God bless him who pays visits -- short visits.
Related quotes
Tourism
Decisive tourist
Chancellor Adolph Hitler
Visits Paris
The final tourist
President George Bush
Visits Baghdad
poem by Jan Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In Sensitive Visits Quick
If you've got to know,
I will admit it...
Those sensitive visits,
That come to sit...
Gets me weary,
And into fits.
I will admit it...
Those sensitive visits,
That come to sit...
Gets me weary,
And into fits.
If you've got to know,
I'll take this minute.
To find why I'm in it?
And what is that price...
I'll have to pay,
One day.
I'll take this minute.
To find why I'm in it?
And what is that price...
I'll have to pay,
One day.
If you've got to know,
I will admit it...
Those sensitive visits,
That come to sit...
Gets me weary,
And into fits.
Those sensitive visits,
That come to sit...
Gets me weary,
And into fits.
Only people I know...
I think in sensitive visits quick!
Only people I know...
I think in sensitive visits quick!
Only people I know,
That come to sit...
Can get me weary,
And into fits.
Only people I know,
Can get me in sensitive visits quick!
Only people I know,
Can get me in sensitive visits quick!
Only people I know,
Can get me in sensitive visits quick!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Its visits, like those of angels, short, and far between.
quote by Robert Blair
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Strict It Gets
To challenge oneself,
Isn't fun that's done.
Because,
The critic visits.
And strict it gets.
To challenge oneself,
Isn't fun that's done.
Because,
The critic visits.
And strict it gets.
Stalking as a menace,
Looking for perfection in it.
And...
The critic vists.
And strict it gets.
Stalking as a menace,
Looking for perfection in it.
And...
The critic vists.
And strict it gets.
Picking seeking detail...
To prevail,
And...
The critic visits.
And strict it gets.
Detailed...
The critic visits.
And strict it gets.
Stalking as a menace,
Looking for perfection in it.
And...
The critic vists.
And strict it gets.
To challenge oneself,
Isn't fun that's done.
Because,
The critic visits.
And strict it gets.
Detailed!
The critic visits,
And strict it gets.
Detailed!
The critic visits,
And strict it gets.
Stalking as a menace,
Looking for perfection in it.
And...
The critic vists.
And strict it gets.
Detailed!
The critic visits,
And strict it gets.
Picking seeking detail...
To prevail,
And...
The critic visits.
And strict it gets.
Detailed,
The critic visits.
And strict it gets...
Detailed!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Pity Makes Those Visits
Everyday you have to pray,
If you want a life to be lived right.
Everyday.
And everyday you have to do it in a way,
To make those loose ends tight.
Without a struggle or fight.
You want a life that's easy pleasing.
Without discipline or meaning.
Without work or sweat involved.
With your troubles quickly solved.
You wish your dreams to come alive.
While you sit and analyze...
Why others seem to have such luck!
And all you have is whining time.
With pity making visits in your mind.
That's all you want,
There to fine.
Everyday you have to pray,
If you want a life to be lived right.
Everyday.
And everyday you have to do it in a way,
To make those loose ends tight.
Without a struggle or fight.
But pity makes those visits in your mind.
All the time.
And all you wish to do is sit...
And analyze.
Why you ain't gotta dime.
And pity makes those visits in your mind.
All the time.
And all you wish to do is sit...
And analyze.
With thin dimes on your mind!
As pity makes those visits in your mind.
Without a thin dime to find!
As pity makes those visits...
You don't want to quit,
In your mind.
Without a thin dime to find!
Pity makes those visits you don't want to quit,
Sitting in your mind!
All the time!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Neptune
Nobody seems to dream of visits on Neptune.
With a giving of its wonder and suspense.
There is nobody that seems to speak with curiosity,
Of how life lived on Neptune would be.
What is it about it that escapes wishes to adventure it?
Does it not appear to be intimate?
What is it about it.
Is it too far out there for imaginary visits?
What is it about it.
Is it too much like Uranus?
And Saturn and Jupiter have captured its magic.
What is it about it.
Although depicted by the Romans as god of the seas...
Neptune is rarely mentioned or romanticized,
As a place to be!
What is it about it that escapes our fantasies.
