I think he came to the front door and rang the bell, and Maggie let him in, and he said he had forgotten his key; so I think she must have been down stairs.
quote by Lizzie Andrew Borden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
when you have forgotten Sunday: the love story
—And when you have forgotten the bright bedclothes on a Wednesday and a Saturday,
And most especially when you have forgotten Sunday—
When you have forgotten Sunday halves in bed,
Or me sitting on the front-room radiator in the limping afternoon
Looking off down the long street
To nowhere,
Hugged by my plain old wrapper of no-expectation
And nothing-I-have-to-do and I’m-happy-why?
And if-Monday-never-had-to-come—
When you have forgotten that, I say,
And how you swore, if somebody beeped the bell,
And how my heart played hopscotch if the telephone rang;
And how we finally went in to Sunday dinner,
That is to say, went across the front room floor to the ink-spotted table in the southwest corner
To Sunday dinner, which was always chicken and noodles
Or chicken and rice
And salad and rye bread and tea
And chocolate chip cookies—
I say, when you have forgotten that,
When you have forgotten my little presentiment
That the war would be over before they got to you;
And how we finally undressed and whipped out the light and flowed into bed,
And lay loose-limbed for a moment in the week-end
Bright bedclothes,
Then gently folded into each other—
When you have, I say, forgotten all that,
Then you may tell,
Then I may believe
You have forgotten me well.
poem by Gwendolyn Brooks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ain't Gonna Work On Your Farm No More
I ain’t gonna work on your farm no more
I ain’t gonna scrub all your floors,
I ain’t gonna take all your friends who ignore
what I do when they hide behind doors
where they pay no attention to stuff that I think,
and say, when they pay me a dime,
that I ain’t entitled to spend it on drink,
or ladies who show me good time.
I ain’t gonna work for your children or friends
who preach of the law and the Lord,
and hear all those messages God never sends
to people with who He is bored,
like I am. I ain’t gonna work on your farm,
instead I will write me a song,
and pray that its words will all sound the alarm,
for I expect to be back before long.
Mark Z. Barabak (“He’s Digging ‘Farm, ’” LA Times, June 26,2008) writes that Barack Obama’s favorite Bob Dylan song is “Maggie’s Farm, ” performed in 1995 at the Newport Festival, when he turned electric and never looked back:
I AIN’T GONNA WORK ON MAGGIE’S FARM NO MORE
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
I wake up every morning
hold my hands and pray for rain
I've got a head full of ideas
driving me insane
It's a shame the way she makes me scrub the floor
well, I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
Well, I ain't gonna work for Maggie's brother no more
I ain't gonna work for Maggie's brother no more
He hands you a nickel
he hands you a dime
He asks you and your friends
if you're having a good time
He blames you every time you slam the door
Well, I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
Well, I ain't gonna work for Maggie's Pa no more
I ain't gonna work for Maggie's Pa no more
He stubs his cigarette out in your face just for kicks
his bedroom window is made out of bricks
And the National Guard are standing at his door
well, I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
Well, I ain't gonna work for Maggie's mother no more
I ain't gonna work for Maggie's mother no more
She talks to all the servants about man and God and law
and everybody swears she's the brains behind Pa
She's sixty-eight, but claim's she's twenty-four
well, I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
Well, I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
I try so hard to be just who I am
but everybody wants you to be just like them
They say 'see, while you're playing I get bored'? ?
well, I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
6/26/08
poem by Gershon Hepner
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Maggie and Max
Our son married a flibbertygibbet,
my wife says, and I agree,
but he loves Maggie very much
so I say let's keep quiet.
It's not our place to criticize.
Max is 33, and not long
back from Iraq.
I remind my wife
that Maggie can cook
better than most
so let's give her a chance.
Max works two jobs
and he's never home.
Maggie's young.
Maybe the baby will help
but I doubt it.
Too bad Maggie
didn't take to quilting,
my wife points out.
The ladies at church
did their best to teach her.
But quilters, I remind her,
don't go out at midnight
to places nobody knows.
My wife keeps asking
why Max married Maggie.
I don't know what to say.
Finally I tell her I never saw
any woman walk like Maggie.
