Quotes about crease, page 6
And What Will Be Then?
What will be tomorrow?
Tomorrow will be April.
Hearts will be struck by the love arrow,
They will not be stable.
So, what to do now?
Is it just natures caprice?
Allow your feelings be somehow avowed.
Don’t let your feelings to crease.
Look for the truth in the gentleness of spring!
Ding, ding! Listen to the bells ring!
Forget the troubles and sing!
A new song the spring will bring.
And what will be then?
Then will come summer.
Amen! We are all earthmen.
It will certainly become warmer.
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poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Transparent Waters
Begin thoughts scrub the surface,
Remove rust, wash the sable spots
Of eyes, of heart and of dark mind;
But the diabolic coat a layer upon a layer,
Impede lights, make us blind,
Though we claim to be the men of wisdom,
Yet we move in the canyon of obscurity.
Standing upon the top of an alien hill,
I beheld a lush green gorge,
Merging with serpentine bends,
Down below into the countless mounds.
All humps rose with moderate heights;
Below to the left on the turn first,
A tall tree with comb like leaves,
And extending branches enchanted my soul.
Upward to the right behind the top,
An ocean of the subtle transparent waters,
With no crease, no ridges or dancing waves,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Youth And The Old
the youth and the old-
o what a contrast in between!
the youth is unapologetically mindful
of every millimeter of its dress
for its match, crease, fitness, and what not,
craning and twisting its neck in front of the mirror
and straining every nerve to put up a decent show
everytime it steps out of the house!
the old cares the least for anything
and moves out shabbily unmindful of stature -
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poem by Sundaram Chandrakalaadhar
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Golf Steals Our Youth
Have you seen the golfers airy
Prancing forth to their vagary,
Just as frisky in their gaiters
As a flock of Grecian Satyrs,
Looking everything heroic,
And magnificently stoic,
In a dress of such a pattern
As would fright the good God Saturn?
Have you heard them curse the sparrow
Fit to freeze your inmost marrow,
When the ball, that should be flitting,
On the grass remaineth sitting?
Have you watched their cheerful scrambles
In the soft and soothing brambles
While the foe, elate and sneering,
Passes gradually from hearing?
After blaming all the witches,
After rending holes in breeches,
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poem by Norman Rowland Gale
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A Benchmark Shock
Today a benchmark shock in self-discovery
a colleague explained she read everything
on a subject she does not understand when
she has to translate a new text on it - feeling
terribly guilty I realised I cannot force myself
to do that, trying to overcome violent distaste
in anything that holds no appeal simply ends
in me being ill
I should have become a nun with my interest
in spiritual matters, by this time I would have
been feeling totally sinful, dead or locked up
in a hospital for the mentally ill, thus the world
would have been spared my presence and I
would have been enjoying my justly earned
suffering for multiple shortcomings - now I
am an anchor, a provider
Sending kids to college, gathering for pension
funds, I may not admit how much I detest trying
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poem by Margaret Alice Second
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A Giant
Often my mind baffles,
And the stock of wisdom ends,
When I think with wonder upon
The amazingly perplexing figure.
I found on the alien ground,
A giant-like being in the size full,
Sitting with graceful posture,
Whose face, each curve and crease,
Resembled mine as if I were,
His portrait small or He were mine,
But much larger, giant-like in dimension.
Note: This poem is purely based on a spiritual experience, and nothing else. In my life I passed though a certain period (from 1992 to 1998) when I often felt a sort of titillating sensation and something dispatching from my physical body and flying with all sensation and consciousness, into the distant corners of the universe, beyond imagination where I observed other worlds much vaster than ours, saw spirits of the diseased men and women, often I had a chat with them who disclosed some mysteries. My poem is a narration of the same experience and it is not merely a vain imagining; I have evaded from exaggeration; I put my case to the psychiatrists, and spiritualists for comments and criticism, the poem also contains a substance for the cosmologists.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Artist
He gave a picture exhibition,
Hiring a little empty shop.
Above its window: FREE ADMISSION
Cajoled the passers-by to stop;
Just to admire - no need to purchase,
Although his price might have been low:
But no proud artist ever urges
Potential buyers at his show.
Of course he badly needed money,
But more he needed moral aid.
Some people thought his pictures funny,
Too ultra-modern, I'm afraid.
His painting was experimental,
Which no poor artist can afford-
That is, if he would pay the rental
And guarantee his roof and board.
And so some came and saw and sniggered,
And some a puzzled brow would crease;
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poem by Robert William Service
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We Mean to Say
We mean to say, it never has been granted
That anyone but England could decide,
In the crease or at the wicket,
Just exactly what was cricket
And, of course, I mean to say, we have our pride.
The great old game was, as it were, invented
On the playing fields of Eton, and all that,
And to try to steal our thunder
When you think we've made a blunder
Why, dear old bean, that's talking thro' the hat!
We mean to say - the game originated
With us, back in the dear old top-hat days,
And the gentlemen who played it,
By their sterling methods, made it
A top-hole game for sportsmen - hence the phrase.
So, hang it all! If something 'isn't cricket'
It's our prerogative to say so, flat.
And it's cheek, you know, cool cheek,
When you dash in, so to speak,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Perhaps Then... (Not A Man)
perhaps then, i am not a man....
i am the creek hidden
deep in the woods,
singing the hymn of rocks,
and stillness.
i am the gun laid down,
for the last time,
by the conscience of discontent.
i am the cry of the child,
born into a hungry world,
the eyes of the mother,
defying hope!
i am the snail that dances,
the deep growl of the dog,
i am firewood, cut and stacked,
in waiting.
i am the kiss of the chapter,
you read again and again...
i am the crossroads,
devoid of signs.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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You Were Only Talking...
It's four o'clock in the morning,
No sleep for me this night,
I sit on the cold verandah,
And watch for a chink of light;
The wind howls round about me
The moon's not raised its head,
And you are out there walking,
Walking,
Walking,
And you are out there walking,
When you should have been in bed!
I'm shivering in the darkness,
It's colder than the crypt,
The rain that passed right over
Left puddles, where it dripped
My mind sets off to wonder
Why life should be so grim…
You said that you were talking,
Talking,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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