Part Of Life

That old genius Mr. Einstein
Though his knowledge was immense
Did not have all the world's answers
But he had a lot of common sense.

That Don Quixote of La Mancha
So passionate with his solutions
Fought the windmills with bravura
Yet he suffered from delusions.

We cannot have the ready answers
Cure every ill that this world holds
But each of us can make life better
Let's do our part, let respect unfold.

This world will always have some trouble
That's part of life we all have to face
But each of us must be responsible
For all our deeds as one of the human race.

poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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The book

Straight lines rest, held by cover's
imaginations of flavors and desires.
Of faces which you not na'er see,
places where you have not na'er been
spells of ink, wrote by the eyes.

Your body bound,
to an adventure,
or a romance for the day,
To be a hero once again

Pages floating between the fingers
like waves in a gentle sea
as Capitan Nemo exploring the deep seas,
as Capitan Achab hunting Moby dick

The room escapes at the blind light
the hallows eyes confuses the sight
trapped like don Quixote's fighting with his mills
freighting by Dr Frankenstein dreams.

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poem by Luca Menin
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Leaders of the Candle Light

devoid my birth the focusing hope that,
never fail, callous without mark the beginning
of what will be the past; like wind mill of
the time of Don Quixote of the night

the savors of the last dinner looks us the
trembling bound for what will be the next flight
surely it flies in the heaven of the sky

come blinks soon, as never before and flame
the gorges strength that each winning day
of what will be yesteryears come back of a
faded soul to what you tell

letting go would catch the thundering step
of a lasting trail of why a fading light of victory,
has turn the tide into a champion of great
sudden glance of the heart

blow chances that weak the heart, for thou the

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poem by Antonio Liao
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One Eye For Two Eyes!

What to say of “If I lose one eye you lose two eyes! ”
This is how many are doing both in private and public.
Political parties coming to power are mainly following it!
In history King Thuklag ruled India boisterously in the
Medieval period and when he died there was nothing
Left in the vault for the next in line of throne to rule!
Many are looking to be the followers of the notorious
Don Quixote and Sancha Poncho, the comic Chivalrous
Knights of the 18th century in the democratic setup now!
So, it becomes easy for the villainous democratic dictators
To capture power by money power and swindle wealth
Of the public using the corrupt official till the end and
Leave the power with nothing left for the next in power
To do anything worthwhile for the people eternally here!

poem by Ramesh T A
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A Dream Of Romantic Love!

Romantic love inspires potential interest to live in the world;
Enjoyment of love churns out joy and pleasure in long life
And the dream of romantic love never ceases desire to demise
Despite the burden to work hard to stabilise life in the world!

Spell of romance makes one forget the sense of anything -
Sense of taste, sight, smell, hearing and touch common for all!
Nothing is known happening around except the object of love
And even day and night are forgotten during such pursuits deep!

All seem surmountable as in the adventures of Don Quixote;
What a dream world of romantic love romance immerses in!
Summer or Winter, or Autumn or Spring everything is one
To the eyes, mind and spirit when the heart is full of love ever!

A dream of romantic love makes everything easy as in paradise
Or in heaven where only enjoyment of variety is thought forever!

poem by Ramesh T A
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Chaplin

The sun, a heavy spider, spins in the thirsty sky.
The wind hides under cactus leaves, in doorway corners. Only the wry

Small shadow accompanies Hamlet-Petrouchka's march - the slight
Wry sniggering shadow in front of the morning, turning at noon, behind towards night.

The plumed cavalcade has passed to tomorrow, is lost again;
But the wisecrack-mask, the quick-flick-fanfare of the cane remain.

Diminuendo of footsteps even is done:
Only remain, Don Quixote, hat, cane, smile and sun.

Goliaths fall to our sling, but craftier fates than these
Lie ambushed - malice of open manholes, strings in the dark and falling trees.

God kicks our backsides, scatters peel on the smoothest stair;
And towering centaurs steal the tulip lips, the aureoled hair,

While we, craned from the gallery, throw our cardboard flowers
And our feet jerk to tunes not played for ours.

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poem by Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
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Baccalaureate

A year or two, and grey Euripides,
And Horace and a Lydia or so,
And Euclid and the brush of Angelo,
Darwin on man, Vergilius on bees,
The nose and Dialogues of Socrates,
Don Quixote, Hudibras and Trinculo,
How worlds are spawned and where the dead gods go,--
All shall be shard of broken memories.