My wife says I never will.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Maggie Mgill
Miss maggie mgill, she lived on a hill.
Her daddy got drunk and left her no will
So she went down, down to tangie town.
People down there really like to get it on.
Now if youre sad and youre feeling blue
Go out and buy a new pair of shoes
And you go down, down to tangie town
The people down there really like to get it on.
Illegitimate son of a rock and roll star
Illegitimate son of a rock and roll star
Mom met dad in the back of a rock and roll car.
Well Im an old blues man
And I think that you understand
Ive been singing the blues ever since the world began.
Maggie, maggie, maggie mgill
Roll on, roll on, maggie mgill
Maggie, maggie, maggie mgill
Roll on, roll on, maggie mgill
song performed by by Doors
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Bell From Europe
The tower bell in the Tenth Street Church
Rang out nostalgia for the refugee
Who knew the source of bells by sound.
We liked it, but in ignorance.
One meets authorities on bells infrequently.
Europe alone made bells with such a tone,
Herr Mannheim said. The bell
Struck midnight, and it shook the room.
He had heard bells in Leipzig, Chartres, Berlin,
Paris, Vienna, Brussels, Rome.
He was a white-faced man with sad enormous eyes.
Reader, for me that bell marked nights
Of restless tossing in this narrow bed,
The quarrels, the slamming of a door,
The kind words, friends for drinks, the books we read,
Breakfasts with streets in rain.
It rang from europe all the time.
That was what Mannheim said.
It is good to know, now that the bell strikes noon.
In this day's sun, the hedges are Episcopalian
As noon is marked by the twelve iron beats.
The rector moves ruminantly among the gravestones,
And the sound of a dead Europe hangs in the streets.
poem by Weldon Kees
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Old Soldier
WE wander now who marched before,
Hawking our bran from door to door,
While other men from the mill take their flour:
So it is to be an Old Soldier.
Old, bare and sore, we look on the hound
Turning upon the stiff frozen ground,
Nosing the mould, with the night around:
So it is to be an Old Soldier.
And we who once rang out like a bell,
Have nothing now to show or to sell;
Old bones to carry, old stories to tell:
So it is to be an Old Soldier.
poem by Padraic Colum
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The Bellman
He rang it in the marketplace,
He rang it in the street,
Old Silas was the Bellman
In the village of Purfleet,
He'd rung the bell for sixty years,
He'd rung the bell for war,
He'd rung it for the harvest
But would ring the bell no more!
The Mayor and all his councillors
Had met within the Hall,
Discussed the ponderous questions
That would bear upon them all,
Their gowns were trimmed with ermine
And the mayor, he wore his chain,
The solemn Majesty of State
Was heard in their refrain!
‘We must dismiss the Bellman, '
Said the hoary Abel Creep,
‘He rings it at the strangest times,
I just can't get to sleep! '
‘Agreed, ' said Horace Fumblewit,
It's more than time enough,
I thought that he'd be dead by this…'
‘Hear hear! ' said Toby Gruff.
They called him to the chamber
And delivered him the score,
Old Silas staggered back in shock,
They'd rocked him to the core!
He raised the bell above his head
And gave a mighty ‘Clang! '
Then jumped up on their table
Where they sat, their ears rang!
‘I've been the Bellman sixty years,
My father taught me then,
His father went before him, rang
The bell for Inkerman;
But way, way back before that time
My forebears had a stake,
They warned of the Armada,
Rang the bell for Francis Drake! '
He stomped along their table
In his coarse old hob-nailed boots,
He silenced their authority
To rule in mean disputes,
For every time a councillor
Would seek to raise his voice,
The bell would drown his utterance,
It gave them little choice!
‘There's been a Bellman in this burgh
Right back, before King John,
You think you petty underlings
Can rule once I am gone?
Your ancestors lie buried in
The gravel by the Church,
While mine live on in history…
I'll knock you off your perch!
He raised the bell and made it peal,
It rocked the ancient hall,
The walls shook with vibrations
‘Til the roof began to fall,
The beams came crashing down in a
Scenario from Hell,
‘Your time is not forever, ' cried
The man who rang the bell!
