"acclaim" poems
Ask me who is the most generous man I know and I shall speak his name
Ask me who is the most humble man I know and him I shall acclaim
Ask me who is the most altruistic man I know and his face shall be on the frame
Ask me who is the most kindhearted man I know and you will hear his name again
In my life, I've never met anyone like him again
A man devoted to his family and his community
Always preaching the word of God and leading us to felicity
Always ready to sacrifice his needs for the sake of love and unity
He taught us family, love, fraternity, forgiveness, religion, compassion, tolerance, peace and generosity
I am who I am today thanks to his teachings
He was a leader, a guide, our role model
There is no one like him
He was a father, a brother, a friend, a companion, a grandfather
16 years since he is gone but his words still resonate like thunder
You are no longer here but your teachings linger
A man who was not afraid to cry when needs be but also not afraid to yell and impose order
Always playful with kids and receptive and caring with adults
I feel privileged and lucky to have known him and call him grandpa
For in my life he has played a huge and special part
The memories I will treasure and keep them in my heart
Although he is gone, we will always be together
And his spirit will live on in each one of us forever
From where he is, he is protecting us and guiding us on our way
He is praying for us everyday
He used to pray God "Let it be I who fall sick instead of one of my family member. Let it be I who die instead of someone in my family."
What kind of man wishes for that, you ask.
Someone special I will say, a man of love
And I would like to thank God above
For blessing us with this man, with his kindness and love
I truly believe that God has gifted him with something special
He taught us not to let this world be in our heart for it is not eternal
I know he is in a better place
Watching us all with a smile on his face
I hope we are making you proud from where you are
We are still crying an ocean of tears
As we feel so empty and hold many fears
If I could just turn back the time to those days you used to laugh with us and made us feel so special and loved
Those days you pretended to be in pain when we stepped on your feet while we were playing
Those days when they were only you and us in the room with your half covered grey and curled hair
Those days we used to watch tv together and whenever there was an intimate scene you screamed your favorite word "Touc" and scared us (not that I know what it means)
Time will heal so they say
And time fades away
While a part of us is taken away
I know we will meet again one day
But until that day
Know that you are truly missed
Mame Alassane Lahi whom we affectionately called Mame Rane
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 11:41 AM UTC
My mother always told me
not to play with fire
and to avoid evil friends
who want to conspire
listen to my conscience
set my heart aflame
be obedient,
kind like Jesus
Him I acclaim,
for reflecting
the Lord's Image,
satan does flee
where God resides
in hell's where the demons
should be because where
Jesus' Kingdom is,
we are there ...
it's also at hand when
we lift hearts in prayer.
© Carmela M. Patterson, All rights reserved
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
How can I see you yet never go Blind
As Tradition and Heart seek to acclaim?
I carry no Surveys; But keep in mind
A Friend such as you has naught to explain
Sweet and Sour Words not; Joy discovers Joy
And Celebration does reward the Humble
Your Grin is shy by your arms; As a Toy
Compare a Fattened Bee to a Bumble
Trust is falling in love with Pockets. True,
Digging deep you reach Wisdom by the Card
I suggest you shuffle; Then Five Trinkets
Spell out the Sum of who you really are:
Simple. Gay. Serene. Trustsworthy. Beauty.
All locked in your Chest to open when ready.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
she’s so phat!
can’t deny
a simple fact
it’s worth a try
to start anew
all that we knew
to forget
for good
or for worse
i don’t need a purse
have all the mon
in the world
all the gold
so cold
make it warm
love’s a storm
has no form
but a sphere
wild deer
still dreamin’ of ‘em
ain’t no Eminem
just a young man
of arms
charity and alms
such a rarity
in our selfish world
of calamity
unthinkable disaster
tulip, rose and aster
make your heart beat faster
like a drum machine
Dash Berlin
voice and beat
so neat
that girl
a friend of my soul
rhythm
with no blues
happiness
i choose
to carry on
fighting
for what’s right
sleepless
day and night
shaken but not mixed
i still get my kicks
from palm reading
all my wounds
are bleeding
with red wine
guardians of time
lost in their stride
stick to your pride
follow your dreams
anguish sins
belittle the devil
within you
there’s a universe
of wisdom
an ocean
of beauty
get no *****
but acclaim
your name
done in clay
on the walk of fame
let’s call it a day
21.05.2012
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 3:13 AM UTC
Grant me patience.
