn,
Unpierc'd is in the lasting tempest worn;

[...] Read more

poem by John Gay
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

This Is What I See

I land a leap
Quietly, gracefully
I look into the wall-length mirror, to the left
And this is what I see…
The floor springs move beneath me
Someone mounts the highest beam,
ready for anything
Tasha spots my team
And I cheer for my coach
And always, and always
There’s coaches, there’s friends
Coaches I’ve known since my childhood…
I grew up here

I look into the wall-length mirror, in the center
And this is what I see…
Someone cross-tumbles, adrenaline rushes
As she lands a front handspring
Caitlyn lands a punch front, sticks it
And I cheer for my friend
And always, and always
There’s coaches, there’s friends
Friends I’ve known since I was three…
I grew up here

I look into the wall-length mirror, to the right
And this is what I see…
Shannon dismounts, back tuck from the uneven bars
And I cheer for my friend
Team girls on the trampoline
Littles in the pit back in the farthest corner
And always, and always
There’s coaches, there’s friends
People I’ve known since a long time ago…
I grew up at Spirits

poem by Mye3
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Lonely Train on the Lonely Track with 24 Coaches Painted Black

Among the brambles of a shattered heart lies my soul in crags,
Among the shambles of life torn apart lies my spirit in rags;
Tears streaming down my face as snakes crawl on my body lifeless
Leaving amigos and flamingos away at the home, oh life pointless.
Ticktock! All I can hear is the ticking of the clock, yackety-yak!
The lonely train on the lonely track with 24 coaches painted black.

I climbed onto the gravel bed in the rain, lo lonely brain tames!
By the dawn from the ocean to every lane, it climbs, dookie salad!
In the noon from flat places to heaven and hell, A pensive ballad;
At dusk, in open air of beach I loitered singing rhyme ugly James.
Ticktock! All I can hear is ticking of the clock - yackety-yak!
The lonely train on the lonely track with 24 coaches painted black.

Hardy-har-har! Hold a pebble, a feather or a leaf in your hand
It will say I am lonely; I can't ride, I want to hide in the sand;
I'm single; oh my gosh! I'm sitting between my brother the mountain
My sister the sea - together threesome we live among soulless men.
Ticktock! All I can hear is the ticking of the clock, yackety-yak!
The lonely train on the lonely track with 24 coaches painted black.

I'm an air castle with dreams empty and screams plenty with terror
I don't want to be alone in the dark in a spine-chilling horror.
Then, the moon is a friend for the lonely man as flamingo cheers,
Bingo! Stars in the Galaxy are his companions as nature shares.
Ticktock! All I can hear is ticking of the clock, yackety-yak!
The lone train on the lonely track with 24 coaches painted black.

poem by Harindhar Reddy
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

My Pretty One

Well, I've dreamed about today.
The same dream in many ways.
But I never thought I'd be here,
Be here with you, my pretty one.
Well, I've searched the whole world through.
To find someone whoooo,
Would make this dream come true.
It's you and only you, my pretty one.
Pretty one, I long to hold you.
Through the night, I want to hold you.
Pretty one, has no one told you,
I love you.
Any day and you will find me,
Full of joy when you're beside me.
In a moment like this,
Could it be what I've missed all my life.
Well, I've dreamed about today.
The same dream in sooooo many ways.
But nothing can compare with,
Compare with you, my pretty one.
Well, I love your smile.
And I love your eyes.
And the way you talk, makes me feel so nice.
Nothing can compare with the way you are.
And I need you now, as I write this song.
Did I hear you say you're the only woman,
From a lonely prayer I am in the air.
Well, I've dreamed about today.
The same dream in sooooo many ways.
But nothing can compare with,
Compare with you my pretty one.
But I never thought I'd be here,
Be here with you my pretty one.
Pretty one, I long to hold you.
Through the night, I want to hold you.
Pretty one has no one told you,
I love you.
Any day and you will find me,
Full of joy when you're beside me.
In a moment like this,
Could it be what I've missed all my life.
Well, I've dreamed about today.
The same dream in sooooo many ways.
But nothing can compare with,
Compare with you my pretty one.
No nothing can compare with,
Compare with you my pretty one.

song performed by Cliff Richard
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Difficulties with women

It’s difficult to dress a woman

According to her wish,

It’s easier to undress a woman

Against her wish.

