"quarrel" poems
The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth's old and weary cry.
And then you came with those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world's tears,
And all the trouble of her laboring ships,
And all the trouble of her myriad years.
And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,
And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves,
Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry.
28.7k
Whirlpool of whirling quaint
Inequality brewing in the
Winepress of smithereens
Fragile polity.
Voices of weariness cried
Out from the wasteyard of
Waste for succour,
Pointing fingers of
Recrimination towards
The abyss of drouth ,
Entangled in conflicts
Of interest.
Winds of improvised emblem
Bearing hunchback of
Woes,
Raising hands from the
Drowning deep sea
For rescue like
A dejected beautiful
Vigaro in a
Turbulent ocean of quarrel
With her spouse.
Whereas reddish fluids of life
Runs across the same veins
And arteries of haves
And haves-not but
Cottage of interests
Hoisting avalanche of
Rainbow-coloured flags
Standing aloof on the
Pole of misrule,
Demarcating their interests.
No accommodation for wants
In the corridor of affluence.
Wants on a trade mission
With wealthy but caged in
The confinement of wealth.
Winds of inequality blew
Whirler of wants into
The marrow of the
Haves-not.
Rains of inequality passing
Through a lockage of lack
Into the improvised,
Doling-out poverty to
Gain the control of
Wealth.
Alas! Blindness sees inner
Vision of darkness from
The households of political
lamia.
Alas! Deafness hears
Discordant vague voices
Of failure from the forest
of frustration.
Alas! Dumbness speaks
Language of gnomes out
Of the vale of forgotten
treasures.
Alas! A four year tenancy
turning into decades
of challenges.
But we shall revive our hope
and raise our voices
tomorrow.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 8:19 AM UTC
"Every man gotta right to decide his own destiny."
-Bob Marley
"Facts on facts, and things on things: that's alot of fuckin' ******** Hear me! there is no truth but the one truth, an' that is the truth of Jah Rastafarian."
-Bob Marley
"I don't stand for the black man's side, I don' t stand for the white man's side. I stand for God's side."
-Bob Marley
"in the abundance of water, the fool is thirsty."
-Bob Marley
"the harder the battle the sweet of jah victory."
-Bob Marley
"open your eyes & look within, are you satisfied with the life you´reliving."
-Bob Marley
"in this great future you can't forget your past."
-Bob Marley
"If you get down and quarrel everyday, you're saying prayers to the devil, I say."
-Bob Marley
"Just can't live that negative way...make way for the positive day!"
-Bob Marley
"Life and Jah are one in the same. Jah is the gift of existence. I am in some way eternal, I will never be
duplicated. The singularity of every man and woman is Jah's gift. What we struggle to make of it is our sole gift to Jah. The process of what that struggle becomes, in time, the Truth."
-Bob Marley
"Life is one big road with lots of signs. So when you riding through the ruts, don't complicate your mind. Flee from hate, mischief and jealousy. Don't bury your thoughts, put your vision to reality . Wake Up and Live!"
-Bob Marley
"People want to listen to a message, word from Jah. This could be passed through me or anybody. I am not a leader. Messenger. The words of the songs, not the person, is what attracts people."
-Bob Marley
"Until the philosophy which hold one race superior and another inferior is finally discredited and
abandoned...WAR! So that is prophecy, and everyone know that is truth. And it came out of the mouth of Rastafarian."
-Bob Marley
"The first thing you must know about me is that I always stand what I stand for. Good? The second thing you must know about yourself listening to me is that words are tricky. So when you know what me a stand for, when i explain something to you, you must never try to look upon it in a different way from what i stand for."
-Bob Marley
"Emancipate yourself from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our mind..."
-Bob Marley
"The good times of today, are the sad thoughts of tomorrow."
-Bob Marley
"You can fool some people sometimes, but you can't fool all the people
all the time."
-Bob Marley
"Don't gain the world and lose your soul, wisdom is better than silver or gold..."