Remove my haste.
Let me revel youth
and not let it waste.
Grant me power
and the means to use it
Help me see worth
in powers unused yet.
Grant me success
free from acclaim
let me keep my spirit and
you may keep my name.
Grant me vision
to see what my eyes don’t
And help me mend all
that these times won’t.
Grant me miracles
and grant them often
on the grave of hope
let the daffodils blossom.
Grant me acknowledgement
on an endless list of names
remembered not for what I was
but rather what I became.
Grant me forgiveness
for the prayer I have ranted.
Grant me gratitude
for having taken much for granted.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 11:22 AM UTC
Beat the rhythm
empty hand,
Iron cast chains
rattles command.
Ol' Boss Hogg,
baton raised
Self righteous fool
has need of praise.
In order that
he gain acclaim,
thinks with hate,
acts with shame.
Human beings,
commodity,
ships hold stacked
with those once free.
Bodies piled
upon high
you will not see
the strong ones die.
Scars embedded
on their backs
chained and shackled
to the racks.
We deal in branded
breathing stock,
Unload black vassal
from our docks.
Beat the rhythm
empty hands.
Iron cast chains
in far off lands.
We keep our skivvy,
wired hair blacks.
We work them hard,
we score their backs.
They do for us,
they work the field.
Grow the cotton,
pick the yield.
Keep the body,
take the mind.
Labour whatever's
left behind.
And if demeanour
does ever flinch.
We'll introduce you
Willie Lynch.
Beat the rhythm.
Empty hands
Iron cast chains.
Unfair demands.
Beat the rhythm,
shackled feet.
We take their worst
but can't be beat.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
SpongeBob SquarePants is an American animated television series created by marine biologist and animator Stephen Hillenburg for Nickelodeon. The series chronicles the adventures and endeavors of the title character and his various friends in the fictional underwater city of Bikini Bottom. The series' popularity has made it a media franchise, as well as Nickelodeon network's highest rated show, and the most distributed property of MTV Networks. The media franchise has generated $8 billion in merchandising revenue for Nickelodeon.
Many of the ideas for the series originated in an unpublished, educational comic book titled The Intertidal Zone, which Hillenburg created in the mid-1980s. He began developing SpongeBob SquarePants into a television series in 1996 upon the cancellation of Rocko's Modern Life, and turned to Tom Kenny, who had worked with him on that series, to voice the titular character. SpongeBob was originally to be named SpongeBoy, and the series was to be called SpongeBoy Ahoy!, but these were changed, as the name was already trademarked.
The series was previewed on Nickelodeon in the United States on May 1, 1999, following the television airing of the 1999 Kids' Choice Awards, and officially premiered on July 17, 1999. It has received worldwide critical acclaim since its premiere and gained enormous popularity by its second season. The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie, a feature-length film adaptation, was released in theaters on November 19, 2004, and a sequel is currently in production, with a projected release date of February 13, 2015. On July 21, 2012, the series was renewed and aired its ninth season, beginning with the episode "Extreme Spots".[2][3]
Despite its widespread popularity, the series has been involved in several public controversies, including one centered around speculation over SpongeBob SquarePants' intended ****** orientation. The series has been nominated for a variety of different awards, including 17 Annie Awards (with six wins), 17 Golden Reel Awards (with eight wins), 15 Emmy Awards (with one win), 13 Kids' Choice Awards (with 12 wins), and four BAFTA Children's Awards (with two wins). In 2011, a newly described species of mushroom, Spongiforma squarepantsii, was named after the cartoon's title character.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
Love is for the poor,
and money for the rich
but wisdom is reserved
for those who caught the itch
of curiosity for the fact that they exist.
Those sparse few who dare
to put their faith into people
but expect not to see the eyes of god
inside of another man’s cathedral.
Knowing well that these lies and laws
could never guide us past the flaws
of good and evil.
Only believe in the dreamer
who refuses the role of a follower
and shuns the idea of a leader.
Be not deceived by status or acclaim
because it only makes you a disciple
of a product and a name.