It’s difficult to argue with a woman

Because she is always right,

It’s easier to agree with her

Without any fight.

It’s difficult to find the words

A woman would like to hear,

It’s easier to keep silent

If you want to be her dear.

It’s difficult to guess her mood

So that to be understood,

It’s easier to tell her a funny story

And once more to say: sorry.

It’s difficult to explain

How much you miss her

It’s easier to give her a kiss

For her to remember you and miss.

[...] Read more

poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

How Difficult Can It Be?

How difficult can it be,
To admonish others...
Whose lives are affliated,
With direct desperation?
And indirected misrepresentation?

And this is commented upon,
By those from the warmth...
Of custom built comfortable homes,
As they view 3-D wide screen TV.

What suffering is being done,
By someone laying back...
And munching on snacks.
To demand a sandwich be made...
As a mate hollers back,
'You want rye or wholewheat bread?
Lettuce, tomato, mustard or mayo?
Did you finish your beverage yet?
Or should I get another...
Cold from the 'frig'?
What for you would be best? '

Just how difficult can life be?
When the basic of needs are taken for granted.
Just how difficult can it be?
When those born into 'standards' of quality,
Have not a clue of struggle...
Or have lived a moment in poverty,
To be believed.

And yet,
Can live in the midst of prosperity...
With contempt for others who are only aware,
Of a poverty lived not one of them chose.
And if they did,
Not one of them thumbs up their nose.

How difficult can one's life be...
When conversations of importance,
Centers around shopping sprees.
Just to buy new clothes to impose an image.
An image sustained in superficiality.

How difficult can it be,
To admonish others...
Whose lives are affliated,
With direct desperation?
And indirected misrepresentation?

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

We coaches have to learn how to deal with that: How do I get to each one best - with a talk, with video analysis? And what sort of tone? We need our own coaches for that. The sports psychologist coaches me too.

quote by Jurgen Klinsmann
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Rape of the Lock

Part 1

WHAT dire Offence from am'rous Causes springs,
What mighty Contests rise from trivial Things,
I sing -- This Verse to C---, Muse! is due;
This, ev'n Belinda may vouchfafe to view:
Slight is the Subject, but not so the Praise,
If She inspire, and He approve my Lays.
Say what strange Motive, Goddess! cou'd compel
A well-bred Lord t'assault a gentle Belle?
Oh say what stranger Cause, yet unexplor'd,
Cou'd make a gentle Belle reject a Lord?
And dwells such Rage in softest Bosoms then?
And lodge such daring Souls in Little Men?

Sol thro' white Curtains shot a tim'rous Ray,
And op'd those Eyes that must eclipse the Day;
Now Lapdogs give themselves the rowzing Shake,
And sleepless Lovers, just at Twelve, awake:
Thrice rung the Bell, the Slipper knock'd the Ground,
And the press'd Watch return'd a silver Sound.
Belinda still her downy Pillow prest,
Her Guardian Sylph prolong'd the balmy Rest.
'Twas he had summon'd to her silent Bed
The Morning-Dream that hover'd o'er her Head.
A Youth more glitt'ring than a Birth-night Beau,
(That ev'n in Slumber caus'd her Cheek to glow)
Seem'd to her Ear his winning Lips to lay,
And thus in Whispers said, or seem'd to say.

Fairest of Mortals, thou distinguish'd Care
Of thousand bright Inhabitants of Air!
If e'er one Vision touch'd thy infant Thought,
Of all the Nurse and all the Priest have taught,
Of airy Elves by Moonlight Shadows seen,
The silver Token, and the circled Green,
Or Virgins visited by Angel-Pow'rs,
With Golden Crowns and Wreaths of heav'nly Flowers,
Hear and believe! thy own Importance know,
Nor bound thy narrow Views to Things below.
Some secret Truths from Learned Pride conceal'd,
To Maids alone and Children are reveal'd:
What tho' no Credit doubting Wits may give?
The Fair and Innocent shall still believe.
Know then, unnumbered Spirits round thee fly,
The light Militia of the lower Sky;
These, tho' unseen, are ever on the Wing,
Hang o'er the Box, and hover round the Ring.
Think what an Equipage thou hast in Air,
And view with scorn Two Pages and a Chair.

