Quotes about beaten, page 6
Hero Stuff
The climbing high was stone by stone
bloodied hands and striated hearts
scattered behind on the trail;
some crying years
and many happy ones;
but our life has been to be sure an upward struggle
to mountain climb, one after another.
Yet at each boulder and rock you offered me
a rope and line
and each time lifted up
me along with your self.
How can a climber of rocks lift both self
and another, but you do so and have done.
This is hero stuff and you are mine.
Beaten back and beaten down you surpassed
all that
was placed in your path and humor greeted
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A Village In Orissa, India
-Where Persecution of the Indian Christian Continues Unabated
A nun was raped by a gang of men;
A priest was beaten; his eyes gouged off;
And he finally died!
Churches were torched;
Sexual assaults are rampant;
Women and children were not spared;
Many were beaten and even maimed;
Some are missing;
Many were burnt alive;
Crowds have run to the shelter of forests;
Homes of Christians have been destroyed;
Many were driven naked in the streets!
Christians of this village live in fear;
Some have reconverted to Hindu faith to keep their lives;
Yet, the Indian Christian was always known for his non-violence;
If someone converts, it is the ‘will of God’.
And such things happen in a secular, democratic country like India!
And while all these terrible things are happening,
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poem by John Celes
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I Dont Even Know Their Names!
his spirit left his body,
and walked through the hells.
a firm voice spoke:
'keep your eyes open,
look, and see! '
he saw dark skinned children,
their bodies frail and thin,
their features carved with hunger.
he saw women and children,
running from the bombs,
young men gunned down,
in the streets.
he saw the homeless family,
sleeping in a beaten old car,
hoping no one would come
to make them move.
he saw the young addict shaking,
the young woman helpless,
her baby crying in the bare apartment.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Last Post
THE day's high work is over and done,
And these no more will need the sun:
Blow, you bugles of England, blow!
These are gone where all must go,
Mightily gone from the field they won.
So in the workaday wear of battle,
Touched to glory with God's own red,
Bear we our chosen to their bed!
Settle them lovingly where they fell,
In that good lap they loved so well;
And, their deliveries to the dear Lord said,
And the last desperate volleys ranged and sped,
Blow, you bugles of England, blow,
Over the camps of her beaten foe --
Blow glory and pity to the victor Mother,
Sad, O sad in her sacrificial dead!
Labour, and love, and strife, and mirth,
They gave their part in this kindly earth --
Blow, you bugles of England, blow!
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poem by William Ernest Henley
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The Lesson From The Horse Race
There's no such thing as gallant loser and there's no glory in defeat
And coming first is all that matter and victory is always sweet
For the winning horse and jockey there's a mighty hip hooray
And the jockey he is smiling victory has made his day.
The stable lad leads in his winner he has never known such joy
And the owner pats his race horse as if to say well done me boy
And there's applause for the winning trainer from the large onlooking crowd
And the horse is centre of attention and those who backed him clapping loud.
Near by stands the beaten favourite held there by his stable lad
And with no trace of the horse's owner and the trainer looking sad
In a thrilling photo finish beaten into second place
But he get little recognition for running such a splendid race.
Human life is like the horse race at winning post you've got to lead
Losers are quickly forgotten and to be loved you must succeed
You must strive hard for your glory and if you fail in your vital test
You too will be quick forgotten as winners are remembered best
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poem by Francis Duggan
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The Lion's Whelps
There is scarlet on his forehead,
There are scars across his face,
’Tis the bloody dew of battle dripping down, dripping down,
But the war-heart of the Lion
Turns to iron in its place
When he halts to face disaster, when he turns to meet disgrace,
Stung and keen and mettled with the life-blood of his own.
Let the hunters ’ware who flout him,
When he calls his whelps about him,
When he sets the goal before him and he settles to the pace.
Tricked and wounded! Are we beaten
Though they hold our strength at play?
We have faced these things aforetimes, long ago, long ago.
From sunlit Sydney Harbour
And ten thousand miles away,
From the far Canadian forests to the Sounds of Milford Bay,
They have answered, they have answered, and we know the answer now.
From the Britains such as these
Strewn across the world-wide seas
Comes the rally and the bugle-note that makes us one to-day.
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poem by George Essex Evans
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Ode to Cindy
Cindy was 15
when she
decided
to run away
to Texas.
Auburn hair,
fresh-faced,
freckled complexion.
Vibrant and alive.
A raspy, sexy voice.
A trusting, sweet,
kind smile.
Cindy was a
beautiful
youthful girl,
inside and out.
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poem by Tim Labbe
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The Shame of Going Back
When you've come to make a fortune and you haven't made your salt,
And the reason of your failure isn't anybody's fault -
When you haven't got a billet, and the times are very slack,
There is nothing that can spur you like the shame of going back;
Crawling home with empty pockets,
Going back hard-up;
Oh! it's then you learn the meaning of humiliation's cup.
When the place and you are strangers and you struggle all alone,
And you have a mighty longing for the town where you are known;
When your clothes are very shabby and the future's very black,
There is nothing that can hurt you like the shame of going back.
When we've fought the battle bravely and are beaten to the wall,
'Tis the sneers of men, not conscience, that make cowards of us all;
And the while you are returning, oh! your brain is on the rack,
And your heart is in the shadow of the shame of going back.
When a beaten man's discovered with a bullet in his brain,
They POST-MORTEM him, and try him, and they say he was insane;
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poem by Henry Lawson
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I Also Rise (Homage to Maya Angelou)
I have been used, abused, mistreated, and even overheated, but still I also rise
I have been denied, compromised, and even ostracized, but yet I still also rise
I have been called outdated, jaded, and mutilated, but here I still also rise
I have been hated, mentally castrated, looted, and even been uprooted, but still I also rise
I have been scorned, adorned, and reborn, but yet I still also rise
I have been beaten up, beaten down, and almost ended up underground but yet I also still rise
I have been cheated on, crapped on, and walked on but yet I still also rise
I have been treat as a fool, used as a tool, treated so cruel, but yet I still seem to also rise
I have been neglected, disrespected, rejected, and yes I also rise
I have been a token, my heart has broken, I’ve misspoken, and I still also rise
I have been accused, bruised, refused, confused, and even reused, but I still also rise
I have been pushed to the side, kicked in the backside, been steamed dried, and yes I even cried, but yet I still also rise
I have been slapped in the face, can’t return to my birthplace, entered foreign airspace, and felt a woman’s warm embrace, yet I still also rise
I have been the victim of oppression, obsession, the recession, and a downward transgression but here I still also rise
I have been battered, life shattered, lost everything that mattered, yet I still also rise
I have felt the hurt, treated like dirt, forgetting to stay alert, and for all that it is worth I still will also rise
poem by Wilfred Mellers
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What Celia Saw in the Back of a Spoon
Celia looked at her reflection
In the back of the spoon;
Her face was blown outward
As if captured on some balloon.
It almost made her laugh;
The memory of it;
How she and her sister Sassy
Would do that as kids,
Before the dark days,
Before her death in a bath.
That drowning, that sad death.
Sassy's husband had beaten her
Black and blue and green
And she'd hide herself away
So as not to be seen.
But she'd seen her,
Seen the bruises
Like smudged tattoos,
The closed eyes,
The swollen lips,
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poem by Terry Collett
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