wellcome, to my blog page,,,

hope you will like it,, 

i am just an ordinary person with a passion

for all things artistic,,

poetry

art

music

books,

and more,,

feedback would be great,,

also i have a facebook page worth mentioning,

the eclectic room,

again all things artistic,

my own facebook page is 

peader hoolan

hope you will come along for the journey, and best wishes

my morning poem,,,

Million Man March Poem


The night has been long,
The wound has been deep,
The pit has been dark,
And the walls have been steep.

Under a dead blue sky on a distant beach,
I was dragged by my braids just beyond your reach.
Your hands were tied, your mouth was bound,
You couldn't even call out my name.
You were helpless and so was I,
But unfortunately throughout history
You've worn a badge of shame.

I say, the night has been long,
The wound has been deep,
The pit has been dark
And the walls have been steep.

But today, voices of old spirit sound
Speak to us in words profound,
Across the years, across the centuries,
Across the oceans, and across the seas.
They say, draw near to one another,
Save your race.
You have been paid for in a distant place,
The old ones remind us that slavery's chains
Have paid for our freedom again and again.

The night has been long,
The pit has been deep,
The night has been dark,
And the walls have been steep.

The hells we have lived through and live through still,
Have sharpened our senses and toughened our will.
The night has been long.
This morning I look through your anguish
Right down to your soul.
I know that with each other we can make ourselves whole.
I look through the posture and past your disguise,
And see your love for family in your big brown eyes.

I say, clap hands and let's come together in this meeting ground,
I say, clap hands and let's deal with each other with love,
I say, clap hands and let us get from the low road of indifference,
Clap hands, let us come together and reveal our hearts,
Let us come together and revise our spirits,
Let us come together and cleanse our souls,
Clap hands, let's leave the preening
And stop impostering our own history.
Clap hands, call the spirits back from the ledge,
Clap hands, let us invite joy into our conversation,
Courtesy into our bedrooms,
Gentleness into our kitchen,
Care into our nursery.

The ancestors remind us, despite the history of pain
We are a going-on people who will rise again.

And still we rise.

Maya Angelou

my morning poem,,,
2 from this very fine poet,,,

Very Old Man

by James Henry

I well remember how some threescore years
And ten ago, a helpless babe, I toddled
From chair to chair about my mother's chamber,
Feeling, as 'twere, my way in the new world
And foolishly afraid of, or, as 't might be,
Foolishly pleased with, th' unknown objects round me.
And now with stiffened joints I sit all day
In one of those same chairs, as foolishly
Hoping or fearing something from me hid
Behind the thick, dark veil which I see hourly
And minutely on every side round closing
And from my view all objects shutting out.

Another and another and another

by James Henry

Another and another and another
And still another sunset and sunrise,
The same yet different, different yet the same,
Seen by me now in my declining years
As in my early childhood, youth and manhood;
And by my parents and my parents' parents,
And by the parents of my parents' parents,
And by their parents counted back for ever,
Seen, all their lives long, even as now by me;
And by my children and my children's children
And by the children of my children's children
And by their children counted on for ever
Still to be seen as even now seen by me;
Clear and bright sometimes, sometimes dark and clouded
But still the same sunsetting and sunrise;
The same for ever to the never ending
Line of observers, to the same observer
Through all the changes of his life the same:
Sunsetting and sunrising and sunsetting,
And then again sunrising and sunsetting,
Sunrising and sunsetting evermore.

please stop, please stop,please

another poem today

Lord Rama! My honour is in Your hands.

You are the protector of the poor; I surrender myself at Your Feet.

I have heard of the sinners whom You have reclaimed.

I am an old sinner, pray extend Your loving hand and take me to Yourself.

To destroy the sins of the sinner, and to remove the ailments of the afflicted is Your occupation.

Grant me devotion to You, O Lord, and confer Your grace on me! 

Goswami Tulsidas

pain,,,

Luck has no songs, luck has no thoughts, luck has nothing.

Push your luck, so that she breaks, for luck is evil.

Luck comes softly in the whisper of morning among the sleeping bushes,

luck glides away in the light images of clouds over deep blue depths,

luck is the field that sleeps in the burning heat of noon, 

or the endless expanse of the sea under the piercing vertical rays,

luck is powerless, she sleeps and breathes and does not know anything . . . . 

Do you know pain? She is strong and big with secretly clenched fists.

Do you know pain? She is a hopeful smile with eyes red with tears.

Pain gives us all what we need -

she gives us the keys to the realm of death,

she pushes us through the gate when we still hesitate.

