Take Me
take half of what
i have
half-heartedly
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Is Not Love
Winds howled. rains spit down.
All these nights playing precious games.
Cheap hotel in some seaboard town
Closed down for the winter and whispered names.
Puppy-dog waves on a big moon sea
Snap our heels half-heartedly
And how come you know better than me
That this is not love.
No, this is not love.
Empty drugstore postcards freeze
Sunburst images of summers gone.
Think I see us in these promenade days
Before we learned octobers song.
Out on the headland, one gale-whipped tree;
Curious, head bent to see.
And how come you know better than me
That this is not love.
Down to the sad south, smokey plumes
Mark that real world city home.
Broken spells and silent gloom
Ooze from that concrete honeycomb.
Puppy-dog waves on a big moon sea
Snapped our heels half-heartedly
And how come you know better than me
That this is not love.
song performed by Jethro Tull
Added by Lucian Velea
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VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator
Ah, my Giacinto, he's no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we're eight?
Seven and one's eight, I hope, old curly-pate!
—Branches me out his verb-tree on the slate,
Amo-as-avi-atum-are-ans,
Up to -aturus, person, tense, and mood,
Quies me cum subjunctivo (I could cry)
And chews Corderius with his morning crust!
Look eight years onward, and he's perched, he's perched
Dapper and deft on stool beside this chair,
Cinozzo, Cinoncello, who but he?
—Trying his milk-teeth on some crusty case
Like this, papa shall triturate full soon
To smooth Papinianian pulp!
It trots
Already through my head, though noon be now,
Does supper-time and what belongs to eve.
Dispose, O Don, o' the day, first work then play!
—The proverb bids. And "then" means, won't we hold
Our little yearly lovesome frolic feast,
Cinuolo's birth-night, Cinicello's own,
That makes gruff January grin perforce!
For too contagious grows the mirth, the warmth
Escaping from so many hearts at once—
When the good wife, buxom and bonny yet,
Jokes the hale grandsire,—such are just the sort
To go off suddenly,—he who hides the key
O' the box beneath his pillow every night,—
Which box may hold a parchment (someone thinks)
Will show a scribbled something like a name
"Cinino, Ciniccino," near the end,
"To whom I give and I bequeath my lands,
"Estates, tenements, hereditaments,
"When I decease as honest grandsire ought."
Wherefore—yet this one time again perhaps—
Shan't my Orvieto fuddle his old nose!
Then, uncles, one or the other, well i' the world,
May—drop in, merely?—trudge through rain and wind,
Rather! The smell-feasts rouse them at the hint
There's cookery in a certain dwelling-place!
Gossips, too, each with keepsake in his poke,
Will pick the way, thrid lane by lantern-light,
And so find door, put galligaskin off
At entry of a decent domicile
Cornered in snug Condotti,—all for love,
All to crush cup with Cinucciatolo!
Well,
Let others climb the heights o' the court, the camp!
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Make Believe Paradise
Living on the edge of financial disaster.
From the depth of my soul screams of poverty.
So scared of what the future might hold.
Walking down a street trying to pass my self off as a business man in ragged cloths.
Writing down my stories on napkins like a famous author you may know.
Living in the woods, trespassing on others claims to land.
Watching out for someone who might have a gun in hand.
Seeing right front me a posted tree.
Keep out or face the consequences.
Vagrants are never welcome.
Using everything I know to survive when money can no longer be made.
Building a camp fire to stay warm under a bridge.
Only when the river is down or I might drown.
How many times can I be knocked down?
How many times must I go through this?
Before something of a true and steady calling is found.
Lay off after lay off, encircle haunt and taunt me.
A jack of all trades.
A master of none.
A pleasure of working for fun.
From digging hands in the earth, to cutting some wood with a chainsaw.
Even the crows are cawing at my future.
They hope I will die.
Take everything away from a man and what does he got left.
A basic instinct.
Primal to the time of 18th century.
On foot I have always traveled, and once again I might be forced do so.
When the rent backs up and the electric keeps running.
