Quotes about beaten, page 5
Me Peacock
WHAT'S riches to him
That has made a great peacock
With the pride of his eye?
The wind-beaten, stone-grey,
And desolate Three Rock
Would nourish his whim.
Live he or die
Amid wet rocks and heather,
His ghost will be gay
Adding feather to feather
For the pride of his eye.
WHAT'S riches to him
That has made a great peacock
With the pride of his eye?
The wind-beaten, stone-grey,
And desolate Three Rock
Would nourish his whim.
Live he or die
Amid wet rocks and heather,
His ghost will be gay
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poem by William Butler Yeats
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Cumulatives
Storms have beaten on this point of land
And ships gone to wreck here
and the passers-by remember it
with talk on the deck at night
as they near it.
Fists have beaten on the face of this old prize-fighter
And his battles have held the sporting pages
and on the street they indicate him with their
right fore-finger as one who once wore
a championship belt.
A hundred stories have been published and a thousand rumored
About why this tall dark man has divorced two beautiful
young women
And married a third who resembles the first two
and they shake their heads and say, "There he
goes,"
when he passes by in sunny weather or in rain
along the city streets.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Recipe For Chocolate Chip Cookies
Chocolate Chip Cookies
¾ cup sugar
¾ cup packed brown sugar
1 cup butter, softened
2 large eggs, beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 ¼ cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
¾ teaspoon salt
2 cups semisweet chocolate chips
Preheat oven to 375 degrees
Get a large bowl for
¾ cup of sugar
¾ cup of packed brown sugar
1 cup of softened butter
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
And 2 large beaten eggs
Mix by hand in large
Get a small bowl for
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poem by Kelsey Isham
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Young Girl
Young girl Abused and broken
Young girl Alone and Frightened
Young girl Worthless and Ugly
Young girl feels so alone
She has no one to hold her
Young girl's father to drunk to even care
The young girl gets beaten everyday
The young girl wanting to runaway
Young girl will not leave her father alone
Like he has done to her
This young girl's teacher has a note
She reads the note aloud to the class
This young girl was beaten to death
No one had the guts to save her
This young girl bruised and dead
This young girl buried in the cold ground
This young girl has no one to visit her grave
No one asked her how she got her bruises
No one even took a second chance
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poem by Jasmine Kayleen
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Queen
You use to treat me like a king
Oh how well loved I felt
I felt I was your everything
So secure I would melt
Now I feel beaten like a dog
Totally confused and spent
And so with sadness, desire fades
Struggle thru each day all bent
I no longer laugh at all these ways
Much less hold my head up high
So beaten that I crawl hands all crazed
Worked hard to hide how I cried
All this effort to build a life
Now no matter how I try
You greet me with your shattered screams
So abuse that each day I would die
Soul crippling and wrought with pain
I don't feel much loved, less desired
No comfort or pride- as my health subsides
Just weighted, bone dead and tired
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poem by Talile Ali
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On Sustaining Strokes
A slight before the wintry nights,
The vivacious children of the street,
Signaled whistling with inviting voices,
That we all should come out of the houses,
To be beaten amusingly playing a game.
We could not resist and came out all,
Gathered in the yard with no wall around,
And squatted in circles with bending heads,
Then was twisted an Anchal, pale or red,
Into a flog hard, longer than a yard.
One of the older moved and moved around,
And placed silently behind one of us,
On the turn next, he began to beat,
We ran and ran around in circles,
Sustaining strokes on the delicate backs.
While running around and being beaten,
I did feel perhaps the participants older,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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I Told You.
I told you I’m stepping up,
I told you I’m stepping up,
And you still scream ‘order, order’,
I told you I’m stepping up,
I told you I’ve had enough,
And you still scream.
In the recollection of,
What you told me, I told her,
I bandage the wounds,
Cause I still see you hold her,
And I cry in chocolate,
But it’s not nearly so bad,
Tasteful sympathy,
So sweet and yet so sad.
I told you I’ve had enough,
I told you I’ve had enough,
And you still scream ‘Murder, murder’,
I told you I’m stepping up,
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poem by T.C. Nyxx
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If I Prayed For You... (I Just Did)
if i prayed for you,
with the eyes of a child,
beaten, bruised, and hungry...
would you see, would you know?
if i prayed for you,
with an old man's hands,
hard, calloused, and gentle...
would you feel, would you know?
if i prayed for you,
with a mother's tears,
her daughter raped by your soldiers...
would you change, would you know?
if i prayed for you,
with a homeless man's heart,
a human story untold...
would you care, would you know?
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Nothing...
They share 'one' thing in common,
With truth and reality.
Nothing!
And when they separate from each other,
A 'nothingness' is spread...
That is what the surveys have found!
However...
Some dispute the results of this...
Believing conflicts are appropriate
For constant fighting and throwing tantrum fits.
Beating each other like dead horses,
To the ground!
Until there's 'nothing' resisted existing...
And restoring the 'nothingness'
As if having this 'is' the ultimate crown.
'And the winner of chaos with conflicts?
Those misunderstandings that come to visit?
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Quitter
When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,
And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and . . . die.
But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"
And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . .
It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard.
"You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame.
You're young and you're brave and you're bright.
"You've had a raw deal!" I know -- but don't squeal,
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
It's the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don't be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit:
It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard.
It's easy to cry that you're beaten -- and die;
It's easy to crawfish and crawl;
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poem by Robert William Service
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