Quotes about 8 march, page 22
Such, Silence Was Spiritual..
Such, silence was spiritual
Spirituality was so silent
Seated amidst 'Supremacy'
Highly high above me
Like a lotus above mire
Mind and soul somewhere apart
Eyes and ears all elsewhere...
My big-eyed gaze gazing..
His semi shut eyes tranced
Engrossed wholly of the limitless
Floating upon beyond earth's spheres
A great discovery he 's rejoicing..
Here, what am I, a tiny bit trivial
Drowned ever in tearful unsolved enigma...
So such, wonderment raised my soul
In inqusition to follow his march
A march towards the summit of silence
Upon the mounts and dawns of silence
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poem by Indira Renganathan
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News From Hank
Have recieved disturbing letter
From Hank
As follows:
Dear All
Misfortune has struck
Terrible blow
Fell asleep on container lorry
I am in Hamburg
German spiders not friendly to Brits
I fear racism is rife here
Have tried to blend in
But it’s hard to march with eight legs
Met a Frenchy in the Reeperbahn
Helps out in a transvestite bar
Only safe place he said
Whore’s and spiders
They don’t care
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poem by Nicolette Turner
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Nineteen-Sixty-Five
What a year,
seems lke yesterday,
March 29,1965
is a day not
to forget.
My Wife Diana
and I had went
out to eat that night
awaken to a fire.
it was across
the alley from us
flames 100 feet high
fire trucks, oh so many.
We went back to
bed, but not for
long I'm afraid.
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poem by Jim Foulk
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Seven-Month-Long Lane
From October to May
All in all it's been okay.
From October to November
It was like pure bliss.
From November to December
I just wore my silly simper.
December to the next month,
Then came thoughts about a kiss.
From January to February
We were both beneficiary.
February to March
I felt a little out of place.
From March to April
I just held up the anvil
After April came May,
The final stage of our decay...
(One thing after another)
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poem by Chanlin Boyd Cox
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(Philosphy Poem) A Man Of The Unknown
When rendered unconscious just where do you go?
I can not tell you for I just don't know.
An uncertainty exist within this life.
What about the next?
Will their be even one?
A second chance to right things you have wronged.
How do we even know if we are not already living it?
A forgotten past.
Memories drained.
Memories erased.
A look into yourself.
Who is it exactly who looks back?
Do you even know that man?
How can you say for certain that your not already damned?
A march through the sand of time.
It captivates mind.
Possibilities upon possibilities.
Alternate realities, alternate dimensions.
Just making another extension.
Set in stone is no invention.
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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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0136 Agitation in Hundred-Acre Wood
'CR..' said Pooh, holding his paw tight round CR's hand as he did when he had a Disturbing Thought, 'how do you pronounce St? '
The Animals were agitated. It was like a day in March when the wind blew leaves and things to finish up where they shouldn't be. Some tourist had thrown aside an academic paperback with an essay on 'The Divine Symbolism of Dante and Hundred-Acre Wood' by someone called Po... (the page was torn just there) .
'St, Pooh? That's not a real word...'
'It says I'm really St Peter, CR, and you're Jesus Christ and Eeyore's St Thomas... CR, who's Jesus Christ? '
'Oh that's a swear-word that grown-ups use, but it must be a silly book, 'cos I'm not allowed to say it anyway... Silly old Pooh' said CR fondly.
'Oh that's all right then. I thought I might be someone else and not know it', said Pooh. He relaxed his grip on CR's hand, and the boy and his bear walked happily together down the path towards the Poohsticks Bridge, the occasional twig cracking under their feet, like they do after a mad March wind has put them in the wrong place...
poem by Michael Shepherd
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April Love Affair
This piece is premised on a true experience which has left many questions unanswered and I carefully dedicate it wholly to E.A. Taale for inspiring me to.........and just like Esther's one night with the king in the Bible, those few hours caused the sun to shine on a black brother.
April love affair
Even though brief,
It saw not a moment of grief
Love streamed down your eyes-
Like tears
Whence my heart-
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poem by Emmanuel Kwabena Woyome
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On the March to Sinopi
Mithridatis, glorious and powerful,
ruler of great cities,
master of strong armies and fleets,
on the march to Sinopi took a route
through a remote part of the country
where a soothsayer lived.
Mithridatis sent one of his officers
to ask the soothsayer how much more wealth,
how much more power, he'd accumulate in the future.
He dispatched one of his officers,
then continued his march to Sinopi.
The soothsayer withdrew into a secret room.
About a half an hour later he came out
troubled, and said to the officer:
"I wasn't able to clarify things very well.
Today is not a propitious day—
there were some murky shadows, I didn't understand them fully—.
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poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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With Trumpet and Drum
With big tin trumpet and little red drum,
Marching like soldiers, the children come!
It 's this way and that way they circle and file---
My! but that music of theirs is fine!
This way and that way, and after a while
They march straight into this heart of mine!
A sturdy old heart, but it has to succumb
To the blare of that trumpet and beat of that drum!
Come on, little people, from cot and from hall---
This heart it hath welcome and room for you all!
It will sing you its songs and warm you with love,
As your dear little arms with my arms intertwine;
It will rock you away to the dreamland above---
Oh, a jolly old heart is this old heart of mine,
And jollier still is it bound to become
When you blow that big trumpet and beat that red drum!
So come; though I see not his dear little face
And hear not his voice in this jubilant place,
I know he were happy to bid me enshrine
His memory deep in my heart with your play---
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poem by Eugene Field
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Ars Poetica
Some from within, some from without,
without a doubt set to,
as soul-song spins tale which begins
to flow, grow, glow. Thereto
through weaving in and weeding out
touch base with Nature, cue
time, place, as twins defeat and wins
ignored are through and through.
No need to shout, run roundabout,
use artificial glue,
scribe’s violin tunes, underpins,
technique as heart rings true.
Sensations scout, don’t beat about
the bush, tout false virtue,
The poet’s string must second skin
become, ne’er dumb, askew.
Words work their way by night and day
from phases past, to light
through threads at play that more threads lay,
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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