His hands would plait the priest's guts, if he had no rope, to strangle kings.
quote by Denis Diderot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Hail! Master Death!
When conquerors lift the bloody shield,
Showing the fallen's ooze of life,
And on a waste of blasted field
Joy quickens to the drum and fife,
Then the weird brood of flame and fate,
Far under ground, are ill at ease,
And rock their bodies, as they wait,
When Death shall strangle even these.
The banquet board is red and white,
And laughter bubbles with the wine;
But what's the meed of this delight?
The pauper's children peak and pine!
Enough! our sisters laughing stir
The prescient worm, which scents and sees
The feast time shall not long defer --
For Death shall strangle even these.
Tumbled at last in earth and lost
To church bells, sycophant and priest,
The sodden hulks of those who crossed
The world with sorrow west and east.
True Holder of the scales and sword,
God of all Gods, whose stern decrees
Scatter the emperor's bloody hoard --
Great Death who stranglest even these!
So we shall not forever lie
In graves o'er run by cloven feet --
We, vanquished who were first to die;
We, hooted from the judgment seat.
Come armŽd hands and hands that clutch
The bauble world, fall to your knees --
Oh you who triumphed over-much --
For death shall strangle even these.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Life of a Roman Catholic Priest
A priest is nearest Christ;
A priest is Christ at times;
A priest is almost Christ;
A priest is most divine.
A priest is God’s shepherd;
A priest must tend to flock;
A priest must be like ‘rock’;
A priest should ne’er defrock.
A priest communes with God;
A priest draws hope from Lord;
A priest shows love of Christ;
A priest carries His Cross!
A priest is tempted too;
A priest has falls in life;
A priest falters also;
A priest has strength from Christ.
A priestly job is tough;
A priest’s life can turn rough;
A priest has strife enough,
But has to smile and laugh!
A priest helps harvest souls;
A priest has many roles;
A priest has but one goal –
To drink from Christ’s own bowl!
Pray that more priests should come;
May priests curb their freedom;
May priest usher Kingdom;
A life for Christ’s welcome.
Fondly dedicated to Rev. Fr. Xavier Claudius,
Beloved Parish priest, ‘Holy Family Church, Perundurai
Copyright by Dr John Celes 25-7-2010
poem by John Celes
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Bunnies
Crushed in the arms...
Crushed in the arms of a bear.
Crushed in the arms...
Crushed in the arms of a bear.
In my strain...
In my strain...
In my strain...
In my strain...
Now I could never fall in love.
And feeling such a thrill
Why don't you anger me, anger me, I will.
Oh... Why don't you anger me?
Anger me I will.
Oh Why dont you anger me?
(crushed in the arms)
Now I could never fall in love. (i strain)
And feeling such a person. (in my strain)
And feeling such a person
Anger me. You anger me.
Strangle me. You strangle me.
Strangle me... and I strain...
And I strain... (of a bear)
And I strain... (crushed in the arms)
And I strain... (of a bear)
And I strain... (crushed in the arms)
And I strain...
Why don't you just go...
Why don't you just go...
Why don't you just go...
Strangle me... Strangle me...
Oh I strain...
Strangle me... Strangle me...
Oh I strain...
Strangle me... Strangle me...
Why dont you just..
Strangle me... Strangle me...
(Bunnies is a constantely evolving ambient song molded from Howie's Line 6 pedal. Many different versions of this song exist including different sets of lyrics.)
song performed by by Howie Day
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There are slavish souls who carry their appreciation for favors done them so far that they strangle themselves with the rope of gratitude.
quote by Friedrich Nietzsche
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jumping Rope
We are jumping rope together
we are jumping rope together
unwinding naughty knots of tether
we are jumping rope together
We are jumping rope together
we are skipping beats together
pouting panting chasing chants
unraveling rigid wraps to sever
We are jumping rope together
we are jumping rope together
jointly jogging jagged breath
suddenly we
sneeze!
poem by Randy Resh
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Coward, strangle your fear, or else you will strangle yourself.
Illusion and ignorance
To mistake a rope for a snake
Or to mistake a snake for a rope
Is illusion in perception.
To take a rope for rope and
A snake for snake is knowledge.
To take a rope not for a rope
And a snake not for a snake
Is ignorance. We employ
All the three at variant times
At different degrees in life.
29.042010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Guernika
What a joy is my day what a joy
when Karl Waters sings
lambs of the crying out of dizziness
make an Ascent
and a slant woman flatten a rope on the Globe
what a joy is today at least just today
Karl Waters makes a lift from the corners
and at the madhouse some alms cookies
the crying pushes towards conjectural hands dizzy hands
Guernika! Someday a woman raised a rope
Guernika! Paper! The latest news
Guernika! Karl Waters escapes this on top of the hands
there is a rope over the Globe in black
and a woman comes back from Guernika
what a joy is my day what a joy
poem by Alireza Behnam
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The beauty of the mother
I may have guts to defy my mother.
I’ve guts to ignore and neglect her
But no guts could I muster to insult her.
That is the beauty of the mother.
