When I write stories I am like someone who is in her own country, walking along streets that she has known since she was a child, between walls and trees that are hers.
quote by Natalia Ginzburg
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Everywhere We Go
They took Your commandments off the schoolhouse walls
They say it's a crime to even pray within the halls
But bless the child that lets You in and knows without a doubt
Once You live inside a heart, they can't take You out
We are soldiers of the cross
We've been found to reach the lost
In cityy streets, down country roads
We take You with us everyday, and everywhere we go
Here's to those across the land, working in a place
Where the boss man and the government say they can't share their faith
They know all too well they'll lose their job if they get caught
But to win a soul for Jesus, they will risk it all because
We are soldiers of the cross
We've been found to reach the lost
In cityy streets, down country roads
We take You with us everyday, and everywhere we go
In the God of all creation, we put our faith and trust
And give our lives to You 'cause You gave Your life for us
We are soldiers of the cross
We've been found to reach the lost
In cityy streets, down country roads
We take You with us everyday, and everywhere we go
Everywhere we go
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Some Stories
some stories
about ourselves
are also the stories of
themselves
and then we write
these stories and
pretend that these are
but some short stories
from our mind
now in different names
and places
we read them and then
we wish that some of
these short stories
are not true at all
sometimes for those
we want to be
we want to believe
them to be true
wishes and hopes and
regrets, what if? what if i
chose that rather than this?
we poets write about pain
and joys and we tell sometimes
that we only fake them
deep inside we are silent
we prefer just to be left alone
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Saturday Night Streets
Saturday Night Streets
Cars driving back and forth
People of different colors walking down the streets
laughing
talking
drinking
enj oying the night
The streets are talking to me
These streets have stories
different cars, different colors
I Love these streets
I love the night
I love Saturdays
l think I'm in love with these streets
I'm in love with Saturday night streets
Mon, Tues, Wed, Thurs, Fri, Sun belongs to workers and the sun
Saturday belongs to the night, people and these streets
Saturday Night Streets
poem by Rebecca Succes
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A Song Before Victorious Enemy
Some flowers here are mine
Write these on the trees
Some dreams here are mine
Write these on the walls
Some songs here are mine
Write these on the swords
Some people here are mine
Write them also on the gallows.
(1985, Translated by Dr. Amjad Parvez)
poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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It Is Me
He sat in his own world
writing down the stories
that came to his mind.
He never watched time,
for him there
was no time.
He wrote stories of love,
of mystery and suspense.
He wrote of everything
that popped into his head.
He was not a lonely person
as his characters kept him company.
He wrote things
for every writing sphere,
but there was one thing
he could not write
which may come as a surprise
to everyone.
He could not write a letter
no matter how hard he tried.
His mind went completely blank
whenever he tried.
Yet he could write
just about everything else.
He could write songs,
he could write stories at will.
He could write poems
on everything,
but writing a letter
was something he could not do.
Now all who read this
might take it as a joke,
but it is very true
every word I have spoke,
and how would I know that.
The answer is simple it is me.
19 April 2008
poem by David Harris
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These Walls
If these walls could talk,
I wonder what what would they say
Would they thank me for being painted
Or will they ask me, to wash the paint away.
Would they tell me of the pictures
That once hung upon them their
Pictures that once adorn those walls
Or I wonder would they even care.
Would they speak upon the stories
That was heard within these walls
That no one else even knows about,
That is if the stories these walls could recall.
Was there children laughter all about
Or any secrets heard and being told
I wonder what have they listened to
And I wonder if anyone will ever know.
These walls inside this house
That for years have stood alone
With the stories that was told and heard
While this house had became a home.
The Sadness that they might had seen
And the worries and sorrow that they felt
Maybe they don't want to remember it at all
And maybe they too keep it bottled upon their self.
Were they painted to cover up secrets
Was they battered as to protect someone's lies
Or were they wallpapered to cover up the truth
And did they hear the whispers and the cries.
These walls they are still standing
Through the years of the days and nights
While listening and knowing all done and said
In the darkness and also in the light.