Hold in high regard the tired hikers
born to the depths of the deepest valleys
and yet they rise before the light of dawn
like a striker to set ablaze the malaise
of these pedestrian days
that mock our souls
with monotonous toil.
This life is but an eternal recurrence
therefore every morn we are born anew
and that potential is a shot at transference
into something more eminent than you.
Become the bridge my friend
because there is no future
in being an end.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
What rarity can acclaim to this elusive title? Where surely
claiming it itself is against its nature.
It might be what our mothers told grubby faced, knee
knocked flecks that dart from graffitied parks
when light turns dark.
Is it in the eye of the beholder, a stubborn piece
of irritating dust? Perhaps those who search
will never be rewarded with a glimpse as
perfection becomes unfathomably further.
Why does the haughty swan rise when the
it squawks more than the pigeon?
Beauty is boxed. It is wrapped in parcels and
swaddled in ribbon until one forgets that it is in the child's
face and not his hands.
Unmeasurable pleasure shouldn't be contained, it roams and commands like a caged tiger. It controls the eye and navigates,
onward soldier. So perhaps it is not rare at all but there
for all customary enough to
anticipate the undeniable.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
How Poets routinely tell lies or truth with great "sincerity"
and earnest projections of "poetic charisma" and lashings
of "who me tell lies?".
and yet they routinely avoid truthfulness, in case they forget the power of lies and truth, in their search for fame.
Mesmerised by its attendant celebrity groupmind and of course its wealth..
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truthfulness
has nothing to do with truth.
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truth
is a lie and a lie is truth,
two sides of a darkened mirror
and both are equally valueless
except for seeing false faces in..
Poets bleat on about how the shackleable object of their 'love' ,
she or he, are not theirs to own
or categorise or monopolise.
yet they keep on expecting full submission
and just getting an empty back,
and a disappearing set of footprints.
Like the sheep and goats that Poets are,
they bleat on endlessly
about their wants their wants their wants.
They want fame as Poets--disguised as distribution deals.
They want contracts to produce garbage for HallMark--as if..
They want **** licking critical acclaim--from **** licking critics.
They want international poetry prizes from aesthetic morons--
wearing Armani suits.
They want Groupies--but not *******
They want Media eulogies--but not truthfulness.
Always are they deliberately forgetting that
"you cant always get what you want".
The last thing that Poets want is what they need most of all.
They really need
An end to the narcissism of those
that want to be called "poet"--in your dreams.
An end to the juvenile arrogance that motivates them to put up strings
of meaningless associated words
and vainly call them poems.
An end to childish immaturity, and inchoate meandering
through other peoples words and experiences, stealing others lives
and characters.
Always incessantly pretending that because
they can read the words of others
that they have also shared their experiences--indeed their experience was deeper wider higher.
In another day and age of non-violent sensibility
these kind of Poets would
be called thieves and liars.
In this day and age they scribble emotional garbage
and pretend its "poetry"--encouraged by intellectual follies.
As poets they have become walking proto cash registers.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin is Spanish for without.
Poets are SIN integrity.
Poets are SIN Truthfulness.
Poets are SIN decency.
Poets are SIN.
Im so glad I could never be mistaken for a Poet.
