Best Tolerates Poems
THE FORTRESS OF LOVE
Every marriage has its bumps in the road
And they can pop up at any time.
We must learn to navigate them safely
With fairness, faith and open mind.
No matter how far in your marriage you’ve gone
The highway of love has its rules.
The excitement of sex, trust and affection
Never tolerates self-serving fools.
They say marriages are made in heaven,
But so are tornadoes, lighting and thunder.
Cold hearts and hot heads never solve anything
They just destroy what we love by blunder.
Boredom, frustration, irritations and anger
Douse the spark between you and your mate.
More of the same fails to feed love’s flame
Till you wake up to find it’s too late
Human touch sustains the release of endorphins
For both the giver and receiver.
Never be afraid to hug your partner.
For the language of touch is a reliever.
Always remember to support your spouse
When times of dilemma arise.
The fortress of love will sustain your marriage
If you speak less and listen more, you’re wise.
By Tom Zart
Hold your fire
Let your sharp tongue retire
When to the fore sneaks your ire
Increasing carelessness danger
Thinking in your mind you’re an indomitable ranger
Although in your own skin you turn into a total stranger
Body somehow cut off from your mind
With a baggage of axes to grind
When moderation and restraint remind you to find
Better avenues conflicts to handle
As your roving hand to a pristine place strays to fondle
In the way you assuage your sorrow bundle
Hoping to progress, succeeding in failure
As your successes grow increasingly fewer
Cos your ire and short fuse couldn’t find a cure
To the uncertainty and unpredictability you nurture
In times of stress. To the fore comes a procrastination culture
You extrapolate into your unreachable future
Where no spouse tolerates you
Cos normal life you have no clue
Neither can you fasten happiness with gregarious glue
Much as you dare to dream
You’d crossed over with flying colours a fast moving stream
When in fear of the unknown you did scream
And to your rescue came a dame
Svelte, graceful who declined to you give both her name and game
Fearing your bad reputation would sully her with both blame and shame.
My husband looks tough, and I am sure he could be if he wanted to be.
But he is such a nice guy, I cannot imagine him ever thinking this was okay.
We have been together for over fifty years, which is plain to see.
Each minute a gift, each day a fresh start with a bit of laughter and play.
My husband is a helper. His business is all service, and he does all he can do,
Helps other people with computer systems he designs that are custom made.
Children know that he will do whatever he can to turn the world red and blue,
So do our grandchildren, for his loyalty doth not ever fade.
My husband is a drummer. There are drum sets here, most sublime.
He is a dog-lover, and he tolerates and feeds Shark, our snarky cat.
He can finish my sentences, as I can finish his, and does all the time.
Our pup, Sophie Helen, full of bologna always knows where he is at.
My husband would give you a house, his clothing, my clothing, and our car.
He is frankly an extremely generous, accepting, understanding soul.
That is his big heart showing you that he cares, which for him is just par.
Staying with him another fifty years or so is my ultimate life-long goal.
My biggest advocate, my patron, my cheerleader, my hero sublime.
Loves my paintings, and encourages me with black lights and words of love.
Adores my poems, reads each one, and asks if it is about him, each time.
This one is for him, my twin soul who was sent from heaven above.
Hindi lines of the Verse given here in English
.
Tp nahin kewal jeevan satya
Karun yah shanik deen avasaad
Taral aakaanshaa se bharaa
So rahaa aashaa kaa aalhaad.01
.
English version as translated by me
.
"Tenacity is not the only truth of life
It’s a state of pitiable dry gloom
Filled with the liquid full of ambitions
Where sleeps the delight of hopes in long waiting. 01
.
In Hindi stanza 2
.
prakriti ke yauvan kaa shrangaar
kabhii na karenge baasi fool
milenge we jaakar ati shiigra
Aah utsuk hai unkii dhool. 02
.
In English stanza 2
Adornment of the puberty of nature
Can never be made from stale flowers
They are destined to get perished very soon
Their end waits in the dust with a sigh. 02
.
In Hindi stanza. 03
.
Puratan kaa yah nirmok
Sahan karti na prakriti pl ek
Nitya nutantaa kaa aanand
Kiye hai parivartan me tek.03
.
In English stanza 03
.
The nature never tolerates even for a moment
The rejected stale and old broken crusts
The joy of nature takes the support and sustenance
Only from what is new and maiden”. 03
.