I look at these walls just one last time
As I head home from my walk,
How I wish I knew what they heard and know,
But that is, if these walls could only talk.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Country Road
Take to the highway wont you lend me your name
Your way and my way seem to be one and the same
Mamma dont understand it
She wants to know where Ive been
Id have to be some kind of natural born fool
To want to pass that way again
But I could feel it
On a country road
Sail on home to jesus wont you good girls and boys
Im all in pieces, you can have your own choice
But I can hear a heavenly band full of angels
And theyre coming to set me free
I dont know nothing bout the why or when
But I can tell that its bound to be
Because I could feel it, child, yeah
On a country road
I guess my feet know where they want me to go
Walking on a country road
Take to the highway wont you lend me your name
Your way and my way seem to be one and the same, child
Mamma dont understand it
She wants to know where Ive been
Id have to be some kind of natural born fool
To want to pass that way again
But I could feel it
On a country road
Walk on down, walk on down, walk on down
Walk on down, walk on down a country road
Country road
Walking on a country road
song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Swallowed In The Sea
You cut me down a tree and brought it back to me
and thats what made me see where I was going wrong
You put me on a shelf and kept me for yourself
I can only blame myself, you can only blame me
and I could write a song a hundred miles long
Well thats where I belong and you belong with me
and I could write it down or spread it all around
Get lost and then get found or swallowed in the sea
You put me on a line and hung me out to dry
Darling thats when I decided to go to see you
You cut me down to size and opened up my eyes
Made me realize what I could not see
and I could write a book, the one they'll say that shook the world
and then it took, it took it back from me
and I could write it down and spread it all around
Get lost and then get found and you'll come back to me
Not swallowed in the sea
Oohhhhh Ahhhhhh
and I could write a song a hundred miles long
Well thats where I belong and you belong with me
The streets youre walking on, a thousand houses long
Well thats where I belong and you belong with me
Oh what good is it to live with nothing left to give
Forget but not forgive, not loving all you see
Oh the streets youre walking on a thousand houses long
Well thats where I belong and you belong with me
Not swallowed in the sea
You belong with me, not swallowed in the sea
Yeah you belong with me
Not swallowed in the sea.
song performed by by Coldplay
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Country Road
Take to the highway wont you lend me your name
Your way and my way seem to be one in the same
Momma dont understand it
She wants to know where I been
Id have to be some kind of natural born fool
To want to pass that way again
But you know I could feel it
On a country road
Sail on home to jesus wont you good girls and boys
Im all in pieces, you can have your own choice
I could seen a heavenly band full of angels
And theyre a comin to set me free
Dont know much about the wild wind
But I can tell that its bound to because I could feel it
On a country road
Guess my feet know where the want me to go
Walking on a country road
Walk on down, walk on down, walk on down
Walk on down, walk on down a country road yeah
La la la la la la la
Country road
Yeah walking on a country road
Country road
Yeah
Walking on a country road
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Street Child
Who will care for me when i am born into this world?
For day and night i've been walking on the streets;
And i have to struggle to survive for i am a street child.
No, not even one!
For many parents do not even know their children;
And i was born into a lovely home but now,
I do live on the street as a street child.
Lust and sex,
We were born out of it;
But how many parents still know that we do exist?
How many?
They really do not care abour us,
And i have to struggle to survive on my own;
How many days more left for me?
And i have to make ends meet from the streets;
Because there is nobody around to help me,
And i have no place called home again.
A street child that i am,
And of the many rivers to cross for my survival;
How many social workers do know of our plights?
How many?
How many streets do we have to sleep on?
How many? Hopw many governmenets do we have to wait for?
How many?
Yet still i am a street child.
Who really care about us?
And who really care about me?
My parents do not even know my where about;
Right from Kwazulu Natal Province to Tingitingi,
And from Obbia to Nima!
How many do care?
I am born into this world but,
I am living on the street;
And who will care about me?
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Old Child
Child. Old child,
No longer wild;
No longer speaking,
No longer beguiled;
I have become
A quiet old child.
Child. Old child,
No longer cold;
Never an old man,
Always too old;
I have become
An old child tenfold.
Child. Old child,
Forever a child;
Always rethinking,
Always exiled.
I should become
A happy old child.
Child. Old child.
Always soft-spoken;
No longer breaking,
Still being broken;
I have become
An old child, unspoken.
Child. Old child,
No longer bold;
By thinking, rethinking
Of stories untold,
All through my childhood,
I've become... old.
poem by Mihai Cosmescu
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In the Midnight Hour
When we meet
in the midnight hour
country girl
I will bring you night flowers
coloured like your eyes
in the moonlight
in the midnight
hour
I remember
Your cold hand
held for a moment among strangers
held for a moment among dripping trees
in the midnight hour
I remember
Your eyes coloured like the autumn landscape
walking down muddy lanes
watching sheep eating yellow roses
walking in city squares in winter rain
kissing in darkened hallways
walking in empty suburban streets
saying goodnight in deserted alleyways
in the midnight hour
Andy Williams singing `We'll keep a Welcome in the
Hillsides' for us
When I meet you at the station
The Beatles singing `We Can Work it Out' with James
Ensor at the harmonium
Rita Hayworth in a nightclub singing `Arcade Mia'
I will send you armadas
of love vast argosies of flowers
in the midnight hour
country girl
when we meet
in the moonlight
midnight
hour
country girl
I will bring you
yellow
white
eyes
bright
moon
light
mid
night
flowers
in the midnight hour.
poem by Adrian Henri
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Where The Streets Have No Name
I want to run
I want to hide
I want to tear down the walls
That hold me inside
I want to reach out
And touch the flame
Where the streets have no name
I want to feel sunlight on my face
See that dust cloud disappear without a trace
I want to take shelter from the poison rain
Where the streets have no name
Where the streets have no name
Where the streets have no name
We're still building
Then burning down love
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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By Those Interested In War History
By those interested in war history war history is read
But the winners write the war history or so it is said
That is how it is and will always be
What is true to one is not to another that's how it seems to me
Of war and war heroes many stories are written and many poems to recite
And mostly of war winners that war writers stories do write
And readers believe what they want to believe
And the mothers of the war dead for their dead children grieve
In war as in life 'tis the winners who count
And the stories of losers to little amount
For the dead war heroes many a parade
And far too many films of war have been made
And 'tis mostly the winners write the war history
That is how it is and always will be.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Sleepless At Night!