Pain baptizes the children and remains awake with the mothers

and forges all the golden wedding-rings.

Pain rules over everything, she smooths the brow of the thinker,

she clasps the jewel round the neck of the desired woman,

she stands by the door when a man is leaving his love . . . .

What else does pain still give to the ones she loves?

I do not know of more.

She gives pearls and flowers, she gives songs and dreams,

she gives us a thousand kisses which are all empty,

she gives us the only kiss that is true.

She gives us our strange souls and curious desires,

she gives to all the highest gain in life:

love, loneliness and the face of death.

Edith Sodergran

1892-1923

my daily poem,,,

lest we forget the horrors of this terrible time,,,

Tale of a Sprinter, in the Winter of 1938
by Sudeep Pagedar

THE PAST -

I am an athlete from Berlin,
my feet are fast and swift.
I can run faster than anyone!
Truly, this is the Lord's gift!

Any race I participate in,
I always come in first,
for I tell myself, "I HAVE to win";
it is like a great thirst.

Even if someone, somehow passes me,
I put on an extra burst of speed
and run past him, leaving him behind;
thus, I take the lead.

I once thought, "If I keep running this way,
I might be in the Olympics, some day..."

THE PRESENT -

But now the year is nineteen-thirty-eight
And for my dreams, it's just too late.

My running days are all gone,
I'm not going to see tomorrow's dawn.

Yes, it is true
that I can run very fast;
But it is also true
that I am a Jew...
There's no running, from the Holocaust.

robert frost

a late walk,

When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words

A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.

I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you

A Visit From Wisdom

In the stillness of night Wisdom came and stood
By my bed. She gazed upon me like a tender mother
And wiped away my tears, and said : 'I have heard
The cry of your spirit and I am come to comfort it.
Open your heart to me and I shall fill it with light.
Ask of me and I shall show you the way of truth.'

And I said : 'Who am I, Wisdom, and how came
I to this frightening place? What manner of things
Are these mighty hopes and these many books and
Strange patterns ? What are these thoughts that pass
As doves in flight? And these words composed by
Desire and sung by delight, what are they? What are
These conclusions, grievous and joyous, that embrace
My spirit and envelop my heart? And those
Eyes which look at me seeing into my depths and
Fleeing from my sorrows ? And those voices mourning
My days and chanting my littleness, what are they ?

'What is this youth that plays with my desires
And mocks at my longings, forgetful of yesterday's
Deeds, rejoicing in paltry things of the moment,
Scornful of the morrow's coming?

'What is this world that leads me whither I know
Not, standing with me in despising? And this earth
That opens wide its mouth to swallow bodies and
Lets evil things to dwell on its breast? What is this
Creature that is satisfied with the love of fortune,
Whilst beyond its union is the pit? Who seeks Life's
Kiss whilst Death does smite him, and brings the
Pleasure of a minute with a year of repentance, and
Gives himself to slumber the while dreams call him?
What is he who flows with the rivers of folly to the
Sea of darkness? O Wisdom, what manner of things
Are these?'

And she answered, saying :
'You would see, human creature, this world
Through the eyes of a god. And you would seek to
Know the secrets of the hereafter with the thinking
Of men. Yet in truth is this the height of folly.
'Go you to the wild places and you shall find
There the bee above the flowers and behold the eagle
Swooping down on his prey. Go you into your neighbor's
House and see then the child blinking at the
Firelight and his mother busied at her household
Tasks. Be you like the bee and spend not the days of
Spring looking on the eagle's doing. Be as the child
And rejoice in the firelight and heed not your Mother's affairs. All that you see with your eyes was And is for your sake.

'The many books and the strange patterns and
Beautiful thoughts are the shades of those spirits
That came ere you were come. The words that you
Do weave are a bond between you and your brothers.
The conclusions, grievous and joyous, are the
Seeds that the past did scatter in the field of the
Spirit to be reaped by the future. That youth who
Plays with your desires is he who will open the door
Of your heart to let enter the light. This earth with
The ever open mouth is the savior of your spirit from
The body's slavery. This world which walks with
You is your heart; and your heart is all that you
Think that world. This creature whom you see as
Ignorant and small is the same who has come from
God's side to learn pity through sadness, and knowledge
By way of darkness.'

Then Wisdom put her hand on my burning brow
And said:
'Go then forward and do not tarry, for beforeWwalks Perfection. Go, and have not fear of thorns
On the path, for they deem naught lawful save Corrupted blood.' 

Khalil Gibran