Will the unemployment be enough.
How will I put food on my table when I lose my place in which I live.
I pray whole heartedly my side job succeeds.
With almost no money to put into it.
And customers expecting to be fronted the fix.
Quite a predicament, so apparent I can feel myself going ghostly white in a make believe paradise.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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The White Cliffs
I
I have loved England, dearly and deeply,
Since that first morning, shining and pure,
The white cliffs of Dover I saw rising steeply
Out of the sea that once made her secure.
I had no thought then of husband or lover,
I was a traveller, the guest of a week;
Yet when they pointed 'the white cliffs of Dover',
Startled I found there were tears on my cheek.
I have loved England, and still as a stranger,
Here is my home and I still am alone.
Now in her hour of trial and danger,
Only the English are really her own.
II
It happened the first evening I was there.
Some one was giving a ball in Belgrave Square.
At Belgrave Square, that most Victorian spot.—
Lives there a novel-reader who has not
At some time wept for those delightful girls,
Daughters of dukes, prime ministers and earls,
In bonnets, berthas, bustles, buttoned basques,
Hiding behind their pure Victorian masks
Hearts just as hot - hotter perhaps than those
Whose owners now abandon hats and hose?
Who has not wept for Lady Joan or Jill
Loving against her noble parent's will
A handsome guardsman, who to her alarm
Feels her hand kissed behind a potted palm
At Lady Ivry's ball the dreadful night
Before his regiment goes off to fight;
And see him the next morning, in the park,
Complete in busbee, marching to embark.
I had read freely, even as a child,
Not only Meredith and Oscar Wilde
But many novels of an earlier day—
Ravenshoe, Can You Forgive Her?, Vivien Grey,
Ouida, The Duchess, Broughton's Red As a Rose,
Guy Livingstone, Whyte-Melville— Heaven knows
What others. Now, I thought, I was to see
Their habitat, though like the Miller of Dee,
I cared for none and no one cared for me.
III
A light blue carpet on the stair
And tall young footmen everywhere,
Tall young men with English faces
Standing rigidly in their places,
Rows and rows of them stiff and staid
[...] Read more
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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Breezing Finale...
make all the star bright and rainbow all the mountain with
good tiding and the flying bird stoppage the wind in the
sky with to much light; certainly death echo in the deepest
flow of the heart, my dear sweet goodbye, hello …
take off perfect head the righteous step has to go, while
touches the flame of hell; red light room close my naked
eyes, and the skin gear for hidden emotion exploded, behold
the ecstasy of moment, splendid smell of perfume teaches to
begin and offer, fine ….
crazy I me not, for the given time leads that day to see the
happiness of what is wonderful looks in your eyes of today,
something that brings no doubt of the mind that you’re the
one, who gives my own to surrender all that I have, oh! …..
whole heartedly, follow the sway of the leaf and obey the
waiting wind, as it goes to the crushing stream of passionate
memories, mixed amongst the fog of the silent forest call,
wait …
swear to me, as I go waiting to save my waiting breeze ….
poem by Antonio Liao
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Do not just long for a change, know how to accept it
Nothing is permanent
Except the change
Change is a necessary phenomenon
In an active system
Changelessness is deadly
Change is continuous
Steady and driven by a cause
Nature and extent of change
Depend on
Nature and extent of cause
We all look for
And indeed long for a change
And we have specifications
Many a time
The occurring change is
Not the change we were
Looking or longing for
We turn excited or sad
Because of the change
Many a time we are
Unprepared for the change
Though we were longing for it
Often we find it difficult
To accommodate and
Accept the change
Nothing wrong
Longing for a change
But desiring itself not enough
We need to create such
Causes that will lead
To the change we look for
Many a time these causes
Are not totally under our control
So, it is well-advised
To be prepared for the
Deviations from your specifications
Then you will find yourself
In a position to accept
The change whole-heartedly
Long for a change,
Plan actions accordingly,
Execute and wait
Change has to come
But, again be prepared
To accept the change
[...] Read more
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Happy Marriage Anniversary
United were two hearts,
Before one, living God,
As husband and his wife,
For rest of earthly life.
