Quotes about revert, page 4
A Visit
Gone are the days
when you could walk on water.
When you could walk.
The days are gone.
Only one day remains,
the one you're in.
The memory is no friend.
It can only tell you
what you no longer have:
a left hand you can use,
two feet that walk.
All the brain's gadgets.
Hello, hello.
The one hand that still works
grips, won't let go.
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poem by Margaret Atwood
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Sinners Be
The moon so immense the light it shows
has so much things we'd never know
sometimes it hides beyond our mountains
then slowly it starts to darken
oh sky so dark i can not see
please hide away cruel sins from me
for they all judge and never know
and flee from thee to be alone
The sea so sparkled in the moonlight
had held it's own uncanny freight
foreshadowing it's own truth within my sight
has lost it's lies with the sun so bright
oh sea please take from me
the curse of a sinners be
let the sun in sinners sight renew it's shine
and let innocence be mine
for they all judge and never know
how it feels to be alone
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poem by Janice Etienne
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The Prodigal Son
My soul is grieved and my spirit in sorrow
My flesh is weak and I am without virtue
On my knees I stay as tears fill my eyes
That my eyes were a great ocean
Then will I flood the earth with my tears
And that my voice a thunder
Then will my cry be heard in the East
How am I backslidden? And how am I fallen?
How am I drawn back and plunged into such a depth?
A once mighty mountain was I
Now, here I lie, a threading of the oxen
A mire and pity of swine
Being driven away from the light
I stumble blindly in the dark
How could I have left royalty and bliss?
And now I live every moment from bleak to dismal
Being pulled down the slopes
I live without life in the valleys
There’s none to help and none to lift
I am sent into the fields where the abominable I do
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poem by Nicholas Boateng
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Lead "me" to "me
What is this place?
Where have I reached?
I stand infront
The mirror,
As a stranger
Stares back at me.
Do I know her?
Have we met before?
Why do I see in her traces of' me'?
Or is this…
The new ‘me"?
Do I like her?
Brazen she stands…
Her hair wind swept,
Her eyes, wild
No longer windows
To the divinity of her soul.
But her smile has
Traces of "me".
That strange
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poem by Anjali Kakati
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On The Dedication Of Dorothy Hall
TUSKEGEE, ALA., APRIL 22, 1901.
Not to the midnight of the gloomy past,
Do we revert to-day; we look upon
The golden present and the future vast
Whose vistas show us visions of the dawn.
Nor shall the sorrows of departed years
The sweetness of our tranquil souls annoy,
The sunshine of our hopes dispels the tears,
And clears our eyes to see this later joy.
Not ever in the years that God hath given
Have we gone friendless down the thorny way,
Always the clouds of pregnant black were riven
By flashes from His own eternal day.
The women of a race should be its pride;
We glory in the strength our mothers had,
We glory that this strength was not denied
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poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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There is a God
While living the indulgent & busy lives
From day till night, one remain in strives
Handling matters one feels indispensable
Imperative for the life and death a fable
Having idea, that he runs the world
Otherwise progress is none, productivity twirled
Man, who considers himself absolutely free
The be-all, the end-all, an ace of liberty
It's true, has got lot of potential
Can move mountains, rest inconsequential
Stellar knowledge, making things world class
Information immense, like predicting and forecast
But Alas with all Success, still in oblivion
In losses and errs, revert to the One, his true companion
Realization grows with his uncertainty
Vagueness and ambiguity, makes him saintly
Physical ailment or worldly oppression
Hard knocks of life, brings many confessions
But look at the Gracious, the Almighty
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poem by Samima Shah
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My Heart Desires To Speak
…MY HEART DESIRES TO SPEAK
Greetings from the abyss of my heart
Hail queen of my empire
In my excursion down the memory lane
My heart desires to revert to that superb day
I fell head over heels in love with you queen bee
That day your heart-stoppingly beauty invaded my thoughts
Your scent a surprise a faint exotic blend
Of tropical flowers was and is
Your smile veiled suggestions of more to come
For you tones of love I will surely vomit
My heart desires to verbalize
Of the preparations I had to hunt for your love signature
I rehearsed to perfection how to vomit facts before you
I was truly humbled by your manners
My train of thought
Stopped on your striking angelic beauty
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poem by Innocent Masina Nkhonyo
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Backward boys
Saturday evening, the week's hired film, click-click, click-click
while we chewed fruit gums and shouted FOCUS!
from time to time when the reel changed;
and after The White Hell of Pitz Palu
or The Lost Horizon, and Mickey in black and white
and Corky the Cat; after the hired films
and the occasional black potato growing on the screen
when the celluloid caught fire,
the home movies run backwards:
and the world was a magic kingdom -
things jumped from nowhere into your hands
like the world's top ball player;
while you ate, the plate filled instead of emptied;
and the happy smiles-for-the-camera
became inane dissociated grins
as if you knew you were being totally idiotic
but had no control...
Suppose
that life, on Saturday evening, did just that for real:
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Keep Talking
Citizens of the world, to you, I now do beseech,
Whatever happened to good old fashioned speech?
Now, we all seem to communicate with our fingers,
So that, no longer, in the air, do any spoken sounds linger.
If we talk to each other, face to face or on a telephone,
We can detect colour in speech and variations in tone.
We rely too much on electronic communication, but
If electricity and mobile phone networks were ever cut,
To us, the world around us, would suddenly fall apart,
And, with regards to communication, we’d be back at the start.
We would have to revert to the communication system of old,
With news and views, to each other, now being, personally, told.
Speaking to each other in person, is a pretty sure fire way
To ensure important information doesn’t get lost along the way.
You’ve probably had someone send you an email, that you didn’t get,
And you probably have undelivered text messages somewhere, I bet!
The idea that, to each other, we should actually speak,
Is one which, nowadays, seems considered rather antique.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Smoking Serves a Host to Cancer
I was shocked to hear,
' Do you mind if I smoke? '
from a white boy in Melbourne Station
as I never heard it anywhere before
from people boasting of civilized manners.
The single moms here wanting a partner
say about themselves in plain:
' I smoke one or two times
and drink a glass of wine a day.'
Fine and frank wives they will be.
'Does smoking enhance your manliness? '
I asked him and he responded with a smile.
I gave up smoking
when my first grand child
told me of some bad smell
coming out of my mouth.
when I tried to revert
to that gentle habit after a gap,
a sense of vomiting, I felt
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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