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You Wear It So Well
All of those things
Yeah, that you got to give
Yeah, you wear it so well
Hey, you wear it so well
All of those stories
Honey, that i know you could tell
Yeah, you wear it so well
And your face hides it so we can't tell
That you knew we would wear it so well
You wear it so well
Yeah darling, you wear it so well
(you wear it so well)
Yeah baby, you wear it so well
(you wear it so well)
Yeah now baby, you wear it so well
(you wear it so well)
Hey now darling now, yeah, you wear it so well
(you wear it so well)
All of those things
That make poets sing
You wear it so well
Yeah, you hide it so well
And all of those pain
That you used to tell
You hide it so well
Can't tell from your face that you knew it so well
Hey, now that you have such a story to tell
Yeah, you got style and grace and you wear it so well
You wear it so well
And you got, you got such a story to tell
Yeah, yeah, yeah, you wear it so well
Grace and style equals you so well
Yeah, yeah, yeah, you wear it so well, well, yeah, so well
Yeah, you wear it, wear it, wear it now, wear it now, baby
Yeah, now you wear it so well
And you got such a story to tell
(ooohhh, ooohhh, ooohhh)
(ooohhh, you wear it so well)
(you wear it so well)
(you wear it so well)
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I wear my Pen as others do their Sword.
quote by John Oldham
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The missing
I was missing...
I was missing...
At my self
I was missing...
Wear is i am...?
wear is i am...?
Asking for my mind
Any time...
I am missing...
For my sence...
Wear i am...?
My work...
my money...
my poem's...
my dayana...
Wear i am...
Wear...?
I was leave
At me...
But...
I was searching
For the world drama...
I was search
Wear i am...?
My answer is;
'Missing...! '
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Episode 36
WIGLAF his name was, Weohstan's son,
linden-thane loved, the lord of Scylfings,
Aelfhere's kinsman. His king he now saw
with heat under helmet hard oppressed.
He minded the prizes his prince had given him,
wealthy seat of the Waegmunding line,
and folk-rights that his father owned
Not long he lingered. The linden yellow,
his shield, he seized; the old sword he drew: --
as heirloom of Eanmund earth-dwellers knew it,
who was slain by the sword-edge, son of Ohtere,
friendless exile, erst in fray
killed by Weohstan, who won for his kin
brown-bright helmet, breastplate ringed,
old sword of Eotens, Onela's gift,
weeds of war of the warrior-thane,
battle-gear brave: though a brother's child
had been felled, the feud was unfelt by Onela.
For winters this war-gear Weohstan kept,
breastplate and board, till his bairn had grown
earlship to earn as the old sire did:
then he gave him, mid Geats, the gear of battle,
portion huge, when he passed from life,
fared aged forth. For the first time now
with his leader-lord the liegeman young
was bidden to share the shock of battle.
Neither softened his soul, nor the sire's bequest
weakened in war. So the worm found out
when once in fight the foes had met!
Wiglaf spake, -- and his words were sage;
sad in spirit, he said to his comrades: --
"I remember the time, when mead we took,
what promise we made to this prince of ours
in the banquet-hall, to our breaker-of-rings,
for gear of combat to give him requital,
for hard-sword and helmet, if hap should bring
stress of this sort! Himself who chose us
from all his army to aid him now,
urged us to glory, and gave these treasures,
because he counted us keen with the spear
and hardy 'neath helm, though this hero-work
our leader hoped unhelped and alone
to finish for us, -- folk-defender
who hath got him glory greater than all men
for daring deeds! Now the day is come
that our noble master has need of the might
of warriors stout. Let us stride along
the hero to help while the heat is about him
glowing and grim! For God is my witness
I am far more fain the fire should seize
along with my lord these limbs of mine!
Unsuiting it seems our shields to bear
homeward hence, save here we essay
to fell the foe and defend the life
of the Weders' lord. I wot 'twere shame
on the law of our land if alone the king
out of Geatish warriors woe endured
and sank in the struggle! My sword and helmet,
breastplate and board, for us both shall serve!"
Through slaughter-reek strode he to succor his chieftain,
his battle-helm bore, and brief words spake: --
"Beowulf dearest, do all bravely,
as in youthful days of yore thou vowedst
that while life should last thou wouldst let no wise
thy glory droop! Now, great in deeds,
atheling steadfast, with all thy strength
shield thy life! I will stand to help thee."
At the words the worm came once again,
murderous monster mad with rage,
with fire-billows flaming, its foes to seek,
the hated men. In heat-waves burned
that board to the boss, and the breastplate failed
to shelter at all the spear-thane young.