And then, they bore a child
That gave them joy so wild;
’Tis better that souls two,
Their Christian duties do;
If one happens to fall,
The other helps it stall.
So, love your spouse whole-heartedly;
And live God’s way unitedly!
In Jesus Christ, the road to Heav’n
Is easy, straight and quite even!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 2-15-2007
poem by John Celes
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trust whole-heartedly in God
follow Christ’s cross
He is the only hope and succour
senryu by John Celes
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Sonnet: My ‘Temple’ On Earth
The pillars of my strength are three for now!
Thou art the rock on which my temple stands!
To all Thy tenets, humbly do I bow;
The construction will be with my own hands.
Let prayers make my mind draw plans with ease;
Let grace of God reinforce every brick;
Let God’s mercy help me construct in peace;
Let fear of God make my heart never sick.
The temple is my family on earth!
Outlive it must, the fury of devils;
O God, Thy blessings must not be a dearth;
Let impervious be temple to evils!
When temple’s made, thine humble servant, I
Whole-heartedly wish to Thee glorify.
poem by John Celes
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At One O'Clock In The Morning
Alone, at last! Not a sound to be heard but the rumbling of some belated and decrepit cabs. For a few hours
we shall have silence, if not repose. At last the tyranny of the human face has disappeared, and I myself shall be the
only cause of my sufferings.
At last, then, I am allowed to refresh myself in a bath of darkness! First of all, a double turn of the lock. It
seems to me that this twist of the key will increase my solitude and fortify the barricades which at this instant
separate me from the world.
Horrible life! Horrible town! Let us recapitulate the day: seen several men of letters, one of whom asked me
whether one could go to Russia by a land route (no doubt he took Russia to be an island); disputed generously with
the editor of a review, who, to each of my objections, replied: 'We represent the cause of decent people,' which
implies that all the other newspapers are edited by scoundrels; greeted some twenty persons, with fifteen of whom I
am not acquainted; distributed handshakes in the same proportion, and this without having taken the precaution of
buying gloves; to kill time, during a shower, went to see an acrobat, who asked me to design for her the costume of a
Venustra; paid court to the director of a theatre, who, while dismissing me, said to me: 'Perhaps you would do well to
apply to Z------; he is the clumsiest, the stupidest and the most celebrated of my authors; together with him, perhaps,
you would get somewhere. Go to see him, and after that we'll see;' boasted (why?) of several vile actions which I
have never committed, and faint-heartedly denied some other misdeeds which I accomplished with joy, an error of
bravado, an offence against human respect; refused a friend an easy service, and gave a written recommendation to a
perfect clown; oh, isn't that enough?
Discontented with everyone and discontented with myself, I would gladly redeem myself and elate myself a
little in the silence and solitude of night. Souls of those I have loved, souls of those I have sung, strengthen me,
support me, rid me of lies and the corrupting vapours of the world; and you, O Lord God, grant me the grace to
produce a few good verses, which shall prove to myself that I am not the lowest of men, that I am not inferior to
those whom I despise.
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Our Lady of Sorrows (Feast day: September,15th)
O Lady of Sorrows! Please hear
Our grief and add them to yours, dear;
With swollen eyes and bloody tear,
You showed to farmers near.
‘To farmers two,
At Milan’s Rho,
When they came to
See you! ’
The blessed pieta
Became a miracle
Bringing millions to
The Griever’s Basilica!
The blood-stained kerchief lies
In a silver reliquary;
As proof of the miracle
To world today, it stays!
With dead Christ on her lap,
His mother seated, grieves;
Besides her sorrows own,
Mankind’s too, she receives!
O heart of Mary pure,
What sorrows, you endure!
For love of Christ and God,
You suffered for our Lord!
Mary’s most holiness
Won her the grace of God,
To bear her sorrows all,
And sufferings, so odd.
None could predict ever
Or gauge her sufferings;
Since Simeon’s prophecy,
She suffered silently!