Wouldnt want to be mistaken as a poet.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
Can you see the precious releases as they dissipate
Inviting ardent admiration from us all
Appeasing the beseeching eyes of so many of us here
In the scattered dispersing of their fall
Such luminous wonders sustained by minute gestures
Of clarity in their mystical opaque releases
Appearing at first glimpse to stream from above
As if from the floodgates of secret places
A bountiful acclaim can be seen in the new animation
Of the recipients of these precious releases
As they blissfully absorb new life into their essence
Pleasing our eyes, with a beauty that never ceases
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 18, 2010 at 7:48 PM UTC
A little plant of little acclaim,
A small flower of smaller fame
A tiny plant without any sun
A creature that's only now begun
If it stays deep in deep gray shade
Its life and will will surely fade
How could one allow such sorrow
Cowardice to turn from tomorrow
A plant that strives not for shine
Will give its life for reapers' dine
It cannot last a second's breath
Without light falls quick to death
A plant that stays in the shadow's wake
Can only tremble and weep and quake
But a plant can grow, and grow towards life
A plant can flourish and cast off strife
It needs to bend and twist and turn
Push itself towards the sun-beam's burn
Grow and stretch up towards the sky
Demand to live, refuse to die
How it hurts and burns and stings,
The sight of those to the shadows cling
A bloom worth seeing sees the light
We must be brave, as a flower might
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 2:01 AM UTC
As potential grew, a desire to write, disclosed to few
Imagination immerse, but yet to thirst for knowledge, accrued ambition address
All aboard the express, thoughts of Harry, a plot to marry
From fanciful flights to greater heights
Capturing such visualisation, twas the formation
Characterisation, of wings to soar, with metaphor
From Dumbledore, yet taking shape
Professor Snape, assume the plot, lest thoughts forgot
A forest to roam, a philosophical stone
Such creative flair of which to share
Joining of the dotted line, artistic mind
Transporting train, journeyed acclaim
Of whom to impede, the will to succeed
The ability to write, the capacity to teach, the desire to reach
An impetus for change, a literary role, a priority
Of which to seek with tenacity
Beyond horizons, beyond confines, stand undefined
Awe-inspire, great readership, a due reply
To simplify, a noble shift, outstanding writer in the midst
Dynamic plot from pen to page, persistence through to published stage
A realised dream, challenge overcome
A victory won definably, stocked supplies to library
Broomstick flight phenomenon, a mystical tale was to become
Would generate, the bus of Knight, to render right
A rebuilt life, a legacy made
From chosen craft to final draft, a world of creativity
The right to type, to innovate, an intriguing wait
A shining star that would liberate
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 3:10 PM UTC
a polish pork head terrine?
my ******* god...
how can the jews and the muslims
take to culinary criticism of
their own, respective gods?
ever watch the t.v. show
billions? where they're having
breadcrumbs fried pork
ears?
last time i heard...
the best pork is encapsulated
within the pig cranium....
all that excess cartilage?
yummy finger licking good...
seems funny though...
it's not exactly discussing bone marrow...
it's pork head...
all that excess cartilage...
and mingled with sweet & sour
gherkins...
just my idea of Anastasia...
a porky's head...
chicken hearts / chicken livers....
raw Baltic herrings?
who the, **** needs to glorify
american hamburgers...
if not some jerking-off
megalomaniac?
you eat, what is given,
you don't ask for nuances,
you don't make excuses...
you eat what is on the plate..
you **** the omnivore "gimmick"...
pork head flesh,
meat mixed with cartilage?
tasty as ****
so why would islam
or the partial strand of judaism
be so critical concerning the most
economic carnivore animal being
farmed, herded, industrialised?
the monotheistic celebration of god...
within the confines of a criticism,
so trivial would make a god laugh...
it would appear the dogma was written as a joke...
earthquake and hurricane
are o.k., but pork?
the ******* bubonic plague!
i love how "god" is celebrated,
but at the same time,
kept under a critical acclaim
of having one of his creations,
namely pork...
given a punching bag status of criticism...
since, what is so ******* pristine,
and spectacular, about chicken, lamb
or beef meat?
according to islam... mad cow disease
never happened.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 9:19 PM UTC
Does it matter more to you that you care for others or that others care for you?
Would you take a series of bullets
Would you leap before a dashing car
Would you dance on sweltering embers for the sake of one who does you nought in return?
Wouldn’t most or wouldn’t anyone endure the worst for acknowledgement and commendation…
I try to be gallant—self-sacrificial,
Try to be benevolent, bleeding heart beyond comprehension
Yet am I worse than the slaughterers?
The iniquitous, the rest?
No more than the vile, reprobate, devilish…
For who, after all,
Cast oneself beyond forgiveness
The felon who would exploit acts of selflessness
To assemble his own
Maleficent, pernicious lair
Of praise, acclaim, and comfort.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
All-Conquering Death! by thy resistless pow’r,
Hope’s tow’ring plumage falls to rise no more!
Of scenes terrestrial how the glories fly,
Forget their splendors, and submit to die!
Who ere escap’d thee, but the saint of old
Beyond the flood in sacred annals told,
And the great sage, whom fiery coursers drew
To heav’n’s bright portals from Elisha’s view;
Wond’ring he gaz’d at the refulgent car,
Then snatch’d the mantle floating on the air.