Yet quickly under his kinsman's shield
went eager the earl, since his own was now
all burned by the blaze. The bold king again
had mind of his glory: with might his glaive
was driven into the dragon's head, --
blow nerved by hate. But Naegling was shivered,
broken in battle was Beowulf's sword,
old and gray. 'Twas granted him not
that ever the edge of iron at all
could help him at strife: too strong was his hand,
so the tale is told, and he tried too far
with strength of stroke all swords he wielded,
though sturdy their steel: they steaded him nought.
Then for the third time thought on its feud
that folk-destroyer, fire-dread dragon,
and rushed on the hero, where room allowed,
battle-grim, burning; its bitter teeth
closed on his neck, and covered him
with waves of blood from his breast that welled.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Sword Of Mine
The Sword that I carry
Though made not of iron or steel,
It is a mighty sword
That I proudly do so wield.
Though it wont break the skin
Or combat the weapons of a foe
But this is a mighty sword of mine
More precious than silver or gold.
This sword that I carry
I proudly display it in my hand,
For I know this sword of mine
Is greater, than any other mans.
It comforts me when I am tired
It will warm me when I am cold
It will lie down beside of me
To protect, and strengthen my soul.
The sword that I hold
Is tattered, and so very worn
It has been a friend along side of me,
In the sunshine and many storms.
It has shown me a path to follow
And has lit the road that I walk,
And those nights when I was alone and scared
Then to me, I could hear it talk.
The sword that I wield
Though may be different, in shape or size,
But it is the same sword
Which for years has cushioned the souls cry.
It has been here since the dawn of time
And will be here when the great walls fall,
And then when all men of war and hate reflect,
My sword, will be the mightiest sword of all.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Women who wear kimonos, when the fight, they have to keep their knees together, and when they use a sword, they have to move the sleeves otherwise it gets caught.
I Wear A Smile
I wear a smile
that never reach my eyes.
I wear a smile
that feels misplaced.
I wear a smile
that is completely fake.
I wear a smile
to drown my sorrow.
I wear a smile
but i'm so numb.
One day this mask will break,
but then it will be too late.
poem by Precious Arroyo
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Womens Next
womens are
not sexy wear...
womens are
not beauty wear...
womens are not
funny wear...
womens are not
hotty wear...
womens are
a power wear..
in another world...
not only child birth
with hands
with brain
with works
with loves
make a new world...
tommrow...
that is day near...
very near...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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He Entered Into Battle With A Blunt Edged Sword
He entered into battle with a blunt edged sword,
But he did not know quite why.
His sword selection was done without motive,
To battle and kill his fellow man.
So subconsciously he picked out this sword.
This sword not of this world, not out to cut to bleed.
But this innocent man didn't wish to realize,
What prize he would pay.
In midst of this battle, recieving the swiftest,
Blows from his enemy,
This soldier just kept getting hurt.
Five, six and seven more blows made him hit back,
This soldier proudly used his blunt sword,
Till his nemesis bearing a razor sharp one,
Came along and challenged the already fallen one,
Who gave a swift plunge into his enemy's heart.
But the enemy did not stagger or fall.
Neither did the soldier with the blunt sword.
This soldier's enemy left the battleground,
When he saw that the one with the blunt sword,
Knew all along the possibility of his death.
Still he fought, so he himself could die,
Which the other soldier was saddened by that man's stance.
He told that man, 'if we all fought battles with a blunt
sword,
Then we would all truly win,
For the battleground would know no mortality.
He further told him, 'because of you, your side
Truly wins. But so does our.
We love you,
Blunt edged sword soldier man.'
poem by Vera Sidhwa
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The Predestined
Dear, we might have known you were
To die young--and were we blind
To the light on face and hair?
Dear, so simple and so kind.
You were clean as your own sword
And as straight too and steel true.
In the Army of the Lord
What promotion waits for you!
I can see you where you stand,
Knightly soul, so clean, so brave.
With a new sword in your hand
Where the lilied banners wave.
Flower of simple chivalry,
Marked for honour and for grace;
It was very plain to see
The clear shining of your face.
You are gone now: it's turned cold:
Very good you were and dear.
Wear the looks you wore of old
When we meet,--some other year.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Ouija Board, Ouija Board
Ouija board
Would you work for me ?
I have got to say hello
To an old friend
Ouija board, ouija board, ouija board
Would you work for me ?
I have got to get through
To a good friend
Well, she has now gone
From this unhappy planet
With all the carnivores
And the destructors of it
Ouija board, ouija board, ouija board
Would you help me ?