[...] Read more

poem by Alexander Pope
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Trivia ; or, the Art of Walking the Streets of London : Book II.

Of Walking the Streets by Day.

Thus far the Muse has trac'd in useful lays
The proper implements for wintry ways;
Has taught the walker, with judicious eyes,
To read the various warnings of the skies.
Now venture, Muse, from home to range the town,
And for the public safety risk thy own.
For ease and for dispatch, the morning's best;
No tides of passengers the street molest.
You'll see a draggled damsel, here and there,
From Billingsgate her fishy traffic bear;
On doors the sallow milk-maid chalks her gains;
Ah! how unlike the milk-maid of the plains!
Before proud gates attending asses bray,
Or arrogate with solemn pace the way;
These grave physicians with their milky cheer,
The love-sick maid and dwindling beau repair;
Here rows of drummers stand in martial file,
And with their vellum thunder shake the pile,
To greet the new-made bride. Are sounds like these
The proper prelude to a state of peace?
Now industry awakes her busy sons,
Full charg'd with news the breathless hawker runs:
Shops open, coaches roll, carts shake the ground,
And all the streets with passing cries resound.
If cloth'd in black, you tread the busy town
Or if distinguish'd by the rev'rend gown,
Three trades avoid; oft in the mingling press,
The barber's apron soils the sable dress;
Shun the perfumer's touch with cautious eye,
Nor let the baker's step advance too nigh;
Ye walkers too that youthful colours wear,
Three sullying trades avoid with equal care;
The little chimney-sweeper skulks along,
And marks with sooty stains the heedless throng;
When small-coal murmurs in the hoarser throat,
From smutty dangers guard thy threaten'd coat:
The dust-man's cart offends thy clothes and eyes,
When through the street a cloud of ashes flies;
But whether black or lighter dyes are worn,
The chandler's basket, on his shoulder borne,
With tallow spots thy coat; resign the way,
To shun the surly butcher's greasy tray,
Butcher's, whose hands are dy'd with blood's foul stain,
And always foremost in the hangman's train.
Let due civilities be strictly paid.
The wall surrender to the hooded maid;
Nor let thy sturdy elbow's hasty rage
Jostle the feeble steps of trembling age;

[...] Read more

poem by John Gay
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Difficult Age

Difficult age
Youre just fourteen
And youre not friends with your body
Painfully thin
Look at your skin
Play with yourself for a hobby
How can they love a man who does that to himself?
Difficult age
Turn on the page
Have that wee drink in the meantime
Difficult age
Now youre eighteen
Heres all the freedoms you wanted
All the best clothes
A looker who goes
The size of your wage packet flaunted
How can they love a man who does that to himself?
Difficult age
Turn on the page
And have that wee drink in the meantime
Difficult age
Hes twenty-nine
Thirty just lurks round the corner
Settled for life
Nice kids and wife
Pull out a plum like jack horner
Difficult age
Turn on the page
Have that wee drink in the meantime
Difficult age
Now thirty-eight
And youre not friends with your body
Wish you were thin
Look at your skin
Wasting yourself for a hobby
How can they love a man who does that to himself?

song performed by Xtc
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Unsaid Breeze

unsaid body clean-that's the life performance!
unsaid breeze gleans but difficult to be felt

unsaid body clean
unsaid breeze gleans but difficult to be felt

unsaid body clean
unsaid breeze gleans but difficult to be felt

unsaid body clean
unsaid breeze gleans but difficult to be felt

unsaid body clean
unsaid breeze gleans but difficult to be felt

the way reality

real
IT
Y generation

the way real
I
ty

is
SPeaKiNg! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

Can you hear it?

unsaid body clean
unsaid breeze gleans but difficult to be felt

Can you hear it?
The poetic life singing tragically and paradoxically.

Can you hear it?