i feel the heat,
the hurt and the suffering.
sleepless at night,
i see faces, i hear voices.
the eyes of the stranger,
write stories in my soul...
my lips stay parched,
my spirit panting, erect.
the sound of the waves,
deafen, and terrify.
my religion lies in the bodies
walking without home...
redemption the bedpan,
the nurse loving takes away.
the old man sweeping the steps,
waiting on the child to return!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Wanted To Write The Most Beautiful Poem
I wanted to write the most beautiful poem
The one beyond any music I had known-
The one which would reveal the changes
in yellows and greens
spring sunlight whispered to the trees
I wanted to write the most beautiful poem
The one which would tell the stories of all those I have loved and cared for-
I wanted to write the most beautiful poem
As a poem of Kindness-
I wanted to write the most beautiful poem
Of sublime and overpowering distance
Of stars when stars were dreams -
I wanted to write the most beautiful poem-
But I knew many other poems already written
Would always be far more beautiful than mine-
So I tried to write the most beautiful poem I could-
But the light outside
The world and its colors
The beauties we see and hear everyday
Said to me again and again,
'Walk more humbly with your God and do Justice and love Mercy also'.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Those That Merely Wait And Unmoved
walking, just walking, sometimes just this
no thoughts, no decisions, just plain walking
you see the light of the day
striking on the trees and plains and the daffodils
you are not part of it, you are just walking it
you are met by the wind from the mountain
you are not talking you are not interested about
what this wind these trees these daffodils are bringing you
you do not show any interest at all about some leaves falling
the light spreads and sprawls on the grass and sand and pebbles
you are not dazzled you are not completely covered by light
you are just walking, stepping into God's own creation
spectator, just plain walking in, not involved, not commenting
just plain watching, those that crawl and sprawl, those that stay and leave
those that simply lay themselves as plain receptors, grass and sang
mountains and trees, and daffodils, those that merely wait and unmoved.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Walls
Walls of stone and walls of brick,
Some walls thin and some walls thick,
Walls so high and walls so low,
Walls to hide and walls to show.
Walls quite short and walls quite tall,
Some walls, last well, some walls fall,
Walls for comfort, walls of hate,
Walls for security, walls ornate.
Some as a barricade, some to support,
Walls of wood and walls of iron wrought,
Walls as a barrier, walls to enclose,
Some are to sit on, some to lean and doze.
Walls we build ourselves, these aren't good,
Walls for privacy, walls that have stood,
So many years through weather foul or fine,
Walls, that are yours, walls that are mine.
Brick by brick they are built to last,
Whether built now or in the past,
They shelter us from so many things,
And shield us from whatever this life brings.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Where The Streets Have No Name/cant Take My Eyes Off You
(hewson/evan/mullen/clayton/gaudio/crewe)
-----------------------------------------
(burning down love)
(burning down love)
I want to run, I want to hide
I want to break down the walls that hold me inside
I want to reach out, and touch the flame
Where the streets have no name
Ah-ha-ah
I want to feel the sun on my face
I see the dust cloud disappear without a trace
I want to take shelter from poison rain
Where the streets have no name
Ah-ha-ah
Where the streets have no name
Where the streets have no name
Were still building, then burning down love
Burning down love
And when I go there
I go there with you
Where the streets have no name
Cant take my eyes off of you
I love you, baby, and if its quite alright
I need you, baby, to warm a lonely night
So let me love you, baby
Let me love you
The citys aflood, our love turns to rust
Were beaten and blown by the wind, trampled in dust
Ill show you a place, high on a desert plain
Where the streets have no name
Ah-ha-ah
Where the streets have no name
Where the streets have no name
Were still building, then burning down love
Burning down love
And when I go there
Its all I can do
Where the streets have no name
I cant take my eyes off of you
(ooh aah)
Love you, baby, let me love you
Where the streets have no name
Where the streets have no name
Where the streets have no name
Where the streets have no name
song performed by by Pet Shop Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Will I write about heroic deeds?
Will I write about heroic deeds?
When the sun daily struggles through the clouds of mist,
will I look between kaki-weeds, beer bottles for meaning
if the reports of damage, of evil things
are incessant disguised in cloaks
where the country is full of gangsters,
people stand and pee on street corners against walls,
life is webbed like gossamer
where evil creatures sit and wait on a moment
to suddenly attack
and evil is breeding out everywhere?
Will I write about what I see and how ghastly
weeds are filling the country,
or will I just shut up, be silent about that which exterminates us?
[Reference: Sal ek? (Will I?) by Ian Raper.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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