Because I still do feel
So horribly lonely
Would you, ouija board
Would you, ouija board
Would you help me ?
And I just cant find
My place in this world
She has now gone
From this unhappy planet
With all the carnivores
And the destructors of it
Oh hear my voice (hear my voice)
Oh hear my voice (hear my voice)
Hear my voice (hear my voice)
Hear my voice (hear my voice)
The table is rumbling ...
The table is rumbling
The glass is moving
No, I was not pushing that time
It spells : s.t.e.v.e.n
The table is rumbling
The glass is moving
No, I was not pushing that time :
P.u.s.h.o. double f.
Well, she has now gone
From this unhappy planet
With all the carnivores
And the destructors of it
song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bible Stories: Ruth (Part IV)
Boaz Marries Ruth:
As Boaz sat down near the gate,
There came the kinsman whom he sought;
He sat along with elders ten!
Boaz told them of Naomi
Who’d come away from Moab-land
After the death of her husband.
She has a plot of land to sell;
The kinsman had first right to buy,
And if he did, he should redeem
Ruth, widowed daughter-in-law too.
The kinsman told that he could not
And gave up right to redeem Ruth;
The man removed his shoe as sign,
‘Let Boaz buy the plot himself’
This was the practice in Israel! ’
So, Boaz told the elders there:
He had purchased Elimelech’s
And Naomi’s inheritance,
And Ruth, the wife of dead Mahlon.
Would be his new wife from then on.
This was to save the dead one’s kin,
From being cut off from brethren,
And all were witnesses that day,
Who sat to hear the news by gate!
The elders glorified the Lord,
And blessed the new wife of Boaz,
To build her house in Bethlehem,
And bear forth children: be famous
Like Rachel, Leah and too Tamar.
So, Ruth became Boaz’s wife,
And bore a son through grace of God
The women blessed and praised the Lord
Whose kindness saved Naomi’s clan.
Obed was son of Boaz, Ruth
And Naomi became its nurse!
Obed begot Jesse, father of
David, the King: Glory to God!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 4-24-2007
poem by John Celes
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A near neighbour is better than a far-dwelling kinsman.
What she told me
Arrived at last at the monastery
she listened as he asked
why are your aspirations so very puny?
why do you not aspire
to be liberated for the sake
of all mankind?
and, she said, she could
have cut the silence with a sword;
the two-edged sword, of unreason
and of reason; the same light
flashing from the hero’s sword
or burning steady, gentle, from the candle
there in the temple of the heart.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A kinsman in trouble has to be saved, not blamed.
The Hero Of Heroes
Let others write of battles fought,
Of bloody' ghastly fields,
Where honor greets the man who wins,
And death the man who yields;
But I will of him who fights
And vanquishes his sins,
Who struggles on through weary years
Against himself, and wins.
He is a hero staunch and brave
Who fights an unseen foe,
And puts at last beneath his feet
His passions base and low;
Who stands erect in manhood's might,
Undaunted, undismayed, -
The bravest man who drew a sword
In shumble foray or in raid.
It calls for something more than brawn
Or muscle to o'ercome
An enemy who marcheth not
With banner, plume, or drum, -
A foe forever lurking nigh,
With silent, stealthy tread;
Forever near your board by day,
At night beside your head.
All honor, then, to that brave heart,
Though poor or rich he be,
Who struggles with his baser part, -
Who conquers and is free!
He may not wear a hero's crown,
Or fill a hero's grave;
But truth will place his name
Among the bravest of the brave.
poem by Redscar McOdindo K'Oyuga
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The Scars Of Lovers....
a sharp sword
sharpens itself against
another sword
metal to metal
to the sound of the gritting teeth
one wants to imagine
an ecstasy of
a wound
blood dropping from
a slit on the
hand
there is none here
for this is but an affair
of a sword to another sword
thinking that
there is no war but love
in the air
sweet sounds of birds
sex moans and
calls for a mating
of the season
there is this hate that hides
inside the chest
where there is no option but
to sleep with
the one that never tickles you
not a bit
where love is feigned and
subdued
by need by survival by
pretenses
that man understands it
one can see the scars
not the stars......
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Knocker
There are those who grow
gardens in their heads
paths lead from their hair
to sunny and white cities
it's easy for them to write
they close their eyes
immediately schools of images
stream down their foreheads
my imagination
is a piece of board
my sole instrument
is a wooden stick
I strike the board
it answer me
yes--yes
no--no
for others the green bell of a tree
the blue bell of water
I have a knocker
from unprotected gardens
I thump on the board
and it prompts me
with the moralists dry poem
yes--yes
no--no
poem by Zbigniew Herbert
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