And there shall linger other, magic things,--
The fog that creeps in wanly from the sea,
The rotton harbor smell, the mystery
Of moonlit elms, the flash of pigeon wings,
The sunny Green, the old-world peace that clings
About the college yard, where endlessly
The dead go up and down. These things shall be
Enchantment of our heart's rememberings.

And these are more than memories of youth
Which earth's four winds of pain shall blow away;

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poem by Archibald MacLeish
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I'm Mute (Revised)

Today is lost, I could not navigate
a steady course, mind disturbed,
nothing claims my concentration,
surfaced now and again to where
my head is snared in a net of
meaninglessness

Could not create a purpose or set
a Don Quixote task, cannot dream
the impossible dream for mother,
a hip replacement which financial
constraints make impossible, pain
her constant companion

No state hospital operations, only
self-funded private interventions
so how long should she need to
suffer? Nor can anyone alleviate
the pain – only her trust and faith
will pull her through,

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poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Youre The One

Mountains may move, river may run,
But you make me be myself, you make me be.
How do I tell you?
How do I tell youre the one?
Stars may move, time may run,
But you make me free myself, you make me free.
How do I tell you?
How do I tell youre the one, youre the one?
In the world eye we were laurel and hardy,
In our minds we were heathcliff and cathy.
In a moment of wisdom we were a wizard and a witch,
In a moment of freedom we were don quixote and santo.
In reality we were just a boy and a girl who never looked back.
How do I tell you?
How do I tell you?
How do I tell you?
How do I tell you?
How do I tell you?
How do I tell you?
How could I tell you?

[...] Read more

song performed by Yoko Ono
Added by Lucian Velea
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Youre The One

Mountains may move, river may run,
But you make me be myself, you make me be.
How do I tell you?
How do I tell youre the one?
Stars may move, time may run,
But you make me free myself, you make me free.
How do I tell you?
How do I tell youre the one, youre the one?
In the world eye we were laurel and hardy,
In our minds we were heathcliff and cathy.
In a moment of wisdom we were a wizard and a witch,
In a moment of freedom we were don quixote and santo.
In reality we were just a boy and a girl who never looked back.
How do I tell you?
How do I tell you?
How do I tell you?
How do I tell you?
How do I tell you?
How do I tell you?
How could I tell you?

[...] Read more

song performed by Yoko Ono
Added by Lucian Velea
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Resemble Quixote

Watching Taboo about freaks I realize
I am a freak too – whereas some freaks
get their adrenalin-high from compulsive
shopping, others from sky-diving and one
from eating road-kill for protein

I get my high from reading, my mind has the
shamanistic ability to give me an emotional
experience when the words touch my heart
and I am very careful who I allow to enter
my thoughts, having learnt

Through trial and error that few people care
about the effect their ideas have on others,
stating impatiently it is their right to say any-
thing they like; luckily I also learned about
the freedom to tune them out

To ignore anything that makes the world
seem bad; all spiritual masters agree we

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poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Princess Of Egypt

Im coming home
And I dont want to hear another word about this
Its hard to fight well
And come alone back from the abyss
No more of them lunatic thoughts times up
For the don quixote
All I ever wanted was to give this my best shot
The sad part is that you come
From a different kind of life
Im up and leaving now Im living by the knife
Ive lost my faith in human kind and its time for a rest
Even though I did my best I didnt pass your test
You are the princess of egypt and Im just a man
I want to be with you, I feel astray
I need a miracle how to make you understand
Id make you happy but youre far away
You dont know what youre missing
What it is you leave behind
My good intentions for you makes me one of a kind
Youll get by in your fortress

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song performed by E-type
Added by Lucian Velea
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Blood & Honey

I began by loving women
& the love turned
to bitterness.

My mother, the bitter,
whose bitter lesson-
trust no one,
especially no male-
caused me to be naive
for too many years,
in mere rebellion
against that bitterness.

If she was Medea,
I would be Candide
& bleed in every sexual war,
& water my garden with menstrual blood
& grow the juiciest fruits.

(Like the woman

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poem by Erica Jong
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In a Wine Cellar

SEE how it flashes,
This grape-blood fine!—
Our beards it splashes,
O comrade mine!—
Life dust and ashes
Were, wanting wine.
Amontillado
Fires heart and eyes;
Champagne the shadow
Of care defies;
An El Dorado
In Rhine-wine lies;

Port has the mintage
Of generous deeds;
Tokay scorns stintage
And richly bleeds;
But this great vintage
The Wine-March leads.