Eight from the Sun to see in orbit.
But no one mentions Neptune for that odyssey.
What is it about it.
So vast it is...
Sixty Earths could sit within its grasp.
But no one wishes a visit with it.
Nobody seems to dream of visits on Neptune.
With a giving of its wonder and suspense.
There is nobody that seems to speak with curiosity,
Of how life lived on Neptune would be.
What is it about it that escapes wishes to adventure it?
Does it not appear to be intimate?
What is it about it.
Is it too far out there for imaginary visits?
What is it about it.
Is it too much like Uranus?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Poet’s is art
An architect visits the Taj Mahal
A historian visits the Taj Mahal.
So do a poet and a farmer.
Their perceptions differ;
Their abstractions differ.
The poet’s is unique in that
He concretizes selectively
And make the abstraction an art.
02.08.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Long Black Veil
Ten years ago on a cold dark night
Someone was killed beneath the townhall light
There were few at the scene, but they all agreed
That the slayer who ran looked a lot like me
She walks these hills in a long black veil
She visits my grave when the night winds wail
Nobody knows, nobody sees, nobody knows but me
The judge said son, what is your aliby?
If you were somewhere else, then you wont have to die.
I said not a word, though it meant my life,
For Id been in the arms of my best friends wife.
Oh, she walks these hills in a long black veil.
She visits my grave when the night winds wail.
Nobody knows, nobody sees, nobody knows but me.
Oh, now the scaffold is high, eternity is near
She stood in the crowd and shed not a tear
And sometimes at night when the cold winds blow
In a long black veil she cries over my bones.
She walks these hills in a long black veil
She visits my grave when the night winds wail
Nobody knows, nobody sees, nobody knows but me.
Oh, she walks these hills in a long black veil
She visits my grave when the night winds wail
Nobody knows, nobody sees, nobody knows but me.
Nobody knows. nobody knows, but me.
Nobody knows but me.
song performed by by Dave Matthews Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Muse on the visits
The land that you own and things in hand
Have come to you to stay as guests,
For a snap or sleep and would slip soon
From you against your wish and acts.
It’s not gentle for you to deny
The guests their freedom of movements.
What you own, be it land, things or friends,
Are your visitors, not prisioners.
You don’t get them; instead to you they come.
Their visits are joy and exits, sorrow.
The sorrow is the merit of the joy got.
Muse on their visits, not on their exits.
29.10.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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But I enjoyed getting sick, I didn't mind it at all. So in that short amount of time, I did actually go from 121 right back up to 180, which is way too fast obviously. And that resulted in some doctors visits to get things sorted out.
quote by Christian Bale
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Taken For Granted
No!
I am not berries to pick,
On your visits to the forest.
Nor am I a twig to pluck.
To deleaf and strip of bark.
What I am is flesh.
Deep with emotions.
I've learned I must protect.
Especially when my feelings
Are taken for granted.
And the more I give...
The less respect I get!
No!
I am not berries to pick,
On your visits to the forest.
Nor am I a twig to pluck.
To deleaf and strip of bark.
And this is what you do.
Like many who are clueless.
About that which has life.
Or about those feelings others have too!
'Why are you so sensitive?
Oooow!
Why did you pinch me? '
Isn't that strange?
I didn't feel a thing!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Drawn To Death
Her demeanor can be ever so bleak
As her fascination with death overwhelms
Her heart as hardened as the grave stones she visits
Grey days and muted tones-her aura
The less is more people-her religion
Anti-social of anti social
Obsessions of suffocation she cannot deny
Her soon to be victims-a forewarning
Fortune teller beware
As her agenda's are hidden
The night-her best friend
Visits her frequently
Her profession: Hired Assasin
Done without thought or twinge of conscience
The mob keeps her in designer ware
And a hidden lush home on the side
Not a Surprise!
She's about to strike again
So cock sure of herself
So sure her reality is covered
Winter comes calling
This will be her last one free
For this time the hit is on her
They're waiting...
poem by Theodora Onken
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God visits us, but most of the time we are not at home.
God often visits us, but most of the time we are not at home.
Misfortune does not restrict his visits to one day.
God visits us often, but most of the time we are not home.