Can you hear it?

unsaid body clean
unsaid breeze gleans but difficult to be felt

[...] Read more

poem by Nyein Way
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Life Is Difficult

Life is difficult-
Surprises are not always what we hoped they would be-

People misunderstand us-
We imagine we are kind
And they understand us differently-

Some problems never get solved
Some remain lingering for years-

There are cruel people in the world
Stupid ones also-

The fair do not always get the prize
The pushers push push push the good guys aside-
We see the Evil grinning and we cannot touch them-

All kinds of Hopes we have are disappointed-
Rejection is the Fate of everyone at one time or another

One has to try and try and try
And often that is not enough-

Life is difficult
And after a certain age is more difficult
And when young is also difficult-

Life is difficult in some time or some way for all of us
It just is-

Life is difficult
And even when it seems not to be
There is another time coming-

Life is difficult
And so long as we live
It will be.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

For my beloved sister

Sister
Do I dare to compare your love
To the lighthouse engulfed in fog
Shining it’s beacon of light
That guides through stormy seas

Sister
Do I dare to compare your love
To the soft whispers carried on a breeze
As it rustles through copper colored leaves
Words of encouragement

Sister
Do I dare to compare your love
To the snow capped mountains
Majestic peaks against a soft hue of blue
The epitome of strength

Sister
Do I dare to compare your love
To the vast meadows of wildflowers
A motley of colors put on display
Simplifying beauty

Sister
Do I dare to compare your love
To the endless skies overhead
And it’s never-ending exhibit of light and dark
Infinite

Sister
Do I dare to compare your love

poem by Shaan Sidhu
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

For my beloved sister II...

Sister
Do I dare to compare your love
To the lighthouse engulfed in fog
Shining it’s beacon of light
That guides through stormy seas Sister
Do I dare to compare your love
To the soft whispers carried on a breeze
As it rustles through copper colored leaves
Words of encouragement

Sister
Do I dare to compare your love
To the snow capped mountains
Majestic peaks against a soft hue of blue
The epitome of strength

Sister
Do I dare to compare your love
To the vast meadows of wildflowers
A motley of colors put on display
Simplifying beauty

Sister
Do I dare to compare your love
To the endless skies overhead
And it’s never-ending exhibit of light and dark
Infinite

Sister
Do I dare to compare your love

poem by Shashidhar Kumar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Sister, Do I Dare Compre Your Love

Sister
Do I dare to compare your love
To the lighthouse engulfed in fog
Shining it’s beacon of light
That guides through stormy seas

Sister
Do I dare to compare your love
To the soft whispers carried on a breeze
As it rustles through copper colored leaves
Words of encouragement

Sister
Do I dare to compare your love
To the snow capped mountains
Majestic peaks against a soft hue of blue
The epitome of strength

Sister
Do I dare to compare your love
To the vast meadows of wildflowers
A motley of colors put on display
Simplifying beauty

Sister
Do I dare to compare your love
To the endless skies overhead
And it’s never-ending exhibit of light and dark
Infinite

Sister
Do I dare to compare your love

poem by Lana Hensley
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

What's so difficult...

What's so difficult,
About the word,
No.

What's so difficult,
About our,
Relationship.

What's so difficult,
About,
Us.

What's so difficult,
About the words,
Stay away.

What's so difficult,
About,
Don't talk to me.

What's so difficult...

poem by Dragon Crenshaw
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Alankar (Decor) -30

Kitchen clash (Double Rondeau)

How difficult it is to cook
In hot summer how a wife to cook
'Take rest, shall buy food from outside'
He says with concern on her side
Wife is happy she need not cook
Happy so life runs like a brook
Variety food, pleased they look
Seasoned hot, they know kitchen's stride
How difficult
Time in hand changed is her outlook
Changed is also her old cook-look
Styleless to stylish in set glide
Makes her new with glow to her pride
She can speak on her strife to cook
How difficult

How difficult but back a cook?
Daughter visits with siren look
There, stirs in dad's heart a high tide
Sneaks'cooking has been set aside
These days mom does not at all cook'
Enough for her to word and hook
Daughter counsels mom back to cook
To be in shifty husband's stride
How difficult!
Luck is but a wheel in life-book
So such a wife can't overlook
And mom vows never to abide
Honeyed words but put them aside
Blamed wife telling herself 'to cook
How difficult! '

poem by Indira Renganathan
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!