"quarrelled" poems
They wondered why the fruit had been forbidden:
It taught them nothing new. They hid their pride,
But did not listen much when they were chidden:
They knew exactly what to do outside.
They left. Immediately the memory faded
Of all they known: they could not understand
The dogs now who before had always aided;
The stream was dumb with whom they'd always planned.
They wept and quarrelled: freedom was so wild.
In front maturity as he ascended
Retired like a horizon from the child,
The dangers and the punishments grew greater,
And the way back by angels was defended
Against the poet and the legislator.
1.8k
For every time I've talked about saving this world with song
For every time I've left my soul on a stage
For every time I've gotten up after being cut and bruised
For every time I've quarrelled with my demons and won
For every time I've taken the hard road and made it to the end
For every time I've been praised by my peers for having a good heart
For every time I've been told "I look up to you" by someone close
For every time I've looked at myself in the mirror and told myself "You look amazing. You're going to have a great day",
I think of you.
So though we may differ in opinions
Or don't see eye to eye at times,
Some things are just better together,
and I'm only better because of you.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 5:57 AM UTC
This is no fiction, but reality. This was God’s miracle again for me,
few hours hereafter occurred the bombings in Paris. We ? Already at Airport Orly to Home ............................With love, Sylvia.
Paris after the 12th of November? No one to blame
the Eiffel Tower? Never more the same,
departure some hours later, no resemblance
those slight difference: terror in ignorance
forced to stay in Paris forever
could never see again your homeland, remember?
no dreams anymore, constant nightmares
but……. WHO cares?
you would never know, was it a curse or a bliss,
oddly enough, I informed you now about this.
Now Paris for you is still a greatest bliss
you’ve never been in Paris before
we did enjoy, quarrelled and enjoyed more
for you and I Paris was the walhalla
our love and happiness we never measure, and blah-blah-bla
God showed us the perfect view
from dawn till again morning dew
to treasure and honour His Mighty Impact
that life He showed you, enjoy it and show respect !
please, beware of His presence
be careful and love thy neighbours in mine absence
in all hours of this Great Silence....
© Sylvia Frances Chan
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 9:11 AM UTC
Heavy handed Harold
With quiet Quinton quarrelled
Fighting for fine filly
Slapped he said silent silly
When wooed woman was aware
Bout the beating he did bare
She scorned the scolding suitor
And courted Quinton, the cuter
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
Anger first cost me my friends
then my job
my long-suffering wife left me
it's too late now for me to sob.
I quarrelled with the bank manager
the bank cancelled my credit card and recalled my loan
I scored an 'A' for being Melbourne's MAM (Most Angry Man)
it's too late now for me to moan.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 10:56 PM UTC
Nay, you wrong her my friend, she's not fickle; her love she has simply outgrown:
One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the light of one's own.
Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There is much that my heart would say;
And you know we were children together, have quarrelled and 'made up' in play.
And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you the truth,-
As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.
Five summers ago, when you wooed her, you stood on the self-same plane,
Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls could be parted again.
She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom of her life's early May;
And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love you to-day.
Nature never stands still, nor souls either; they ever go up or go down;
And hers has been steadily soaring - but how has it been with your own?
She has struggled and yearned and aspired, grown purer and wiser each year:
The stars are not farther above you in yon luminous atmosphere!
For she whom you crowned with fresh roses, down yonder, five summer ago,
Has learned that the first of our duties to God and ourselves is to grow.
Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer; but their vision is clearer as well:
Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but is pure as a silver bell.
Her face has the look worn by those who with God and his angels have talked:
The white robes she wears are less white than the spirits with whom she has walked.
And you? Have you aimed at the highest? Have you, too, aspired and prayed?
Have you looked upon evil unsullied? Have you conquered it undismayed?
Have you, too, grown purer and wiser, as the months and the years have rolled on?
Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph of victory won?
Nay, hear me! The truth cannot harm you. When to-day in her presence you stood,
Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that of her womanhood?
Go measure yourself by her standard; look back on the years that have fled:
Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her girlhood is dead.
She cannot look down to her lover; her love like her soul, aspires;
He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its holy fires.
Now farewell! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured to tell you the truth,
As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth.///
//////////////////
--->Specialy this part(how could growing out of love make a lady pure?)
She has struggled and yearned and aspired, grown purer and wiser each year:
The stars are not farther above you in yon luminous atmosphere!
For she whom you crowned with fresh roses, down yonder, five summer ago,
Has learned that the first of our duties to God and ourselves is to grow.
Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer; but their vision is clearer as well:
Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but is pure as a silver bell.
Her face has the look worn by those who with God and his angels have talked:
The white robes she wears are less white than the spirits with whom she has walked.
And you? Have you aimed at the highest? Have you, too, aspired and prayed?
Have you looked upon evil unsullied? Have you conquered it undismayed?
Have you, too, grown purer and wiser, as the months and the years have rolled on?
Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph of victory won?
Some part of this poem is not clear for me, I indicated after the arrow.I did translate two of her poem into Amharic.I am trying to translate this one
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 9:56 AM UTC
with reason, the thing was googled
yesterday,
now there is an understanding.
the code, the season of it all.
it fits, the picture is made, the
pieces may be in place.
left on the tray,
photographed for all to see,
labelled, quarrelled intensely.
maybe, quiety, put back,
in the box.
sbm.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 1:39 AM UTC
It's the quiet times, They're the worst, I feel I'm going into reverse.
Keeping busy, though it seems, stops me feeling extreme.
But when that moment comes along, it's like an emotional marathon.
It's my feelings I have restrained, their now uncontrollably rampant.
I gave you my heart, I gave you my soul, I have nothing to console.
You said you loved me and that I was the one, we quarrelled and I was gone.
So how many times can it end this way, before one of us has to 'call it a day'.
I wanted to marry you, it is true, but destroying each other is a major issue.
I love you so deeply, 'I can't put it into words, we can't live with and without one another, It's absurd!
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 8:32 PM UTC
Believe in better - that's what she said
to the voices that quarrelled in her head
though she knew things may never change
she refused to let go - feeling deranged
pain began to feel like pleasure
a sense of eroticism - newfound treasure
a feeling bound just to her
with silver handcuffs covered in fur
masked with a golden eye patch
a body with stories in every scratch
fevered madness loomed over
she could never get enough of her lover
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 10:20 AM UTC
Calling your name through the leaves,
The dirt swallows us whole.
Calling your name through the leaves
As the sky smothers us.
A soul no longer breathes.
I don’t know where I’m going.
Lost in a map where words are flowing.
To what end I don’t know.
I’m tired.
I’ve argued, quarrelled, and fought
every last drop of energy.
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC