"rol" poems
En wanneer hou ons piekniek op die maan
- daar waar die son nie meer skyn nie,
kan ek jou donker toevlug wees
as die dag se hitte steek?
en sal jy 'n skadu gooi
oor my en my lieflike hart
ons kan saam met strome swem
as die branders oor ons breek.
Voor vrees jy weer oortrek
en my noodloos in die noodlot agter laat
in 'n eensame straat, van drome
en ander herrennerings wat by my *****
van liefde en so ook my verlede
wat jy veronderstel was om te tem.
En in die gaap van stilte tyding
waar die wysers ons vermy, sing
ek my eensaam lied en vra vir jou...
**** jy die golwe huil vir die koeelronde maan?
Sien jy die spore op die strand?
Waar vat die pad van verdwaaltenis my,
anders as na Jonker se hand.
Vanaand is ek verslae.
Die maan se kind trek pêrels en rol hulle oor die hartseer berge. Vanaand le ek en dryf, terwyl ek kyk na die maan, en die sterre...
sal jy my wolkombers wees
, my glimlag pille vir kersfees,
want ek is dalk te arm
, maar ryklik met jou geseen.
Sal jy my korrel sand , my rooikruis , my boei
want my hart is reeds verweer
, keur my voor ek ook
in die see uitbloei.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 3:41 PM UTC
The time I felt tummy hurts
Those that needn't the doctor
Those of hunger strikes in me
I clinged to worry for myself
Before my life discovery.
Was too used to pizza and burgers
Nothing from my own homeland
Though in my search I fell in a direction
An improved variety tabled for us
Down the table I sat, not popular to the world but my tummy signed in
Lost my taste buds to only this
To that I ate like a hired thief in full bites
The bells of Hawaiian, becon, chicken, sausage, all for One
A Rollecks.....
Marked my anniversary of love for snacks
The place whose memory runs in my blood
The Ugandan Nemo's,
Imprisoned my love for Rollecks
One of a kind shared without regrets
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 1:19 AM UTC
I care not what the sailors say:
All those dreadful thunder-stones,
All that storm that blots the day
Can but show that Heaven yawns;
Great Europa played the fool
That changed a lover for a bull.
Fol de rol, fol de rol.
To round that shell's elaborate whorl,
Adorning every secret track
With the delicate mother-of-pearl,
Made the joints of Heaven crack:
So never hang your heart upon
A roaring, ranting journeyman.
Fol de rol, fol de rol.
2k
I FASTED for some forty days on bread and buttermilk,
For passing round the bottle with girls in rags or silk,
In country shawl or Paris cloak, had put my wits astray,
And what's the good of women, for all that they can say
Is fol de rol de rolly O.
Round Lough Derg's holy island I went upon the
stones,
I prayed at all the Stations upon my matrow-bones,
And there I found an old man, and though, I prayed all
day
And that old man beside me, nothing would he say
But fol de rol de rolly O.
All know that all the dead in the world about that
place are stuck,
And that should mother seek her son she'd have but
little luck
Because the fires of purgatory have ate their shapes
away;
I swear to God I questioned them, and all they had to
say
Was fol de rol de rolly O.
A great black ragged bird appeared when I was in the
boat;
Some twenty feet from tip to tip had it stretched
rightly out,
With flopping and with flapping it made a great dis-
play,
But I never stopped to question, what could the boat-
man say
But fol de rol de rolly O.
Now I am in the public-house and lean upon the wall,
So come in rags or come in silk, in cloak or country
shawl,
And come with learned lovers or with what men you
may,
For I can put the whole lot down, and all I have to say
Is fol de rol de rolly O.
1.5k
Existe una ciudad de cuarzo exquisita
cuyas rosadas calles yo recorrí
siguiendo su sinuosidad caprichosa
en ensoñaciones o tiempos de ensueño;
contemplé su nimbada altura de sol
en un baño de anochecientes tinturas
que raro artista podrá nunca pintar.
Mis ojos velados de recuerdos hoy
reflejan las puertas cerradas, oscuras;
los muros, cercantes con custodio rol,
que se alzan, fieros y hostiles, ante mí.
Yo hago frente, y grito con voz poderosa
mas no caen los muros y voy a quedar
fuera de la ciudad de cuarzo exquisita.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 7:42 AM UTC
Y, desgraciadamente,
el dolor crece en el mundo a cada rato,
crece a treinta minutos por segundo, paso a paso,
y la naturaleza del dolor, es el dolor dos veces
y la condición del martirio, carnívora, voraz,
es el dolor dos veces
y la función de la yerba purísima, el dolor
dos veces
y el bien de ser, dolernos doblemente.
Jamás, hombres humanos,
hubo tanto dolor en el pecho, en la solapa, en la cartera,
en el vaso, en la carnicería, en la aritmética!
Jamás tanto cariño doloroso,
jamás tanta cerca arremetió lo lejos,
jamás el fuego nunca
jugó mejor su rol de frío muerto!
Jamás, señor ministro de salud, fue la salud
más mortal
y la migraña extrajo tanta frente de la frente!
Y el mueble tuvo en su cajón, dolor,
el corazón, en su cajón, dolor,
la lagartija, en su cajón, dolor.
Crece la desdicha, hermanos hombres,
más pronto que la máquina, a diez máquinas, y crece
con la res de Rosseau, con nuestras barbas;
crece el mal por razones que ignoramos
y es una inundación con propios líquidos,
con propio barro y propia nube sólida!
Invierte el sufrimiento posiciones, da función
en que el humor acuoso es vertical
al pavimento,
el ojo es visto y esta oreja oída,
y esta oreja da nueve campanadas a la hora
del rayo, y nueve carcajadas
a la hora del trigo, y nueve sones hembras
a la hora del llanto, y nueve cánticos
a la hora del hambre y nueve truenos
y nueve látigos, menos un grito.
El dolor nos agarra, hermanos hombres,
por detrás, de perfil,
y nos aloca en los cinemas,
nos clava en los gramófonos,
nos desclava en los lechos, cae perpendicularmente
a nuestros boletos, a nuestras cartas;
y es muy grave sufrir, puede uno orar...
Pues de resultas
del dolor, hay algunos
que nacen, otros crecen, otros mueren,
y otros que nacen y no mueren, otros
que sin haber nacido, mueren, y otros
que no nacen ni mueren (son los más).
Y también de resultas
del sufrimiento, estoy triste
hasta la cabeza, y más triste hasta el tobillo,
de ver al pan, crucificado, al nabo,
ensangrentado,
llorando, a la cebolla,
al cereal, en general, harina,
a la sal, hecha polvo, al agua, huyendo,
al vino, un ecce-homo,
tan pálida a la nieve, al sol tan ardido¹!
¡Cómo, hermanos humanos,
no deciros que ya no puedo y
ya no puedo con tanto cajón,
tanto minuto, tanta
lagartija y tanta
inversión, tanto lejos y tanta sed de sed!
Señor Ministro de Salud: ¿qué hacer?
¡Ah! desgraciadamente, hombre humanos,
hay, hermanos, muchísimo que hacer.
1.6k
Apparently, it is my societal rol
e to once a month (or once a wee
k, or how may you) succumb to
all the indignity, to the crushin
g blue of broken hands, and allo
w the swell of eternity its coarse
st way with me. And swallow lik
e a sieve the strands of all the flu
id universe.
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 6:27 PM UTC
Perhaps it was her voice itself, clear and simple,
Unalloyed by any classically trained fol-de-rol,
Or possibly the nature of her faith
Displayed with such clarity, such transparency
By that very instrument,
But in any case, she had utterly bewitched the populace
Of the place known as Ahwaga by her distant cousins,
And when she stood on the Delaware & Hudson platform
The next morning, they had cheered her lustily,
All but begging her You must return to us,
But the train had lost its footing on a sharp grade
Mere hundreds of yards before making the station at Deposit,
And she was lost in the carnage and conflagration.
The townspeople she had said her farewells to that morning
Were distraught, their feelings a mix of grief
And an odd sense of culpability, a nagging misgiving
That perhaps this was an omen, some augury
Denoting that their own faith was not up to scratch,
And so they had taken her back to their own burgh
To bury her in a manner befitting her piety
(She had been travelling with siblings,
But they acquiesced to the plan, though how willingly
Not wholly apparent at the time,
And made no clearer through the ramble of time)
And so she was laid to rest in a plot
Surrounded by ornate fencing, her grave marked
By an obelisk pointing unambiguously to her Heaven,
And it is said that, on autumn evenings
When the breeze rustle the dying leaves just so,
You can hear the spirits of her Mohawk brethren
Come down from Quebec, murmuring songs
Telling of the spirits living in the trees and hedgerows,
Spoken in the ancient tongue
Of the languid, unhurried Susquehanna far below.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 8:37 PM UTC
Ek raak van tyd tot tyd verlore
in die vlaktes van my verbeelding
op 'n eindelose reiktog
na die goue uitloopsels van more
, ander kere skuil ek in die klowe
en trek my toe in n berg kombers...
daar kan ek skree
- en huil
-en lag.
Daar kan ek die eie self
in n lastergil uitlok en wag
vir die koue kras kranse
om dit terug te werp in my ope arms.
My verbeeldingshuis le in die kranse...
my drome rol in oor die see se soutwater golwe...
en ek, ek le iewers in die middel
van perfekte harmonie
en absolute chaos.
Ek . droom . eindeloos...
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
Our story told in seven years, fourteen verses.
YEAR ONE
I met you and
You met me and
We got to know each other.
There were ups and
There were downs and yet
We never stopped getting to know
each other.
YEAR TWO
We got separated but
It never stopped us.
Long distance friendship
Never stopped us.
Never stopped me from knowing
You have an older brother.
Never stopped you from knowing
I have two younger ones.
YEAR THREE
We couldn't take the
d i s t a n c e.
We couldn't take the
time apart.
Through this closeness,
I got to know that
You liked your coffee
In the morning with
No breakfast.
You got to know that
I liked my mornings
With milk and
Breakfast.
YEAR FOUR
We've had silly arguments
Here and there,
But that didn't stop us
From getting to know each other.
Your favorite color is
Pink.
Mine is orange (and blue and white).
And you said,
"Who in the world likes the color
Orange?"
And I replied,
"Me."
I never said anything about the
Color pink.
YEAR FIVE
We surprised you
This year.
Hazelle, Rol, Love,
Min, Zaska, Nin,
Bo, Lyng, and Agustin,
and Me.
It was your
18th birthday.
18 years of you,
17 years of me,
5 years of us,
5 years of our
F r i e n d s h i p.
YEAR SIX
We go together this year
On my birthday,
You and a couple
Of our friends.
A few days earlier
You turned the tables
And Hazelle, Rol, Love
Min, Zaska, Nin,
Bo, Lyng, Agustin,
and you
Surprised me.
18 years of me.
YEAR SEVEN
They say when a
Friendship
Exceeds the seven -year mark
It is for a
Life time.
So this is our take
Of making something
That will last
Even when
Our bones are crushed,
Our bodies numbed,
Our voices hushed.
But the truth is a far cry
From this.
The truth is
Less pretty
Less romantic
Less.
YEAR ONE
I met you and
You met me.
Laboratory mates
On search
During
Independence Day.
Lunch mates
Text mates
Days in between
Group mates
(School)Work mates
When the need be.
But bonds can be
b r o k e n.
And you became
One of them
Itches
We call you.
**Rich *******
Get it?
But then we
Rekindled the lost fire
Bonds can be broken
(Bonds with the wrong people)
Laboratory mates
Lunch mates
Text mates
Group mares
(School)Work mates
F r i e n d s
(Best friends maybe)
YEAR TWO
We got separeted
And at first
It didn't stop us
But eventually
We began to
Drift
A p a r t
Bonds CAN indeed be broken
B r o k e n
(And you became one of them)
What happens when
You don'y exceed the
Seven-year friendship mark?
You begin to
Drift
A p a r t
Until your bones are crushed
Your body numbed
Your voice hushed.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
In die hart van Afrika se suidegrond,
Styg ’n taal, sterk en bond.
Diep in son en sand,
Stemme dra oor hierdie land.
Afrikaans, die taal van hart en kin,
Gevleg met stories van waar ons was en bin.
Van boereveld tot stad se straat,
Sy ritme sterk, sy klank hard.
Woorde wat van berge hoog weerklink,
Stories oud, na die hemel gesink.
Met elke “sê,” ’n belofte gegee,
Van erfenis wat nooit sal verdwyn.
Ons taal sing van lag, van trane en vrees,
Van stryde gewen en drome geheg.
Al verander die tyd, al rol die gety,
Afrikaans bly staan, sterk en vry.
So hef jou stem, laat dit luid wees,
’n Lied van trots, ’n taal om te lees.
Want in elke frase, elke woord en rym,
Dra ons ons Afrikaans, deur elke tyd.
Nov 5, 2024
Nov 5, 2024 at 1:54 PM UTC
Mere dil ch vasdeya hai mera sajna,
Mathe tey sindoor ohde naam da sajda.
Shukra hai tera dil tou mere saaiyan,
Je mainu mileya eho jeya mahiya.
Khuda vikheya mainu ohde ch,
Padh lenda oh har vele dilon vich.
Koch kehn di lod ni payi,
Kawan tou pehla akhha padh layi.
Dilon da suroor ohde naal milda,
Baaga ch phul ohdi khushbu naal khilda.
Mere dil di har dadhkan ch ohi samaya,
Ohde siwa mai rabb kolo kuch na mangeya.
Zindagi sohni ve,
Jado oh naal hove.
Ohde siwa mera hor koi ni,
Ohnu juda kar mainu na rol deyi.
Saaha tham jouga jado ohtho dur kitta,
Maula meri zindagi da har pal tu likh ditta.
Rul assi jawange Je tu sadda haath chadheya,
Tere bina saada zindagi ch koi hor ni mileya.
Assi jiunde aasre sirf mahiya de,
Likh dewi ohda saath sadde sanjog ve.
Meri jaan vasdi ohde vich,
Ohda naam hi hove hattha mehandi ch.
Mathhe diya likhhiya ch zor sadda ni chalda,
Par sadda bharosa hai jado tu baah fadda.
Kayenaat badal dewi saddi kahani poori kari,
Mai rabb kolo sirf tainu magdi, tainu mangdi.
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 8:52 AM UTC
Si es fundamental para
la reflexión, la meditación
y despejar el pensamiento,
lejos de las influencias
del exterior.
Indispensable para el diálogo
interno y el encuentro
con el silencio...
elementos esenciales para
alcanzar la paz interior.
Confidente,
necesaria y vital,
por ser el hilo conductor
hacia la propia
esencia y ser,
del mundo interior.
Más allá del yo, el estatus
social y el rol,
donde se revela una interacción
clara, evidente y constante
con un todo universal.
Pues si todo lo que existe
está en relación con el universo
al que pertenece; el ser
humano también.
Al margen de las limitaciones
sociales o superficiales,
la soledad, nos ofrece un
vínculo más profundo
y espiritual con el
universo al que pertenecemos,
y es la clave para el autoanálisis y reflexión.
En este contexto, la soledad,
al igual que la buena
compañía, cuando es guiada
por un
razonamiento libre de
toxicidad, ya sea propia
o absorbida del exterior.
En ausencia de aquello
que distorsiona el interior
y nubla la luz
de la propia vitalidad:
Se convierte en una
forma transformadora
y esencial.
¿La soledad:
aliada o rival?
"Algunas personas ven en la
soledad un desierto árido
y desolador, otras, al contrario,
la perciben como un bosque
lleno de vida y oportunidades".
Y así, es como la vivo yo.
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 10:11 AM UTC
Voel jy ook soms asof die wêreld na 'n einde kom
Niks maak meer saak nie
Niks het meer waarde nie
Al wat oorbly is nou
Alles voel so lank gelede
Die jare het verby gevlieg
Hier staan ons aan die einde van 'n reënboog
En na alles wat gedoen en gesê was
Kruis ons paaie weer mekaar
'n Bittersoet versoening
Ons het 'n kronkelpad geloop
Ons het tydelik ontspoor
Maar nou verstaan ons mekaar
Niemand is tog so anders nie
Ons het meer ingemeen as wat ons kon droom
Maar dit was 'n stryd
Net om te vind dat ons tog so eenders is
Tyd gemors, tyd verloor
Hier staan ons nou op die laaste spoor
Die fluit het geblaas
Die treine rol in
Treine wat mekaar gemis het
Treine wat behoort aan mekaar
Jan 17, 2025
Jan 17, 2025 at 6:06 AM UTC
Palabras sin sentido,
ven la luz del día,
aunque no tienen motivo,
nacen dormidas.