-Bob Marley
"Rise O fallen fighters, rise and take your stance again, He who fight and run away, Live to fight another day"
-Bob Marley
"The power of philosophy floats through my head, Light like a feather, Heavy as Led"
-Bob Marley
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC
If a husband and wife don't quarrel or if a
husband and wife have never quarreled
before, then it means that they are not
telling each other the truth. If a boyfriend
has never quarreled with his girlfriend
before, it means they are deceiving each
other. What am trying to say is that two
couples must have a misunderstanding or
quarrel. It is normal. But what is not normal
is malice. I have seen cases where a
husband and his wife don't greet each
other for one week and yet they are living in
the same house. I have seen cases where
husband and wife don't talk to each other
for many days because of a small quarrel
that happened. I have also seen a case
where a man refused to eat his wife's food
because his wife quarreled with him. A
boyfriend will not call his girlfriend for many
weeks because of one little misunderstanding.
Why? Because of ego. Nobody wants to
be the first to apology. This is very bad.
Malice destroys marriage and relationship.
When both of you had a quarrel, do not
nurse the anger for up to 24 hours. If your
partner did not apology, be the first to say
"am sorry" even if you are not at fault. Just
do it for the sake of peace. Two wrongs
cannot make a right. Save your relationship.
Any man who refuses to eat his wife's food
because of a quarrel is a boy. The man is not
mature at all. Malice is childish. Mature
people quarrel and settle and play together
again on that same day. Save your
marriage.
Save your relationship.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC
What do you do
When your heart yearns for one thing
And your brain wants another?
You listen a little bit to both.
But what do you do
When it is your heart that is in dispute
A half wants one thing
And the other wants another
Is it better to do then neither
Or is it better to mute them both
And listen to the conscience?
What do you do
When your conscience goes to war
With your heart and your mind?
You listen to the majority.
But what do you do
When you know the minority to be true
Because in fact, the heart is forever
In love with the conscience.
It is the mind, the mind it is
That tricks the heart
Into believing that
It is in quarrel with the conscience.
So what do you do, really?
You be a good human
And listen to the conscience.
~Moniba.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
EACH DAY I QUARREL WITH HER...
GIVES ME A HAPPINESS THAT CURE MY HEART...
EACH DAY I SCOLD HER...
GIVES ME THE ELDERSHIP THERE,,
BUT EACH DAY I BLAME HER..
GIVES ME AN APOLOGY...
EACH DAY I THANK GOD..
FOR GIVING ME A SISTER LIKE HER .
TO MA SISTER
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 9:53 PM UTC
When brothers go to war there are no captives/
When brothers go to war we find only casualties/
The in explicable war between Palestine and Israel,/
In this poem i hope that peace would prevail/
Countries at the crossroads of heaven and hell/
Their war has lasted for ages/
Pain and revenge bitterness and hate/
When brothers go to war who dares to mediate/
Who knows of their fate who knows whose right/
Its bee like this for so many years/
Who will be there to wipe their tears/
Who will be there to give hope to those in fear/
Who will dare to go and interfere/
When brothers go to war know that the end is near/
Hold on and sanctify your soul in prayer/
When brothers go to war who is the villain who is the saint/
The war of Israel and Palestine stained in red paint/
A revelation to the faint hearted/
A lesson to the boastful and egocentric/
Innocent lives lost when brothers go to war/
A gentle answer turns away wrath/
But a harsh word stirs up anger/
A hot tempered man stirs up dissension/
But a patient man calms a quarrel/
When brothers go to war who dares mediate
(c) ISSAI
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
You were there for me at my weakest state
To comfort me and my self-hate
Through our darkest hours and toughest times
We let go of our struggles and let time go by
Through jokes and games
we forgot about life
We could talk for hours without blinking an eye
As years went on we started to quarrel
We argued in hatred about our naive troubles
You called me a loner and I said "fine i’ll leave"
So I left you and cried until I could no longer weep
You made the best of me
I tried to make the best of you
I regret the day that I blocked you
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 8:57 AM UTC
***** Cant Call People *****
***** Quarrel with other *****
***** are barinless
they are undecisive
but they smell good
***** ruin your day
from night to the next day
***** lead you on
***** break hearts
I will know as long as i live to not trust
these stupid ***** who continue to break fragile hearts
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
The Pigeon Gent,
He woos and coos around the river bent.