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poem by Victor James Daley
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A Love Story

-


(Chapter I)

October was the month, year 7 + 50
Ang lugar ay isang classroom sa PCC
Nang siya'y tumambad sa aking paningin
Magandang dilag na simple at mahinhin
Agad na naantig, puso ko't damdamin

Hindi mapigilan, pusong pumipitlag
Lihim na damdamin, gustong ipahayag
Sa aking isip ay may nabuo agad
Kailangang siya ay aking makilala
Ngunit ang modus ay papaano baga

Ang seating arrangement sa class na naturan,
Nasa harap ko siya, ako'y sa likuran
Agad kong napansin, kanyang kasuotan

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poem by Pacific Hernandez
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The Face Of Qana

The face of Qana
Pale, like that of Jesus
and the sea breeze of April…
Rains of blood.. and tears..
2

They entered Qana stepping on our charred bodies
Raising a Nazi flag
in the lands of the South
and rehearsing its stormy chapters
Hitler cremated them in the gas chambers
and they came after him to burn us
Hitler kicked them out of Eastern Europe
and they kicked us out of our lands
3

They entered Qana
Like hungry wolves
Putting to fire the house of the Messiah
Stepping on the dress of Hussain

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poem by Nizar Qabbani
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Breitmann In Forty-Eight

DERE woned once a studente,
All in der Stadt Paris,
Whom jeder der ihn kennte,
Der rowdy Breitmann hiess.
He roosted in de rue La Harpe,
Im Luxembourg Hotel,
'Twas shoost in anno '48,
Dat all dese dings pefel.

Boot he who vouldt go hoontin now
To find dat rue La Harpe,
Moost hafe oongommon shpecdagles,
Und look darnation sharp.
For der Kaisar und his Hausmann
Mit hauses made so vree,
Dere roon shoost now a Bouleverse
Vhere dis shdreet used to pe.

In dis Hotel de Luxembourg,
A vild oldt shdory say,

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poem by Charles Godfrey Leland
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The Key (A Moorish Romance)

'On the east coast, towards Tunis, the Moors still preserve the key of their ancestors' houses in Spain; to which country they still express the hopes of one day returning and again planting the crescent on the ancient walls of the Alhambra.'
—Scott's
Travels in Morocco and Algiers.

'Is Spain cloven in such a manner as to want closing?'
Sancho Panza in
Don Quixote

The Moor leans on his cushion,
With the pipe between his lips;
And still at frequent intervals
The sweet sherbét he sips;
But, spite of lulling vapor
And the sober cooling cup,
The spirit of the swarthy Moor
Is fiercely kindling up!

One hand is on his pistol,
On its ornamented stock,
While his finger feels the trigger

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poem by Thomas Hood
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Almon Keefer

Ah, Almon Keefer! what a boy you were,
With your back-tilted hat and careless hair,
And open, honest, fresh, fair face and eyes
With their all-varying looks of pleased surprise
And joyous interest in flower and tree,
And poising humming-bird, and maundering bee.

The fields and woods he knew; the tireless tramp
With gun and dog; and the night-fisher's camp--
No other boy, save Bee Lineback, had won
Such brilliant mastery of rod and gun.
Even in his earliest childhood had he shown
These traits that marked him as his father's own.
Dogs all paid Almon honor and bow-wowed
Allegiance, let him come in any crowd
Of rabbit-hunting town-boys, even though
His own dog 'Sleuth' rebuked their acting so
With jealous snarls and growlings.

But the best

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poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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An Epistle To Fleetwood Shephard, Esq. Burleigh, May 14, 1689

Sir,
As once a twelvemonth to the priest,
Holy at Rome, here Antichrist,
The Spanish king presents a jennet
To show his love, -- that's all that's in it;
For if his Holiness would thump
His reverend bum 'gainst horse's rump,
He might be 'quipp'd from his own stable
With one more white and eke more able.
Or as with gondolas and men his
Good excellence the duke of Venice
(I wish, for rhyme, it had been the king)
Sails out, and gives the Gulf a ring,
Which trick of state he wisely maintains,
Keeps kindness up 'twixt old acquaintance,
For else, in honest truth, the sea
Has much less need of gold than he.
Or, not to rove and pump one's fancy
For popish similes beyond sea,
As folks from mudwall'd tenement

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poem by Matthew Prior
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