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Today I Give Pain Its Freedom
i will be a little lax today
setting pain carefully and letting them go
giving them wings to fly away from me
and telling them not to come back
for a while, giving them a break
i open the entrance at the front door
with some streamers and flowers
some bees and dragonflies and butterflies
on the stairs of the house
beside the door and the windows
welcome happiness, welcome home!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Saw The Light
I laid a red rose
On your front porch
Wrote I love you
On a note
I rang the door bell
And turned to go
Baby when the curtains moved
I couldnt believe the view
(chorus)
I saw the light in your window tonight
I saw two shadows holding each other tight
I know the truth when I look in your eyes
I saw the light in your window tonight
So take your cheatin? hands
Off my red dress
cause I aint wearin?
This thing for you
I see you clearly now
And your lies too
They say that love is blind
Baby not this time
(repeat chorus)
Why baby why, should I listen to you?
I cried, baby, cried, now Im walking out the door
They say that love is blind, baby, not this time
(repeat chorus)
song performed by by Wynonna Judd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0200 Dementia
Now what did I come upstairs for?
Of course I haven’t forgotten your name,
young lady, it’s just that I can’t remember it
Why am I going upstairs?
I only just got up
No dear, you’re wrong,
I always pay on account
Where’s my bed?
Isn’t this upstairs?
Take the paper back
to the newsagent, someone’s
already done the crossword
Of course I’m undressed,
I just came upstairs
Of course you can sign my name dear,
they know me at the post office
Why is it so dark downstairs,
I’ve only just got up
Why should I give you money for the gas,
Young man? I don’t even know you
I’m sure there are more stairs
than there used to be
Stop being so insulting, young man,
it’s only money
No of course I don’t need help with the stairs,
I know my own house
No dear, you sign for it, I’m sure
your boss will understand
Somebody changed the stairs
when I was out, they
aren’t the same
Why are people so rude about
money these days?
Ask my father to speak
to that young man
The stairs are steeper than they were,
somebody’s changed them
Who are you, I didn’t
ask you to come in…
Of course it’s my house,
it’s just that you changed the stairs
Tell the bank manager to
come and see me in the morning.
Why does that man upstairs
move the stairs at night?
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Coffee
Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee
affords. I once read something about coffee. The thing said that coffee is good for you;
it stimulates all the organs.
I thought at first this was a strange way to put it, and not altogether pleasant, but
as time goes by I have found out that it makes sense in its own limited way. I'll tell you
what I mean.
Yesterday morning I went over to see a girl. I like her. Whatever we had going for us
is gone now. She does not care for me. I blew it and wish I hadn't.
I rang the door bell and waited on the stairs. I could hear her moving around upstairs.
The way she moved I could tell that she was getting up. I had awakened her.
Then she came down the stairs. I could feel her approach in my stomach. Every step she
took stirred my feelings and lead indirectly to her opening the door. She saw me and it
did not please her.
Once upon a time it pleased her very much, last week. I wonder where it went,
pretending to be naive.
"I feel strange now," she said. "I don't want to talk."
"I want a cup of coffee," I said, because it was the last thing in the world
that I wanted. I said it in such a way that it sounded as if I were reading her a telegram
from somebody else, a person who really wanted a cup of coffee, who cared about nothing
else.
"All right," she said.
I followed her up the stairs. It was ridiculous. She had just put some clothes on. They
had not quite adjusted themselves to her body. I could tell you about her ass. We went
into the kitchen.
She took a jar of instant coffee off the shelf and put it on the table. She placed a
cup next to it, and a spoon. I looked at them. She put a pan full of water on the stove
and turned the gas on under it.
All this time she did not say a word. Her clothes adjusted themselves to her body. I
won't. She left the kitchen.
Then she went down the stairs and outside to see if she had any mail. I didn't remember
seeing any. She came back up the stairs and went into another room. She closed the door
after her. I looked at the pan full of water on the stove.
I knew that it would take a year before the water started to boil. It was now October
and there was too much water in the pan. That was the problem. I threw half of the water
into the sink.
The water would boil faster now. It would take only six months. The house was quiet.
I looked out the back porch. There were sacks of garbage there. I stared at the garbage
and tried to figure out what she had been eating lately by studying the containers and
peelings and stuff. I couldn't tell a thing.