Pursues his muse with artful dance and skillful prance,
With inflated neck and ruffled plumage, until his energy or luck is spent.
He then resides by ebbing tides to ponder on his next advance.
"Now Now", "Whats This" the gent exclaims,
A shadow looming from the skies.
With ***** and claps he glides and lands with full surprise,
He spies the intruder, "A fellow Brooder".
Pigeon gent cant believe his eyes.
Pigeon Gent cannot believe the sauce,
The scurge seems intent on taking his prize by force.
At once he knows he must respond,
And force this illbread vagabond to abscond.
At once chest puffed and muscles flexed,
With wild eyes he jabs and pecks.
To teach this ruffian respect,
So on his actions he may later reflect.
He stands his ground both large and proud,
To make example of this foul winged burglar from the clouds.
"You insult me sir" he shouts aloud,
To make his intentions clear for all the crowd.
For several rounds they fight and scuffle.
With intruder retreating, feathers ruffled.
Then bested suiter fairly parted,
The quarrel ends as fast as started.
The vanquished victor displays and grooms,
As peace and honour now resumes.
Soon the ripples upset the green,
An armada of ducks come on the scene.
Alerted by the heightend coos,
They race to see what act insues.
The mighty mallards, Kings of the river,
None contest their right of way.
Their ways of conduct such generous givers.
Majestic river royalty, the law is always what they say.
On bank or shallow pebbled river they have always been,
They love to feed and breed amongst the river scene.
There royal cape made up of browny reds and shimmering greens,
reflects and intejects on mirrored water skies and evergreens.
To their mates for life and lady lovers,
The mallard gent is like no others.
Such loyalties are seldom seen,
In modern times and different dreams.
Fine and lean with striking features,
Best examples of river teachers.
But at any moment no matter how abrubt,
A river duel may easily erupt.
Battle can ensue and rage,
As both apponents approach and engage.
For they mate for life as duck and wife,
A rarity in any age or life.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
They are fighting again.
Two lovebirds stuck in a cage,
Pretending to be lovebirds,
But are really ravens painted lovely colors.
They put on a show when their owners watch,
Chirping happily,
Flittingly loving.
But turn your back for one second,
And they will screech, quarrel,
Claw each others throats out.
And they think we don't know.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
The voice I hear is ruminating in my head,
that treacherous depart was wounded instead of behead.
How I long for this pain to leave akin the December sky,
this imminent glory was only dreamed about in disguise.
How persuasive the universe was to the story,
it did not project the upcoming fury.
Of a devious bequeath that upheld the tantrum,
the sky soared with anger until its utter collapse.
When a drop of water fell from the engorging sky;
it dropped thousands of miles beneath,
until it splattered like a human who couldn’t breathe.
This anger spread like a wildfire, infecting all those longed desires.
The heart of which pumped no more blood,
Became equivalent to a plant breathing through a frozen sun.
Nature believed there were no further storms,
until the quarrel beneath was profoundly explored.
Through the bodies sensation one could not ignore,
made the heartache of this man’s soul.
Oh why are humans so weak.
Must the sun anger the kindness soul,
For I had only hoped for evermore.
Was I a victim who loved no more?
Or an open heart waiting to explore?
This journey could not be real,
however, it became nurturing to one’s appeal.
The ignorance disguised as love evidently appeared,
as the devil danced around as one had feared.
Ambiguous to the commonality of faith,
that created an ambivalence that aroused distaste.
The traitor became her experience and ego her age,
I was in love with a spiritual woman of a certain year of age.