From Death these only could exemption boast,
And without dying gain’d th’ immortal coast.
Not falling millions sate the tyrant’s mind,
Nor can the victor’s progress be confin’d.
But cease thy strife with Death, fond Nature, cease:
He leads the virtuous to the realms of peace;
His to conduct to the immortal plains,
Where heav’n’s Supreme in bliss and glory reigns.
There sits, illustrious Sir, thy beauteous spouse;
A gem-blaz’d circle beaming on her brows.
Hail’d with acclaim among the heav’nly choirs,
Her soul new-kindling with seraphic fires,
To notes divine she tunes the vocal strings,
While heav’n’s high concave with the music rings.
Virtue’s rewards can mortal pencil paint?
No—all descriptive arts, and eloquence are faint;
Nor canst thou, Oliver, assent refuse
To heav’nly tidings from the Afric muse.
As soon may change thy laws, eternal fate,
As the saint miss the glories I relate;
Or her Benevolence forgotten lie,
Which wip’d the trick’ling tear from Misry’s eye.
Whene’er the adverse winds were known to blow,
When loss to loss ensu’d, and woe to woe,
Calm and serene beneath her father’s hand
She sat resign’d to the divine command.
No longer then, great Sir, her death deplore,
And let us hear the mournful sigh no more,
Restrain the sorrow streaming from thine eye,
Be all thy future moments crown’d with joy!
Nor let thy wishes be to earth confin’d,
But soaring high pursue th’ unbodied mind.
Forgive the muse, forgive th’ advent’rous lays,
That fain thy soul to heav’nly scenes would raise.
2k
*I, fluoride - sanity theft
Winding toy soldiers
to march the path toward furtive glory
While spurting the tune of war
to the end of their very last breaths*
*Harbinger of certain death
Peek from behind the curtain
Witness the brain mining
From inside your skull
eyeballs explode, deftly blinding
Defining images which pervade
Overwhelming emotions stowed
Once turned to stone
mental harm, tractor combines harvest FarmVille tards by the barnload
Certainly,
The eye of Horus and ISIS see all
scorching and seizing nations, arm in arm
All for one, none for all
Bombarding bravado
Clasp the trap
Lapse in conscious
All tapped out
Drowning in tap water
Until all comes tumbling down like Niagara Falls, dauntless
Like Satan's hands expanding
advance upon the homeland
Then race trickling downward
Total assest forfeiture
***** buried in sand)*
Faces hidden, ashamed
Orchestrate the line in frame
Shape my frame of mind
Until my thoughtscape escapes
To peer through one eye
Met to widespread acclaim
Descending into the mind of Chaos,
His stables gates
burst forth with beasts of fable, insatiable and rampant
Triumphant, turn the tables
Arch-Angels blare your trumpets
*Tell Famine get off his high horse
And rear his ugly head
So we can really show that *****
Mother Earth what for;
**** that ***** until nothing's left*
*Effectively wrecked
From careening trains of wretched *********
Now she's hit
& the caged bird that longs to be free, is inevitably
dismembered to pieces by the felines that be*
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
End is the beginning of another doom,
since evils are not born from wombs.
A son he is to a mother,
and so neglected are the symptoms.
Good might be his foundation,
but fate destroys it all.
Struggle is pronounced,
life on fire.
endurance has limits,
the strongest heart dies,
an obstinate, wicked mind arises from ashes.
Then are done the follies, so noticeable,
he is criticized, is made the Villain.
Then the head is on sale,
with biddings so high.
The team that preys on him,
is awarded public acclaim.
Then is he known in history,
God of turmoil.
Stories are made with him as a villain,
and little children taught the false old rhyme,
bad times may break,
but real good stands undestroyed.
Who is the real Villain is to be judged,
As oldest rocks not always yield diamonds.
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 1:48 PM UTC
Beautiful soul is what you are.
In some dark days you are my star.
You are an extension of God's love.
I can't deny the fact that you are blessing from above.
Everything of you is a part of me.
Your beautiful side is what I always see.
You are a person who fights for what is right.
And sometimes this cause you to cry at night.
Since before, you've been always thoughtful.
I saw the times when you became fearful.
Deep down I felt the tears you've shed,
and courageously to God you prayed and pled.