01.11.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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I Dreamed.... (Hands)
i dreamed last night...
and all i could see were hands.
sometimes hard and calloused,
sometimes soft and feminine.
skilled hands, laborer's hands,
loving hands, nurturing hands....
fingers digging in the dirt,
fingers holding a pen.
fingers playing a piano,
fingers unbuttoning blouses.
hands extended, hands gripping the rope,
hands holding the shovel,
hands covered with resin.
hands folded in prayer,
hands balled into fists.
hands stuffed in empty pockets.
hands that define both history,
and destiny!
hands scarred and bruised,
hands covered with age spots.
hands that speak many languages.
hands that know mistakes, and failures.
hands that built fires,
hands that put fires out!
hands that wiped away tears,
that picked up trash,
and revealed souls....
whose hands?
my hands, your hands?
god's hands?
does it really matter?
hands engaged and involved,
in the very act of living!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Rope hair woman
Rope hair woman
Where you’re off to tonight
Rope hair woman
You’re lookin’ out of sight
O rope hair woman
I love with all my might
Rope hair woman if you could if you can
Let me be your dread lock man.
Dread lock man
Can you understand
That a rope hair woman
Does all that she can
To move you to that sexual point
Better then your hand
O rope hair woman
Here is my plain
Rope hair woman I will give
Up my womanly man
O rope hair woman
The world can understand
That you want a dread lock man.
poem by David E. Patton
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All The Kings Horses
All the kings horses and all the kings men
Couldnt put me back together again
My heart lies in pieces all over the ground
Whos gonna help me when youre not around
And I know inside me ,that nobody cares
Whatever happens to me
I live my life as a plea
All the kings horses and all the kings men
Couldnt put me back together again
I was in love when I sat on my wall
No one could hurt me , no one at all
And I know that somewhere my love walked away
She threw my love to the sky
Nothing to do but to cry
All the kings horses and all the kings men
Couldnt put me back together again
All the kings horses , all the kings horses
All the kings horses , all the kings horses
song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Live Beyond The Edge Of Hope
To live beyond the edge of hope
Is to dangle daily from a rope
In a perpetual dance with death itself
Beyond this world and all its wealth
There is a world of blue and green
But to the dark eye its all unseen
A world of orange, red and yellow too
But from the rope its beyond all view
For from the rope there's shades of grey
And sleepless nights and endless days
And every now and then some light
But just enough to confirm the night
There was a time I dangled from this rope
At the edge of hell and beyond all hope
I lived my life, just hanging there
Crushed and broken, suspended in the air
Then Jesus came and cut me down
He raised me up to wear a crown
A pauper raised to walk with kings
A voicless man but now who sings
Of all the glories of the Lord
Who came with Word and deed and sword
And conquered hell and death and sin
Restoring joy and hope within
Now all the world is bright to me
No matter what my eyes can see
No longer dangling from the rope
I walk with Jesus, I walk with hope
And above the clouds I know its true
The sun shines bright and the sky is blue
And when a shaft of light appears
It warms my heart and quells my fears
Now if your dangling from that rope
And this lie cries out, 'there is no hope'
Cry out to the one who can cut you down
He will raise you up and you will wear a crown!
poem by Frank McEleny
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I could see myself in a relationship with a girl; Olivia Wilde is so sexy she makes me want to strangle a mountain ox with my bare hands. She's mesmerizing.
Drumshanbo Hustle
I was talkin' to the judge
Just before we left the countryside,
Paper in his hand,
Tryin' to find a way.
Goin' by the book,
"man, you oughtta make a serial."
Ripped the pages out
'fore they pull the final curtain down.
I remember the day
Just like the drumshanbo hustle.
We couldn't hear no birds,
They were makin' not a sound.
They were tryin' to muscle in,
An easy way to bring the money in.
You were pukin' up your guts
When you read the contract had been signed.
Prostitution on the run,
'ceptin what it was last night.
Tryin' to drain you dry,
Couldn't get too much rope.
Tryin' to take 'em down
Just to see how far it all would go.
Wasn't goin' very far
And she didn't let it bring you down.
Just remember the day,
Just like the drumshanbo hustle.
I couldn't hear no birds,
They were makin' not a sound.
They were drivin' motionless
On the recording and the publishing.
You were pukin' up your guts
When you read the contract had been signed.
New york hooker style,
And the tarot and astronomy.
Tell you every star,
Didn't even get your sign.
Well they were lookin' for a scam,
A little paperback novel or a little magazine,
But you left it all behind
When you pulled the rug from underneath her feet.
Just rememberin' the day,
Drumshanbo hustle.
Well you couldn't hear no birds,
They were makin' not a sound.
They were tryin' to muscle in,
An easy way to bring the money in.
You were pukin' up your guts
When you read the actual contract had been signed.
You were pukin' up your guts
When you heard the contract had you signed.
You were pukin' up your guts
When you heard the contract, the contract, had you signed.
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When the Kings Went to War
When the kings went to war
Went to war
Went to war
When the kings went to war
I stayed home.