By: Michael M. De La Fuente
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
Jellyfish in the dock
Quietly guarding his spot
An intruder drifts by
With a challenging eye
So he gives him all that he's got
The quarrel to settle
He showed him his mettle
Caressed him all over
With arms like a nettle
The stranger acts tough
Calling his bluff
Hanging around in a bit of a huff
He drifted off, he'd shown him what's what
There was no doubt who was king of the dock-
It was one of his better exchanges
But he thought how strange for a fish,
To have tattooed on his chest
Good food costs less at Sainsburys
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
White with daisies and red with sorrel
And empty, empty under the sky!—
Life is a quest and love a quarrel—
Here is a place for me to lie.
Daisies spring from ****** seeds,
And this red fire that here I see
Is a worthless crop of crimson weeds,
Cursed by farmers thriftily.
But here, unhated for an hour,
The sorrel runs in ragged flame,
The daisy stands, a ******* flower,
Like flowers that bear an honest name.
And here a while, where no wind brings
The baying of a pack athirst,
May sleep the sleep of blessed things,
The blood too bright, the brow accurst.
3.6k
Will it help?
If dams are made out of handkerchiefs
to hold floods of sufferings and griefs.
Will it help?
If murmurs are subdued within glasses of loyalty
to wash away the sins of ancient royalty.
Will it help?
If we break all ancient walls
to break barriers between hearts, wide and tall.
Will it help?
If we make some ground in oceans mixing 'self respect' and 'ancient sins'
or learn how to survive in waters without gills and fins.
Will it help?
If progeny is punished for their inherited guilt
and each drop of brutal blood is spilt.
Will you promise?
Then you will again find no reasons to divide
and live without any quarrel happily, satisfied.
I doubt!
As it has nothing to do with 'ancient walls' or 'ancient sins'.
It is something related to species and has nothing to do with genes.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
~~~
The unsung heroes
They work every day
Without complaint
At a job with low pay.
There are not many are out there
Who place their laurels
On the person who's right
But ends a quarrel.
It takes a person
Internally strong
To accept a defeat
And say they were wrong!
Those little things matter!
But don't get much ink
Like the husband who shaves
And cleans up the sink!
The mother who picks up
The toys from the stairs
The wife who cleans drains
And removes the hair.
The child who sees
That grandma is old
And therefore replaces
The toilet roll!
The boyfriend who remembers
The day of first date
A girl who pays dutch
To help out her mate.
Remember that you
Are needed and wanted!
So many small tasks
Are taken for granted.
At last the bell
Is taken and rung
For the persons who do this...
... the heroes unsung.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 11:37 AM UTC
(To Ellen Terry)
I marvel not Bassanio was so bold
To peril all he had upon the lead,
Or that proud Aragon bent low his head
Or that Morocco’s fiery heart grew cold:
For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold
Which is more golden than the golden sun
No woman Veronese looked upon
Was half so fair as thou whom I behold.
Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield
The sober-suited lawyer’s gown you donned,
And would not let the laws of Venice yield
Antonio’s heart to that accursed Jew—
O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due:
I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.
3.4k
The scene starts in a battle
Both sides masked by their pride
Yet two fighting for the same end
Unknowingly
One clouded by the need for freedom
The other masked by one’s spirit
This war will continue for years to come
Known by both, yet spoken by none
While in the quarrel, passion masked by hatred
Searching back on old memories seen no harm
Only loss, sadness, and truth under the words
Two are safe through the fire
The back and forth only fuels them greater
Thrown together, they feel each other
Know the limits, the thoughts, the emotion hidden
Through her tears he sees her loneliness, love
In his eyes she feels the despair, longing
Though neither can see it forward, admit
The sorrow will follow the present not far behind
Until one realizes and speaks it someday
Forgets all the troubles and meaningless thunder
But now it’s too late for fate
To bring them as we
What they’ve blindly been waiting for
For such an eternity
They will win together, but it will be in vain
For what they will have gained is time lost
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
Forgive the malicious repetitious dismay.
This quarrel so vicious, flagitious swordplay.
Inauspicious foreboding, one lover’s display.
Seditious naught, my miscarried parlay.