Original verse written by Late Jai Shankar Prasad
Translated by Ravindra K Kapoor
MP India 22nd Aug. 2016
Her smile is unfit, as it illuminates beyond the masses,
a misfit in a world of hollow and half-hearted expressions,
The connection to comeliness, its source, not here –in there, away from the
world, but evident to all in it,
It doesn’t fit; I don’t want it to, to make repulsive beauty to compel
compatibility, not I
Let this oddity rivaled by no other be with no other,
Exposed for all its imperfections, her smile is faultless in its reflection,
Wrought in purity, her smile is unfitting, this world has no place for it, unable
to comprehend, it only tolerates it -though in her smile, I extol
Her smile is not right, it’s wrong -it’s so wrong!
In a world where good is bad, dishonesty is rewarded, and
obnoxious behavior celebrated,
Her smile is not harmonious, nor is it congruent in this,
the space it finds itself
So much for honesty and charm I guess, but her smile is laced with both,
as it exudes outward in the form of facial light,
Shining in a world hidden behind shaded lens,
Though in my heart there’s connection, interpretation, processing,
Her smile and my heart intertwine in a mesmeric negotiation, a tacit form of
photosynthesis as her smile sustains and quickens the tempo of its beneficiary
Her smile is tragic, a tragedy unseen since the demise of young love in Verona,
A beautiful tragedy: a flower’s last bloom before death; the serenity in the eye
of a deadly storm; life lost to save another; pure love given yet not returned
-so tragic,
Tragic, there is no pedestal high enough to place her smile on,
So tragic, the sum of all the world’s beauty is soundly out match by her smile,
Tragic, the smile I see, isn’t seen by all,
So tragic, at best, this turned about world will only ever squint in its presence,
Tragic, her smile is so unique; therefore one of a kind, meaning sadly no
replica exists,
So tragic, my angst at my heart’s inability to arrest her smile’s every beam of
light, at best exhibits my selfishness,
Tragic, my definition of you -I mean...her smile…counts for so very little
Written in Afghanistan -28 JUL 2013
TRUE LOVE
To love be peace
for it is confused with lust
If its love, it should last
But lust never lasts
In lust we dive in so fast
but we always regret at last
Hearts have been broken
Tears have fallen
Some words were spoken
with the aim to soften
hearts and get panties
loosened
That's just lust
True love
A feeling so fine
that no words can define
When two hearts entwine
true love will incline
The feeling of true love
True love never hates
True love never fades
It pays no attention to traits
It has revolting debates
But true love always embrace
Because true love tolerates
the sound wave slips serpentine
isolating notes from the chaotic noise
the ocular ray rebounds on the rock
refracting its boomering-photo of corrugated surface
the pulmonary sponge expands its alveolum
to the sea of pre-prejudice aroma
a hand of outlining mass tolerates its first electric mutation
when caressing the iron rod
a sucker mouth inflames the nipple
savoriing milk and saliva secretion
...the pilgrimage of experience through the layers of time
pulverizes ego into oblivion
the being-enemy alloys tender wisdom
and death arrives with torch tongues
incinerating the decadent organs
and blushing illuminating existence
silence, brightness-light
the sound waves weave sonatas
with limpid multicolored rays
My Best Pal
My very best pal is a hairy ole' guy.
His breath is so bad, it bring tears to my eyes.
Mexican music he really adores ;
though he lies, not dances on all of my floors.
He's happy go lucky,
and smiles all the time.
he has no money, not even a dime.
For why would he need it,
when he is the boss.
And I, just his servant,
pleasing him at all cost.
My pal is a stinky ole' Beagle, you see ;
I dearly love him, he tolerates me.
Emotions so fervent, the mind of the dedicated
With a path so rough he wonders how he tolerates it
But he keeps moving with a steady locomotion
Through stormy valleys and turbulent oceans
Once or twice, he may have hesitated
But his reasons weren't languid, unsated
He looked around at his life
Tempestuous eyes making sure his is path right
He stumbles forward though dark unstable passageways
Always facing his goal, vehement not to turn away
He's like a strong tower, beaten but still standing
No one knows when it'll fall or where it would be landing
He's not too proud to tell you that he never cries
But it's a desperate situation when tears leave his eyes
Usually involving the loss of something vital in his life
But with a kings golden spirit he makes that sacrifice
He reaches his goal, basked in satin moonlight
He kept moving, kept the finish line in sight
And at last he can sit on his throne
Smiling because people that told him he wasn't going to make it...were wrong
Cupid, Cupid, cherubic sprite
Do you feel at all contrite
To fire your bow at only one
Then fly away and say, "I'm done!"