The Virgin bore a Son
By Holy Spirit’s power;
She had to see Him die
For man’s sins on cross!
What pain had filled her heart!
How anguished she felt from start!
Her Son and Lord, her life and love
Had to suffer and depart!
[...] Read more
poem by John Celes
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Sonnet: Keep Your Promises
When promises are made, keep them will you?
If not, never make promises that all;
Your words uttered must be carried out too;
Foolish-statements can bring on one’s downfall!
All words spoken must be done with great care;
A smooth-tongued man cannot go on for long;
One can’t allow the nails to grow but pare!
The tongue can curse or sing a soothing song!
Why think one thought and do another thing?
’Tis best to be as frank as you can be;
All sugared-words cannot results good bring;
It is wise to speak with care whole-heartedly.
Honor must one, the promises one makes;
Ingredients decide the cake, one bakes!
poem by John Celes
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SONNET: Thanks anyway
For all the love and respect, you showed me,
For all the cards, you sent me so lovely!
For all your ways, obedient; thoughts, kindly;
I thank you truly and whole-heartedly.
For all the affection, you'd shown to me;
For all the kind inquiries, you had made;
For all your help in patient-care mainly;
I pray God that His love shall never fade!
For all the pains, you'd taken to see me;
For all the words of love, you'd kept suppressed;
For all your help to me, personally;
I pray that God keeps you never depressed.
Just keep your cool and blast ahead!
Life has both Roses and Thorns, in its bed!
poem by John Celes
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Sonnet: The Man of Wisdom!
Most labor for immediate good returns;
Some work all life to pull off great a feat;
For benefits and earthly gains, heart yearns;
We always want success to come and greet!
The man of wisdom does not wish for these;
He does his duties all whole-heartedly;
He only wants at mind and heart some peace;
He prays to God all life repeatedly!
All earthly things are transient, worthless;
Our stay on earth prepares our soul for God;
Our needs of life God gives, nevertheless;
This human life’s most precious gift from Lord!
God’s blessings give anyone good awards;
God-willingly anyone gets rewards.
7-2-2006
poem by John Celes
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Sonnet-On The Kissing Act
If kisses are but what you ask, I'll give!
Ah Love, and when our lips have met tightly;
Without asking for more, can we both live?
Nay, Love, emotions stirred, end not lightly.
Yeah, kisses too are acts of love, one gives,
Whole-heartedly to another of choice;
When planted once, remains for long and lives,
The memory is green and both rejoice.
Think not that kisses are just trivial acts;
They form a part of our sexual embrace;
Like how planter sows seeds, the mind reacts;
The harvest will depend on gaze, love's pace.
Yet love, kiss you may, anyone on earth,
If he deserves your kiss, till your last breath.
poem by John Celes
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Sonnet: Like Father, so Son
A father loves that son, who most obeys,
And maintains sense of values in his life,
And tends to parents when old, in last days,
With faith in God, unswerving, amidst strife.
A son loves father who is role-model,
And lives an exemplary life on earth,
Good-principled, undaunted, healthy, well,
And loves the son, whole-heartedly from birth.
With time, the son must equal father’s feats,
Surpassing him in fields where possible;
The father’s happy when son, glory meets,
And does great things which were impossible.
Like father, so will son then tend to be-
A truth the world will almost, always see.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 3-3-2008
poem by John Celes
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Tell Me How Not to Love You
Tell me how not to love you
for I do not know.
I do not know how to tell my heart
that it must try to beat slow.
It speeds up at the thought of you
and makes my mind race.
Tell me how not to love you
for I cannot face
empty days with longing
that drift on and on.
Tell me how not to love you
with each new breath that's drawn.
Tell me how not to love you.
I will listen but not whole heartedly.
For I know I won't believe you
so you must convince me repeatedy.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Virtue of Certain Personal Truths
I do not possess knowledge of the facts
I have no answers that are either
constant or universal
I do not claim to be wise
to nature's formulas
The only truths I have stumbled upon
are personal.