Now the kings have returned
Some have died
Most alive
Now the kings have returned
And I'm alone.
Who to tell
How to say
All that happened in the days
When the kings went to war
While I stayed home.
Oh the battles
Oh the hell
Not of war but worse
The well-kept secrets crying
To be known.
Knocks the door
Comes before
Nathan knows and he will tell
How the king failed to war
When he stayed home.
When the kings went to war
Went to war
Went to war
When the kings went to war
I stayed home.
Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf IX. -- Thangbrand The Priest
Short of stature, large of limb,
Burly face and russet beard,
All the women stared at him,
When in Iceland he appeared.
'Look!' they said,
With nodding head,
'There goes Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.'
All the prayers he knew by rote,
He could preach like Chrysostome,
From the Fathers he could quote,
He had even been at Rome,
A learned clerk,
A man of mark,
Was this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
He was quarrelsome and loud,
And impatient of control,
Boisterous in the market crowd,
Boisterous at the wassail-bowl,
Everywhere
Would drink and swear,
Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest
In his house this malcontent
Could the King no longer bear,
So to Iceland he was sent
To convert the heathen there,
And away
One summer day
Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
There in Iceland, o'er their books
Pored the people day and night,
But he did not like their looks,
Nor the songs they used to write.
'All this rhyme
Is waste of time!'
Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
To the alehouse, where he sat
Came the Scalds and Saga-men;
Is it to be wondered at,
That they quarrelled now and then,
When o'er his beer
Began to leer
Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest?
All the folk in Altafiord
Boasted of their island grand;
Saying in a single word,
'Iceland is the finest land
That the sun
Doth shine upon!'
Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
And he answered: 'What's the use
Of this bragging up and down,
When three women and one goose
Make a market in your town!'
Every Scald
Satires drawled
On poor Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
Something worse they did than that;
And what vexed him most of all
Was a figure in shovel hat,
Drawn in charcoal on the wall;
With words that go
Sprawling below,
'This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.'
Hardly knowing what he did,
Then he smote them might and main,
Thorvald Veile and Veterlid
Lay there in the alehouse slain.
'To-day we are gold,
To-morrow mould!'
Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
Much in fear of axe and rope,
Back to Norway sailed he then.
'O King Olaf! little hope
Is there of these Iceland men!'
Meekly said,
With bending head,
Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Without seeding
He desires her but no guts to get her.
She lures him but no guts to admit him.
Love blossoms and withers without seed setting.
31.05.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Crooked Conscience
I used to be able to surpress him
But I somehow lost control
It feels like I'm falling in my mind
And i just can't grab a hold
I'm reaching as I spiral down
To find a sign of hope
Suddenly I am tangled
In a fraying piece of rope
Begin to climb the rotted line
As it's crumbling in my hands
Don't think I'll make it back to myself
But I have to take the chance
I can hear his voice call out to me
He says to try would just be nonsense
His used to be the voice of reason
Now he's my crooked conscience
So crooked and out of control
I know he must be stopped
So I ignore his evil words
And keep climbing to the top
The rope's turning to dust in my hands
But I'm almost out of my head
The one thing I have to save myself
Is now a line of thread
Just inches now from my goal
My hands are burnt and blistered
There my conscience stands and smiles at me
Holding a shiny pair of scissors
poem by Joseph A. Solis
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Thangbrand the Priest
Short of stature, large of limb,
Burly face and russet beard,
All the women stared at him,
When in Iceland he appeared.
"Look!" they said,
With nodding head,
"There goes Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest."
All the prayers he knew by rote,
He could preach like Chrysostome,
From the Fathers he could quote,
He had even been at Rome.
A learned clerk,
A man of mark,
Was this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
He was quarrelsome and loud,
And impatient of control,
Boisterous in the market crowd,
Boisterous at the wassail-bowl,
Everywhere
Would drink and swear,
Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
In his house this malcontent
Could the King no longer bear,
So to Iceland he was sent
To convert the heathen there,
And away
One summer day
Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
There in Iceland, o'er their books
Pored the people day and night,
But he did not like their looks,
Nor the songs they used to write.
All this rhyme
Is waste of time! "
Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
To the alehouse, where he sat,
Came the Scalds and Saga men;
Is it to be wondered at,
That they quarrelled now and then,
When o'er his beer
Began to leer
Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest?
All the folk in Altafiord
Boasted of their island grand;
Saying in a single word,
"Iceland is the finest land
That the sun
Doth shine upon!"
Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
And he answered: "What's the use
Of this bragging up and down,
When three women and one goose
Make a market in your town! "
Every Scald
Satires scrawled
On poor Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
Something worse they did than that!
And what vexed him most of all
Was a figure in shovel hat,
Drawn in charcoal on the wall;
With words that go
Sprawling below,
"This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest."
Hardly knowing what he did,
Then he smote them might and main,
Thorvald Veile and Veterlid
Lay there in the alehouse slain.
"To-day we are gold,
To-morrow mould!"
Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest
Much in fear of axe and rope,
Back to Norway sailed he then.
"O, King Olaf! little hope
Is there of these Iceland men!"
Meekly said,
With bending head,
Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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