A crown of thorns may be made of laurel leaves.
aphorism by Andrzej Majewski from Aphorisms
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Crown Of Thorns
to go near you i put on some leaves
to hide the thorns
and you like the crown that pretends
to be the laurels of
my victory
then the truth has to come out
the leaves wilt and they finally fall to the floor
and i am left with this leafless vines
full of thorns
i make a crown of circular twigs
filled with thorns
now, watch me as i bleed
this is my truth this is my defeat
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Crown Of Thorns
You ever heard the story
of Mr. Faded Glory?
Say he who rides a pony must someday fall
I been talkin' to my alter
Says life is what you make it
And if you make it death well then rest
your soul away
Away away yeah
It's a broken kind of feeling
She'd have to tie me to the ceiling
A bad moon's a comin'
better say your prayers
I wanna tell you that I love you
But does it really matter?
I just can't stand to see you dragging down.
Again, again, again.
So I'm singing
This is my kinda love
It's the kind that moves on
It's the kind that leaves you alone
This is my kinda love
It's the kind that moves on
It's the kind and leaves me alone
I used to treat you like a lady
Now you're a substitute teacher
This bottle's not a pretty, not a pretty sight
I owe the man some money
so I'm turnin over honey
Oh Mr. Faded Glory is once again doin' time.
This is my kinda love
It's the kind that moves on
It's the kind that leaves me alone
This is my kinda love
It's a crown of thorns
It's the kind that
It's the kind that leaves me alone
Like a crown of thorns
So know who you know.
So don't burn your bridges cause
someday, yeah
Start singing
This is my kinda love
It's the kind that moves on
It's the kind that leaves me alone
This is my kinda love
It's a crown of thorns
It's the kind that leaves me alone
song performed by by Pearl Jam
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Lord Thurlow
'I lay my branch of laurel down.
Then thus to form Apollo's crown.
Let every other bring his own.'~Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr. Rogers
'I lay my branch of laurel down.'
Thou 'lay thy branch of laurel down!'
Why, what thou'st stole is not enow;
And, were it lawfully thine own,
Does Rogers want it most, or thou?
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,
Or send it back to Doctor Donne:
Were justice done to both, I trow,
He'd have but little, and thou--none.
'Then thus to form Apollo's crown.'
A crown! why, twist it how you will,
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still.
When next you visit Delphi's town,
Inquire amongst your fellow-lodgers,
They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown,
Some years before your birth, to Rogers.
'Let every other bring his own.'
When coals to Newcastle are carried,
And owls sent to Athens, as wonders,
From his spouse when the R egent's unmarried,
Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders;
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel,
When Castlereagh's wife has an heir,
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,
And thou shalt have plenty to spare.
To ----, with flowers
Go, ye sweet messengers,
To that dim-lighted room,
Where lettered wisdom from the walls
Sheds a delightful gloom;
Where sits in thought profound,
One in the noon of life,
Whose flashing eye and fevered brow
Tell of the inward strife;
Who in those wells of lore,
Seeks for the pearls of truth,
And to Ambition's fever dream
Gives his repose and youth.
To him, sweet ministers,
Ye shall a lesson teach, --
Go in your fleeting loveliness
More eloquent than speech.
Tell him in laurel wreaths
No perfume e'er is found,
And that upon a crown of thorns
Those leaves are ever bound.
Thoughts fresh as your own hues
Bear ye to that abode, --
Speak of the sunshine and the sky,
Of Nature and of God.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Thank Him
for the one who writes
so s/he may not be understood
for him/her who writes
merely to impress and leave us
lost in the crevices of
his mysteries
the labyrinths of his
pretensions
let us all say thank you
for the doubts and
for being part
of our confusions
let us gather the leaves of the laurel
and put that as a crown
on his/her hair
she/he deserves the tile and name
poet/ess
of the day.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bougainvillea
Who doesn't like flowers?
but he is scared of thorns.
Singly she lives with a sing song
but the prince is scared of thorns.
He has to jump over the fence of thorny bush.
Young prince was a good high jumper in school days.
That she knows.
But this hurdle is different
Prince has to think twice
and he scared of thorns.
Not only that,
he is worrying of his Crown.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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To Mistress Katharine Bradshaw, The Lovely, That Crowned Him With Laurel
My Muse in meads has spent her many hours
Sitting, and sorting several sorts of flowers,
To make for others garlands; and to set
On many a head here, many a coronet.