I was not placed upon this rock for myself.
I am certain this much is true.
Accession if far
far below my mission
I prefer the simple life of the mountain goat
to a proverbial life spent climbing the
holy corporate mound.
It is not my place to gain
nor my purpose the acquisition of admiration
others more determined in this mind-set
may gladly take my share
For I forever shall remain
just as the empty chair
arms waiting, open to all
offering comfort to all
I was meant to support
those trodden tired souls
and stone-bruised feet
in need of a well,
hard earned rest
All at my own expense
For I see the emptiness
of transient transactions
and the transparent value of paper
and I guffaw in Franklin's
bespectacled face!
I find the sufferings of thyself
to be perfectly acceptable.
However
I find it impossible to accept
the sufferings of others
It is not my duty to
guide or lead
I refuse to follow
though I do agree
to walk but only
side by side
trying my best to keep
[...] Read more
poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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A perfect drive
It leads to frustration and dismay
when people choose short cut or way
it not only brings failure but discredit
it is unwise step and not considered deem fit
No one can attain glory over night
he may have many reason to feel it right
it surely does not pave the way for success
even if you have ability or direct access
I was asked by someone to show some options
i suggested rigid method with strict adoption
they have no long sight to implement the drive
they half heartedly go for it and strive
I sense some trouble with hazardous short cuts
it increases problems with lots of if and buts
there is no scope for complete success
one fails to understand the situation and assess
It is no win no loss situation
you are there and there with its continuation
what else can prevent such sordid state?
it can not be attributed merely to fate
Some people are quick to grasp and act
they have fraction of second to react
little delay can cause lot of damage
it is surely then critical phase
It is rightly said 'Strike hard when iron is hot'
deliver he blow when real battle is fought
enemy must flee and be on the run
it is question of survival and not the fun
You can not afford to relax for a second
the situation may slip away and go beyond
it will be hard to retrieve the position
it may compel you to seek superstition
There is no alternate to hard approach
it may not be helped by an expert coach
you got to swim and reach the shore
you must have sense and ability to explore
No one can claim near perfection
it all depends on vigorous action
the result can swing in any direction
this is one of the strongest indication
[...] Read more
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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If You can Keep your Cheese - after Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your cheese while few about you
are holding onto theirs', all envy ease.
If none can get your goat nor cow could doubt you
your scent which, heaven sent, can tell true bries
from gorgonzola, parmesan without you
planning for house mouse contingencies,
or short supply where larder rats may scout to
grind, compromise the tasty rind most please.
If by a whisker cheshire follows trout to
provide fit end for sweet delicacies,
or cheddar meat meal follows leaves no gout to
blur enjoyment, taste buds' harmonies.
If desert heat no threat presents, no pout too
in winter's cold where lizard's blood would freeze,
If neither flood nor drought can mar, throughout you
may triumph over blue mould colonies.
If all kowtow, if none would ever flout you
remembering to bow before ‘big cheese'...
if hole in one you score in club you clout to
take golden trophy - competition flees.
If all above's accomplished taste devout, true,
while others fail to prove their expertise,
your's is the world, which elsewhere's up the spout, few
can make their time your rhyme's real_I_tease!
IF - A Writers' Guild Gild Guile Guide
If you can form and not make norms your master,
conformity, performance formal, flame.
If you inform, share, [fl]airing, flow far faster,
yet let not copyright bind tight to shame.
If you treat critic's inconstructive blaster
with humour, beat him at his game's lame claim,
take not to hea[r]t his tumour, bandage, plaster
half-heartedly, pretend [s]he never came.
If you can couple energy creative
well in advance of others in your field,
without confusing nominative, dative,
rei[g]n arguments through cogency revealed
in context, in a manner innovative,
code palimpsests from all but s[t]age concealed,
If trust in self is never compensative
reaction used when you refused to yield.
If you can link great ends with small beginnings,
and yet not brag, nor tag each copy sold,
If dialogue's more vital than piled winnings,
to trim the quill where will won't be short-sold,
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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