Cupid, Cupid, do you delight
To set a single dart in flight
So one can pine, the other run
Is that your impish way of fun?
Cupid, Cupid, who do you serve
That tolerates such childish nerve
Does God or Satan have your oath?
Personally........Methinks its both!
Timothy I. Brumley
“A dying people tolerates the present, rejects the future, and finds its satisfactions in past greatness and half-remembered glory.”
“A strong man makes a weak people. A strong people don’t need a strong man.”
John Steinbeck (Nobel Prize 1962)
for the DEAD in the Struggle for EELAM
I
Ages from now, let it not be said:
Blood spills only as brother dies.
Ages from now, let not peace be bled
By chances lost now in sighs.
To the high nor low slams the door
To him who seeks the Law and more.
Take, take the Golden Mean way!
Truth your only key, don’t ever slay!
Where the elephant roams un-tethered free,
The familiar myna will echo carefree
Words of yore buried in sacred memory:
One breed, one species carved in ivory.
No greater fear simmers in the lowlands
Than the stealth of brother against brother;
No higher disdain festers in the highlands
Than vengeance lying in wait for the other.
II
Think not of the promises made and broken,
Think only of the time lost and forsaken.
Every hour, every day, a life blown or taken;
Every month, every year, a people woe-driven.
To the high nor low slams the door
To him who seeks the Law and more.
Take, take the Golden Mean path!
Truth your only key, never the lathe!
Think of Prince Paranirupasingham who to succour
King Jayavira’s queen, to Kandy, fled his throne:
Abandoned to court intrigue, schemes and wiles encore:
A princely retreat, a physician’s penance alone.
First governor, then regent, the last Jaffna King Cankili
Learnt best the conqueror's cruel art of slaughter;
Then, fired by the local converts' iniquitous treachery,
Revolted too late, his head the butt of lofty laughter.
Think of C.P. Ramanathan the island’s cause to defend
Sailed over choppy seas past wild submarines
To raise the nation’s flag in the court of the Empire’s den,
His homeward chariot drawn by one peoples’ teens.
(...continued in Parts 3 to 5)
Limerick: Once Cute Pute in Gay Paris called Miel
Once Cute Pute* in Gay Paris called Miel*
Plied her trade around a Ferris Wheel
Rode them roller coaster
Spun them on wheel later
Got lush cut on fines for police squeal!*
• Pute: stands for “prostitute” in French
• Miel: for “honey” in French
• A new French Bill, dated December 7, 2011,
proposes the fining of prostitutes’ clients. French law,
by and large, tolerates the profession, even if overt
solicitation, procuring, and prostitution of minors
IS NOT. According to French law, sexual maturity
is recognised at 15, but for prostitutes 18 is the
legitimate age. Prison sentences range from 2 to 7
for related offences, and fines can run up to €100,000.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Captive of the heart
You are a willing prisoner
You fain the life, a poet's soul
And bristle when love, like writers block
Amplifies the anguish
And tolerates your impotence
Above all, time is not a comfort
It ticks down louder and slower
Until time stops and stills it's beat
Happy is the man, who finds a true friend,
who is always there during ups and downs,
who overlooks your failures and tolerates your success,
who help you get through the tough times,
who keep your secrets, share you laughter and your tears,
and who come through in the tough times and support your goals.
Happy is the man, who finds a true friend,
who walks in when the rest of the world has walked out,
who reaches for you hand and touches your heart,
who can grow separately without growing apart,
whon know all about you but always like you,
and who want peace, harmony, and joy from you.
Happy is the man, who finds a true friend,
who ask no questions and pass no criticisms,
who make your problems their problems,
who never gets tired of listening to your pointless dramas,
who shares the good times and helps out during the bad times,
and who support you and help you discover your inner talents and strengths.
Happy is the man, who finds a true friend,
who share with you the bittersweet in life,
who is there for you when he'd rather be anywhere else,
who hear the rumors told about you and defends you, knowing they're not true,
who is hard to find and lucky to have,
and who accept you with all your weaknesses and love you just the way you are..
A true friend is the greatest of all blessings…….
Misery never evaded me, it's like my shadow relentless in following me, where can I
go to escape this insidious silouette - a shadow which taunts me. How could I
escape faith that is destined to be, an outcast with wretched existense, an existence
which tolerates me. To escape, to expire, I chose not to be, still alive because death
refused me. How do I live nor can I die, to roam the earth until death remembers me.