But amongst all encircled here, not one
Gave her a day of coronation;
Till you, sweet mistress, came and interwove
A laurel for her, ever young as Love.
You first of all crown'd her; she must, of due,
Render for that, a crown of life to you.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Been A Son
She should have stayed away from friends
She should have had more time to spend
She should have died when she was born
She should have worn the crown of thorns
She should have been a son
She should have been a son
She should have been a son
She should have been a son
She should have stood out in the crowd
She should have made her mother proud
She should have fallen on her stance
She should have had another chance
She should have been a son
She should have been a son
She should have been a son
She should have been a son
song performed by by Nirvana from Incesticide
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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His Lies
his lies are his hairs
the crown of his head
making him a king
of your dreams
do you wish him bald
and ugly and finally
unlovable?
caress his hair and kiss
his forehead
you may even put daisies
laurel leaves
there is no halo
but what can you do?
he thrives upon your illusion
upon your wish
he comes through
dreams are free and so are lies
love, love, and love, there is no choice.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An Autumn Crown
Watch the leaves turn
yellow, red and brown
Changing the sky too
And putting on autumn's crown
And letting in the joy
And happiness of sunshine
And filling the world with
The light and warmth of wine
watch the leaves turn
Yellow, red and brown
And reflecting serenity and peace
And putting on autumn's crown
And spreading joy and passion
And enthusiasm and hope
And clearing away the dust
And all pain and mope
watch the leaves turn
Yellow, red and brown
And creating a new life
And putting on autumn's crown
And showing you how to reach
The bright horizon afar
And nature glowing with colors
A twinkling like a star
Watch the leaves turn
Yellow, red and brown
Reflecting God's blessings
And putting on autumn's crown.
poem by Seema Chowdhury
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Maidenhood
THROUGH her fair world of blossoms fresh and bright,
Veiled with her maiden innocence, she goes;
Not all the splendour of the waxing light
She sees, nor all the colour of the rose;
And yet who knows what finer hues she sees,
Hid by our wisdom from our longing eyes?
Who knows what light she sees in skies and seas
Which is withholden from our seas and skies?
Shod with her youth the thorny paths she treads
And feels not yet the treachery of the thorn,
Her crown of lilies still its perfume sheds
Where Love, the thorny crown, not yet is borne.
Yet in the mystery of her peaceful way
Who knows what fears beset her innocence,
Who, trembling, learns that thorns will wound some day,
And wonders what thorns are, and why, and whence?
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Crowned
You came to me bearing bright roses,
Red like the wine of your heart;
You twisted them into a garland
To set me aside from the mart.
Red roses to crown me your lover,
And I walked aureoled and apart.
Enslaved and encircled, I bore it,
Proud token of my gift to you.
The petals waned paler, and shriveled,
the thorns started through.
er thorns to proclaim me your lover,
A diadem woven with rue.
poem by Amy Lowell
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The Curse Has Killed The Laurel Tree
The power of Dracula's curse is felt everywhere in Transylvania
The countryside is run down
The towns are feeling older than they should
Bridges are broken apart in pieces
And the minions of the undead grow in numbers more and more every day
And interestingly enough
Someway, somehow
The curse has killed the laurel tree
Walking up to the laurel tree
While protecting myself from the effects of evil
While being blessed in the time of sunlight
I can tell the laurel tree is so far gone
I can tell it's dead
And in my heart, I feel its pain
I feel for it, I really do
Because it didn't deserve this fate
And to the people as well as myself
We all could've prayed for the laurel tree to survive
We all could've prayed for a miracle
But now it's too late
The curse has killed the laurel tree
poem by Justin Gildow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Eternal Crowns
Christ, King of Kings was born a babe to grow and die in our stead,
He was honored with a scarlet robe a crown of thorns upon his head.
Although Christ was mocked and forced to wear an ugly crown of pain,
The faithful who should have died, they're promised a crown of gain.
Paul says that runners in a race receive a crown that will not last,
But we will receive Eternal Crowns that at Jesus' feet will be cast.
Paul even refers to those he led to Christ as his joy and his crown,
And these are people just like you and me from any city or any town.
But one won't receive a victor's crown unless he obeys all the rules,
This makes some adjust their pace to win, but not the simple fools.