It was now March. The water started to boil. I was pleased by this.
I looked at the table. There was the jar of instant coffee, the empty cup and the spoon
all laid out like a funeral service. These are the things that you need to make a cup of
coffee.
When I left the house ten minutes later, the cup of coffee safely inside me like a
grave, I said, "Thank you for the cup of coffee."
"You're welcome," she said. Her voice came from behind a closed door. Her
voice sounded like another telegram. It was really time for me to leave.
I spent the rest of the day not making coffee. It was a comfort. And evening came, I
had dinner in a restaurant and went to a bar. I had some drinks and talked to some people.
We were bar people and said bar things. None of them remembered, and the bar closed. It
was two o'clock in the morning. I had to go outside. It was foggy and cold in San
Francisco. I wondered about the fog and felt very human and exposed.
I decided to go visit another girl. We had not been friends for over a year. Once we
were very close. I wondered what she was thinking about now.
I went to her house. She didn't have a door bell. That was a small victory. One must
keep track of all the small victories. I do, anyway.
She answered the door. She was holding a robe in front of her. She didn't believe that
she was seeing me. "What do you want?" she said, believing now that she was
seeing me. I walked right into the house.
She turned and closed the door in such a way that I could see her profile. She had not
bothered to wrap the robe completely around herself. She was just holding the robe in
front of herself.
I could see an unbroken line of body running from her head to her feet. It looked kind
of strange. Perhaps because it was so late at night.
"What do you want?" she said.
"I want a cup of coffee," I said. What a funny thing to say, to say again for
a cup of coffee was not what I really wanted.
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. She was not pleased to see me.
Let the AMA tell us that time heals. I looked at the unbroken line of her body.
"Why don't you have a cup of coffee with me?" I said. "I feel like
talking to you. We haven't talked for a long time."
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. I stared at the unbroken line of
her body. This was not good.
"It's too late," she said. "I have to get up in the morning. If you want
a cup of coffee, there's instant in the kitchen. I have to go to bed."
The kitchen light was on. I looked down the hall into the kitchen. I didn't feel like
going into the kitchen and having another cup of coffee by myself. I didn't feel like
going to anybody else's house and asking them for a cup of coffee.
I realized that the day had been committed to a very strange pilgrimage, and I had not
planned it that way. At least the jar of instant coffee was not on the table, beside an
empty white cup and a spoon.
They say in the spring a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love. Perhaps if he has
enough time left over, his fancy can even make room for a cup of coffee.
poem by Richard Brautigan from Revenge of the Lawn (1971)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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The Post War Dream
Tell me true tell me why was jesus crucified
Is it for this that daddy died?
Was it for you? was it me?
Did I watch too much t.v.?
Is that a hint of accusation in your eyes?
If it wasnt for the nips
Being so good at building ships
The yards would still be open on the clyde
And it cant be much fun for them
Beneath the rising sun
With all their kids committing suicide
What have we done maggie what have we done
What have we done to england
Should we shout should we scream
what happened to the post war dream?
Oh maggie maggie what have we done?
song performed by by Pink Floyd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fire In The Basement
(blackmore/glover/turner/lord/paice) 4.43
I came round to your front door, your back door was locked
Pushed your button, rang your bell, you didnt hear me knock
I saw your window open wide, so I crawled inside
I ran to the top floor, but you were on the ground
I was on my way up and you were going down
Fire in the basement
Burn me up, scream and shout
Theres fire in the basement
Only you can put it out
This strange sensation that Im going through
Sweet infatuation when I get next to you
I know what it takes to be a man, you understand
cause when the sparks start flying youll never be the same
You know Ill hate to leave you girl but Im so glad I came
Fire in the basement
Burn me up, scream and shout
Fire in the basement
Only you can put it out
Smoky eyes burning bright
Innocence lost, satisfy my appetite
Surrender to the flame, whats your name
Lets get down to business, how can you refuse
Give this boy a helping hand, come on light my fuse
song performed by by Deep Purple
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hostel
I rang the bell…
Impatient and dour
From the stride
In the drunken alleys
Deluged by the moon
Searching for a place,
A stale room
Inept and incomparable
To the grandest places
Stashed in the foliage
Of sunken pockets
Of gnarled hallways
A place
Where I am found
Welcomed
Nursed
Injected with fire
Bloated and ballooned
To take flight
Because, after all
The fray will end
And there will not be
Another vacancy…
I rang the bell
And ran away,
Astray,
Breathing death
Back to solitude
Back to the alleys
Less the places
Where I found myself.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Did You Say You Make It On The Stairs?