The time I met you was one of the best-
the best time to say that I am blessed!
We both know that I am not a perfect friend,
but you offered me something that will last 'til the end.
Fun things are what we always do.
Remember the days when we tried to fly and climbed trees, too?
I remembered a day when you cried a lot,
because you were playing and had a deep cut.
Rainy days! One of our favorite days!
We were excited to run and play.
Laughing, running, throwing mud.
We even tried to play in the flood.
Impossible things became possible to us,
There were many things that we liked to discuss.
We became fake animals and superheroes.
We had a pet frog- oh yeah, we were weirdos!
Each day was a time to had fun.
We didn't care about the heat of the sun.
We embraced every bruises we had.
Friends come and go- we were always glad.
Now that we are grown ups and at our 20's,
no more plays and doing important duties.
Memories and friendship will remain the same.
Some things about us, now I acclaim.
Dear best friend, I pray and hope all the best for you.
I and God will always help you to get through.
Let's look on forward to what is best,
and stick together, for we know that God will do the rest.
-Steph Dionisio, February 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 3:18 AM UTC
The knife feels kind of nice.
Despite the fact it intrudes,
Protrudes from a wounded back.
The price we pay, I guess,
Closeness never quite manifests.
But it's good to know, you know?
Those who feign familiarity
Friendships staged and put on show,
Critics acclaim, shamed curtains close.
Characters who grew into the role
Far fetched with hyperbole.
Lines they speak with finesse
Lies smooth the noose of regret.
Confused they peruse part two.
I think therefore I forget.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
Forbidden fruits hidden in the roof
of my mind
Its time to set fire to the mimes
Larcenous pursuit of greater acclaim
than is taped and pasted to your brain.
Dripping copper pipes cold in the November light
bright shadows gently crush the fabric of unreality.
Love is a howitzer
it can **** alot of people
quickly and often.
Love is a pool of amniotic fluid,
it sustains and cushions, and soothes with warm comfort.
Cardboard cutouts of cutthroat gangsters with gout,
flout societies mores, with Cuban cigar smoke synthesis.
Brandy
snifterfull
Awaiting the dinnerbell.
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 10:04 AM UTC
but then i am moulded by democracy,
and i see its evils,
and the only good of it
exercised is focused upon
the critical acclaim of theocracy,
and that only spreads upon
a definition: the existence of theocracy
qualifies democracy to become warring,
because under the dicta of the people
no gods exist, but despots do,
and democracy is qualified to eradicate all despots,
even god, with or without the rule of the people,
as the ambition of being without rule:
as ant said unto aardvark: same **** different planet.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 7:44 PM UTC
When are you going to discern what you are made of young Iago?
I'm waiting. I'm waiting for you to espy the fact your nature takes far more than you are ever willing to give.
You have a gluttonous stomach for acclaim and it is this that will govern how you negotiate your efforts of any friendship. It is this that will decipher if you will stay loyal to your promises, nothing else.
Have you not noticed that you have never had to apologise properly for anything?
You have grown an unhealthy amount of entitlement, it holds you in an odious position right at the centre of your cosmos.
I guess you find it safe there. I feel strongly there is more for you.
You will of course be honored in your insipid society.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 4:10 PM UTC
Hidden in the grey morass out there amidst your workforce
Are Pearls in a lattice work of intricate disguise.
Gems of enlightenment and soldiers of conscience
Who battle with adversities’ regressive, shut eyes.
Clad in the rigging of everyday costume
Hidden to all but the discerning few,
Seeing the gold of the extra steps taken,
And observing initiatives made there for you.
Gold in the form of an everyday worker
One who excels far above average way,
Unrewarded and unacknowledged
Responsibly shouldering this all in his day.
Towering over the mass mediocrity
Holding the strands of a mess of loose ends,
Always dependable, doggedly purposeful
Easily marked as definitive friend.
Driven by his own hard volition
In striving for that extra won mile,
True champion of mans’ Endeavour
Unheralded in his own low profile.
The movers and the shakers all
Fly their flags of self acclaim
But the Pearls of the Unobvious
Shall be this nations’ future fame.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
24 November 2010
Nov 23, 2010
Nov 23, 2010 at 2:44 PM UTC