But the man who perseveres under trials by fools who create strife,
And to those who love Him, God above has promised the Crown of life.
Many like Paul, on that day shall receive a Crown of righteousness,
This to all who longed for Jesus' return with a special Seriousness.
And for all the pastors who faithfully pointed all to the coming day,
Friend, they will receive a crown of glory that will never fade away.
And the Tribulation Saints tested with unheard of hate and strife,
Being faithful to the point of death, will receive the crown of life.
Then all will see The Son of Man with a crown of gold upon his head,
With a sickle harvesting souls, leaving behind the spiritually dead.
(Copyright © 06/2003)
glory few ever aspire too
reap well earned reward
laurel wreath crown head
haiku by Terence George Craddock
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Crown Of Thorns 300th
the crown of thorns pierced his skin.
he bled outside and within.
he knew that this was meant to be
so that all mankind could be set free.
although his heart and body
was full of pain
he knew the world
would never be the same.
as they laid him upon the cross
and tied his hands and feet.
he knew that soon
his father he would meet.
he felt the spikes pierce his hands
and his blood fall to the ground.
he had wanted to scream
but did not make a sound.
they then took his feet
and did the same.
but he refused to give in
and took all the pain.
the pain is for the world
that was coming to an end
and he also knew
that he was given up by a friend
and as they picked up the cross
and placed it in the ground.
he heard the screams of the others
asking to go with him
and to ask GOD above to
wipe away their sins.
the crown of thorns that
they placed upon your head.
is for all the pains
that this world will soon dread.
poem by Louis Rams
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Resurrection
speaking metaphysically...
if you've never carried a cross,
or wore a self-imposed crown of thorns,
you cannot experience resurrection!
the life we're trained from birth to live,
on a see-me, feed-me premise,
is a form of death,
aka, a type of hell!
in order to redeem ourselves,
to validate the experience of the human condition,
all that is body, the outer body,
the body that sucks and grinds,
has to die.
we have to let go of the concept
of freedom in order to be free.
the image has to be shattered,
in order to find the truth...
in the cold dark night of time,
we can either have fire,
or a picture of fire.
the picture is useless!
the cross - the picture!
the crown of thorns - our attachment.
.....death,
........rebirth!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I never said I was a poet just a man
dear francis,
do not call yourself
'just a man',
do not deprive yourself
the laurels of
'a poet'
you are a man, and a man is more than a poet
the man with the urge to write is more than a man without an urge
even just to write
and be this 'poet'
the poets (those taking the top charts) either have died
(and take the fame posthumously) or they have rested
on laurel
leaves, or they have confined themselves on
some
writers' block
but you francis
behold the stars and the other suns
has written more
and toiled more, your fruits are many
and more have eaten them
tasted how sweet what wisdom you have
i crown you the true laurels
these living laurels of poetry
moving, alive, toiling, working, always thinking
about those that must come
next for generations to come
i crown you,
Francis Duggan
the true laurels of working, moving, living poetry
i give you the title,
the true, living poet.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Crown Of Thorns
You were yesterdays hero
An ordinary man of flesh and blood
Took the world on your shoulders
A hopeless crusade, and act of love
But its a world obsessed with religion
And now you wear the face of a god
Like the words you said, youre as good as dead
Just a work of art on the wall
And thats why nobody wears a crown of thorns
Nobody cares
Nobody wears a crown of thorns anymore
Holy men talk of hunger
While standing beneath a cross of gold
And there are preachers on the tv
In their thousand dollar suits, who sell your soul
To think you died for what you believed in
Only to be exploited and used
Now youre supermen from the promised land
Just a vision of hollywood
...anymore
You showed me that theres hope for humanity
But once more youre being betrayed
So many countries torn by their idols
Too many prophets screaming for blood
And they only hear what they want to hear
When it comes to God up above
song performed by by Johnny Hates Jazz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hey Everyone, She’s AUTISTIC!
Hey everyone look here
It’s the girl with freaky hair
Oh my little does she care
This is an ode to freak shows
And silly dancers in the rain
Glistening cobwebs and rot
A fascination with plants in pots
Your funny sir the way you scream
You make my day with the dinner
I laugh again at this part
This is an ode to miserable old farts
So look at me and you shall see
I bear three heads and a crown
Even if my crown is thorns
I will wear it with pride
Because this is an ode to you dear one
And here I laugh again.
poem by Cheryl McDonnell
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