did i really hear you right?
making love on the stairs
and then the boy
comes surprisingly
asking both of you
what are you both doing
on the stairs
both of you naked
while he pumps
on you
like one ever hungry
lover?
how shameful!
well, okay,
the boy is your son
and the man
is your husband
was the bed broken?
or the stairs
too exciting?
was the marriage
too boring?
well, ok,
i understand,
you split with him
could be the
staggering steps on the stairs
could be that the boy
finally understands
could be that the bed
is not that warm
you split for good
and uhuh?
so you are now free
at last
from those stairs
from the bed
and the boy has to make
the inevitable choice
between pa and ma
the stairs he will always remember
anyhow
yes, the boy not the pa
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ive Forgotten Everything
...i get along without you very well (hoagy carmichael. 1939)
Ive forgotten everything about you
til someone says your name
Ive forgotten all the reasons I loved you
til someone tells me that you rang
The memories are hazy now
I dont recall at all
Theres nothing, theres nothing there
Just me
And I dont understand why
I cant recollect my feelings
til someone mentions that they saw you
I really dont remember all the things you said
til someone shows me where you live
Why is everything so hazy now
I dont recall at all
Theres nothing, theres nothing there
Just me
And I dont understand why
I cant recall your smile
The touch of your hand holding mine
And I cant remember why
Holding you seemed so right
The memories theyre hazy now
I dont recall at all
Theres nothing, theres nothing there
Just me
And I dont understand why
Ive forgotten everything about you
til someone says your name
Ive forgotten all the reasons I loved you
til someone tells me that you rang
song performed by by Phil Collins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Couple Upstairs
Shoes instead of slippers down the stairs,
She ran out with her clothes
And the front door banged and I saw her
Walking crookedly, like naked, to a car.
She was not always with him up there,
And yet they seemed inviolate, like us,
Our loves in sympathy. Her going
Thrills and frightens us. We come awake
And talk excitedly about ourselves, like guests.
poem by Henry Money
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Let em In
Someones knockin at the door
Somebodys ringin the bell
Someones knockin at the door
Somebodys ringin the bell
Do me a favor,
Open the door and let em in
Sister suzie, brother john,
Martin luther, phil and don,
Brother michael, auntie gin,
Open the door and let em in.
Someones knockin at the door
Somebodys ringin the bell
Someones knockin at the door
Somebodys ringin the bell
Do me a favor,
Open the door and let em in.
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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03. Maggie And Milly And Molly And May
maggie was the girl
interested in tom
but it was milly
who eventually got married to
maggie's sweetheart
molly is the girl interested in john
but it was may who eventualy
tie the knots with john
six years down the road
milly and may found themselves
at the crossroads of their marriage
wallowing in pity of their husbands
in a cafe with maggie and molly
the latter's children
calling milly and may aunties
uncles in somebody's arms
maggie and molly couldnt
believe their ears
all the tears in milly's and may's eyes
could have been theirs
that their once sweethearts
could turn so lousy and dull
both said they would talk them out
friend pinkly cleverly asked
whether they are glad
they were not married to
tom and john
to which maggie and molly
laughed and said 'no'
in their hearts were these words:
'serve the two bitches right'.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Drunken Wedding
Ring the bell, ring the bell
Don’t forget your diamond ring
Cover the bride, tight the groom
It is spring times calling
Hey, just ring the bell please!
If only love can make you drunk
Then drunk with wine and kisses
No wedding without a bit late of madness
You can sing badly in front your guest
You can dance hot in front your family
And nobody care because they busy with the meal
Hold your hand for the night
Enjoy the flower and perfume
Don’t let your smile freeze
And change my honey lips
Let’s done and over it
Cheers!
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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