Rimas que consuelan
mi falta de control,
llenan el espacio
carente de rol.
Nov 22, 2019
Nov 22, 2019 at 11:51 AM UTC
There were a surfeit of items
Sufficient to raise eyebrows or cause comment
Among the few staid members of the Mulligan clan:
The appearance of siblings or cousins assumed (or at least hoped)
To have preceded Thomas to the choir invisible
Two or three women genuinely surprised
To discover the existence of one another,
One young man with an extremely disconcerting resemblance
To his “Uncle Tommy”,
But the entire affair carried on with something akin
To the requisite solemnity
Until such point that a couple bottles appeared
(The consensus being that the good Mulligan
Had somehow found a way to secret them in)
The end result being the proceedings
Subsequently devolved into an Irish cop wake-esque teleplay,
And in the midst of this fol-de-rol, Tippy Phelan,
Who had framed walls for generic bank buildings
And grunted and swore while cobbling together
Unnecessary cupolas and wholly superfluous cornices
On the McMansions of the small town well-enough-to-do
With Tommy (as well as, on Friday lunch-times
During the slow season, sharing a thermos
Containing a mixture which drew narrow-eyed stares
From lenient if still unhappy foremen)
Stood the final toast for the good Mulligan,
Intoning *There’s a land of the quick and the land of the lost,
The trick being to build a sturdy span between them
So it’s only proper that Tommy was a ****** fine carpenter*.
Nov 29, 2021
Nov 29, 2021 at 2:26 PM UTC
glimmende
harde wit lig
rol polsend
waar die grond
voor die lug swig
Sep 11, 2022
Sep 11, 2022 at 4:57 AM UTC
Por esas hazañas ya no me enervo,
hay menos materia e ideas que me echen para atrás,
ahora escribiría epitafios como el de Amado Nervo,
y es que ya hace mucho tiempo que encontré la paz.
Y tú no necesitas a alguien que te diserte sobre la vida,
cada uno tiene un rol válido en el mundo que lo cumplirá,
todos sin excepción en distinto tiempo antes de su partida,
así contemplaré tus hazañas y una sensación en ti brillará.
Así como viví estupefacto escuchando y leyendo al poeta de la tristeza,
entre altibajos desde un sentimiento carmesí hasta una reflexión policiaca,
cada noche con pensamientos que literalmente me hincharon la cabeza,
ahora se volvió una melancolía compleja en donde el gran silencio ataca.
Dec 4, 2024
Dec 4, 2024 at 10:16 PM UTC
I have garnered such wealth as I have
Through, if I may be so bold as to say so,
A preternatural ability to observe and catalogue
The foibles and follies of my fellow man
(This hard-won sagacity not the product
Of what I have learned as much as
The sum of what others do not know of themselves)
Yet, even though I believed
I had plumbed the very depths of absurd behaviors,
The prospect of kings--no, more than that,
Kings among kings-- bearing gifts
And complete fealty to some rank infant
Rudely swaddled and propped upon damp straw
Has brought even myself to bafflement.
Understand, the charms of children
(And the commensurate commercial usefulness)
Are not unknown to me,
But they are mercurial, undependable beings,
As ephemeral as the light of stars
Which allegedly acted as a guide to that trio of sovereigns
As their retinues crossed sand and savanna
(I sometimes chuckle to myself at the notion
That perhaps unwarranted clouds
Could have obscured the object in question,
And that the triumvirate could yet be
Wandering, searching, ruminating in vain)
Such intangibles are nonsense, of course;
Mere fol-de-rol entertained by those
Who would disdain the heft of solid coin,
The grit of good sand and dirt
Providing the assurance of good footing
As one saunters across the landscape
Upon such a night as this,black and unilluminated
As the aftermath of death itself.
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 1:56 PM UTC