Delicious divulging- in this adventitious decay.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 4:27 AM UTC
A sign we are, without meaning
Without pain we are and have nearly
Lost our language in foreign lands,
For when the heavens quarrel
Over humans and moons proceed
In force, the sea
Speaks out and rivers must find
Their way. But there is One,
Without doubt, who
Can change this any day. He needs
No law. The rustle of leaf and then the sway of oaks
Besides glaciers. Not everything
Is in the power of the gods. Mortals would sooner
Reach toward the abyss. With them
The echo turns. Though the time
Be long, truth
Will come to pass.
But what we love? We see sunshine
On the floor and motes of dust
And the shadows of our native woods and smoke
Blooms from rooftops, at peace beside
Turrets' ancient crowns; for the signs
Of day are good if a god has scarred
The soul in response.
Snow like lilies of the valley,
Signifying a site
Of nobility, half gleams
With the green of the Alpine meadow
Where, talking of a wayside cross
Commemorating the dead,
A traveler climbs in a rage,
Sharing distant premonitions with
The other, but what is this?
By the figtree
My Achilles died
And Ajax lies
By the grottoes of the sea,
By streams, with Scamandros as neighbor.
In the persisting tradition of Salamis,
Great Ajax died
Of the roar in his temples
And on foreign soil, unlike
Patroclos, dead in king's armor. And many
Others also died. On Kithairon
Lay Eleutherai, city of Mnemosyne. And when
God cast off his cloak, the darkness came to cut
Her lock of hair. For the gods grow
Indignant if a man
Not gather himself to save
His soul, yet he has no choice; like-
Wise, mourning is in error.
Friedrich Holderlin
translated by Richard Sieburth
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
****** *********** began
In nineteen sixty-three
(which was rather late for me) -
Between the end of the Chatterley ban
And the Beatles' first LP.
Up to then there'd only been
A sort of bargaining,
A wrangle for the ring,
A shame that started at sixteen
And spread to everything.
Then all at once the quarrel sank:
Everyone felt the same,
And every life became
A brilliant breaking of the bank,
A quite unlosable game.
So life was never better than
In nineteen sixty-three
(Though just too late for me) -
Between the end of the Chatterley ban
And the Beatles' first LP.
3k
Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold,
But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm:
Besides I can tell where I am use’d well,
Such usage in heaven will never do well.
But if at the Church they would give us some Ale.
And a pleasant fire, our souls to regale:
We’d sing and we’d pray all the live-long day:
Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.
Then the Parson might preach & drink & sing.
And we’d be as happy as birds in the spring:
And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church
Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor birch
And God like a father rejoicing to see.
His children as pleasant and happy as he:
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel
But kiss him & give him both drink and apparel.
3k
The definition of Love
had a greater meaning to start.
It only now has the meaning of
until boredom do us part.
Used to describe hobbies,
clothes, games, and more.
Love is beaten, bruised, black
and has been left
trampled on the floor
Some love, sincere
Some other is not
The seed can grow
with but one little lustful
thought.
That seed of deception
Grows to fields of remorse.
A so-called Lovers’ quarrel
ends in bittersweet divorce.
Therefore, we leave
love, drowned in society’s deceit.
With a faint memory of
What love had used to be
But true love being rare
blossoms like a unique flower.
With God's aid you’ll find it there
shining with its bright petals
Through hard work and understanding
And deceitful love fore’er forgotten
Trust and fervor everlasting
True love gives color to its gray garland
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 2:59 AM UTC
Set not thy foot on graves;
Hear what wine and roses say;
The mountain chase, the summer waves,
The crowded town, thy feet may well delay.
Set not thy foot on graves;
Nor seek to unwind the shroud
Which charitable time
And nature have allowed
To wrap the errors of a sage sublime.
Set not thy foot on graves;
Care not to strip the dead
Of his sad ornament;
His myrrh, and wine, and rings,
His sheet of lead,
And trophies buried;
Go get them where he earned them when alive,
As resolutely dig or dive.
Life is too short to waste
The critic bite or cynic bark,
Quarrel, or reprimand;
'Twill soon be dark;
Up! mind thine own aim, and
God speed the mark.
2.6k