Confession, alas, is the new handshake.
quote by Richard Rosen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I got a good handshake. A lot of executives tell me I have the best handshake in Hollywood.
quote by Marlee Matlin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Confession
Listen up
This is confession
This machine motion is sure to break my heart
Listen up
This is confession
Recorded music sticks in the throat of god.
I o u, you dont own me
I o u, you dont own me
Party time, one mor night, everybodys affected
Listen up
This is confession
You are a poison that flows into my veins.
Listen up
This is confession
Ive never been so scared of letting you down.
You know me, so come closer
You know me, so come closer
Party time, one more town, everybodys affected.
I know you, you dont need me
I know you, you dont need me
Party time, one more girl, everybodys affected
Listen up
This is confession
They tell me heaven just has to be somewhere
Listen up
This is confession
Id lie to God if I could make him believe.
You owe me, and I need you
You owe me, and I need you
Party time, one more game, everybodys affected
This is my confession
This is my confession
Party time, one more lie, everybodys affected
song performed by by Gary Numan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Teacher, A Pen, and A Handshake
A teacher, a pen, a handshake.
Three deaths in one day
And each a death-toll in my heart.
I cannot even pray
My soul is so overwrought.
How much light can the darkness take?
Does eternity truly hold us apart?
A teacher, a pen, a handshake.
Three bodies in one grave.
Oh, you wretched world, mourn deep!
For one who freely gave
Of truth and love and soulful ink.
I fear my soul and heart shall break!
For death has taken them into it’s keep.
A teacher, a pen, a handshake.
Three stars fallen in space
Which once burned bright as the tears
Burning on my face.
How solemn strike the chords of death
Such a mournful tune they make –
And the Weaver of Worlds on a bier!
poem by Sophia White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Know There Are Other Kinds Of Poetry
I know there are other kinds of Poetry-
I know for many a confession cannot be a poem-
But for me my confession is my poem
And my writing what I most intensely think and feel
And need to say-
It may not be Poetry for you
And it may not speak to you at all,
I don't want you to waste your time
With what is meaningless for you-
But if the poetry of Confession
And mine in particular
Can be poetry for you,
Thank you for giving my lines
Some time and attention.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Like Father Like Son
He was raised in the english way
His daddy taught him respect, he taught him how to pray
They sent him off to boarding school
Where he learned how to live by someone elses rule
And he went to confession
He went to confession
Holy father wash my sins away
He went to confession
He went to confession
Mother mary take the pain away
He read letters from home at night in his bed
And got this uneasy feeling when his father said
Fear of God and the feel of the rod
Will raise a good boy
The fear of God and the feel of the rod
Will raise a good boy
He bought his daddys car and he learned to drive
And when he left school he got a nine to five
He met the girl and he got his spouse
And they had the child and they got the house
And he went to confession
He went to confession
Holy father wash my sins away
He went to confession
He went to confession
Mother mary take the pain away
He loved his son and he helped him build walls and fronts
He knew hed heard it before
Someone had said it once
Fear of God and the feel of the rod
Will raise a good boy
The fear of God and the feel of the rod
Will raise a good boy
He raised his son in the english way
And he taught him respect, he taught him how to pray
He sent him off to boarding school
Where he learned how to live by someone elses rules
And he went to confession
He went to confession
Holy father wash my sins away
He went to confession
He went to confession
Mother mary take the pain away
It must be something much deeper than fear or pain
Another child learns a pattern he wont break the chain
Fear of God and the feel of the rod
Will raise a good boy
The fear of God and the feel of the rod
Will raise a good boy
The fear of God and the feel of the rod
Will raise the next boy
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Do It
make your confession alone
before yourself
'in front of a mirror
you man weak
with the will, and the act,
do it
make your confession alone
before yourself
without the priest
put the candle
and beside mirror
even rather small
clean your conscience
more lightly
for you will be
to die...
every your thought
direct
to God
not to people
and stop
already deluding yourself
don't search
at other
consciences
one's you put away
where? I don't know
try to find
make your confession alone
before yourself
in front of a mirror
poem by Maria Barbara Korynt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Confess
It is true.
I confess.
I have been spoiled.
And My Father,
The Almighty...
Knows this confession best.
When I feel I have a need,
And I please My Father...
With deeds I attempt,
And some not successfully...
My Father decides,
To then surprise.
It is true.
I confess.
I have been spoiled.
And My Father,
The Almighty...
Knows this confession best.
When I pray each day,
And express my gratefulness...
I don't take for granted,
Those blessings from My Father...
I know from Him I get.
When I find I struggle,
And I am wet with sweat...
I am comforted by My Father,
Who then allows...
My peace and rest.
It is true.
I confess.
I have been spoiled.
And My Father,
The Almighty...
Knows this confession best.
Before Him I place no 'thing' I value more.
Before My Father,
I profess a love for him that is adored.
My loyalty and devotion,
Is given without thought.
And My Father and I...
Tackle those obstacles,
He assists me to abort.
It is true.
I confess.
I have been spoiled.
And My Father,
The Almighty...
Knows this confession best.
And nothing do I have do I take for granted.
I know from 'WHOM' my gifts have come.
I know from 'WHOM' has 'allowed' this to be done!
It is true.
I confess.
I have been spoiled.
And My Father,
The Almighty...
Knows this confession best.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Confession of errors is like a broom which sweeps away the dirt and leaves the surface brighter and clearer. I feel stronger for confession.
quote by Mohandas Gandhi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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True confessions
In my youth I was often told
That confession is good,
good for the soul.
In a darkened wooden booth
I was expected to tell the truth.
First a good act of contrition,
Confession and then absolution
Penance would be meted out
Thus expiation came about.
Nowadays that’s thought
Old fashioned.
My local barkeep
hears my confession.
Of course he grants no absolution,
He pours Absinthe
and shows compassion.
And I may or may not
Tell the truth
While contemplating
The Absolute.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Handshakes
The joining of hands compels one to be a bridge
That is built in a day;
These germs are your germs
Inhabiting the monster’s skin.
But lying is an old habit,
To trust is to better understand fellow-men.
I join and handshake whenever needed,
Buzzing my mouth with applause
And compliment.
One bridge is enough for the shoulders to bear,
A monstrous bridge is a catastrophe
For you lack understanding of the bridges.
A simple handshake does dirt to the actions
Whilst their friendship is doomed.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Handshake Drugs
I was chewin' gum for something to do
The blinds were being pulled down on the dew
Inside, out of love, what a laugh
I was looking for you
Saxophones started blowing me down
I was buried in sound
Taxicabs were driving me around
To the handshake drugs I bought downtown
To the handshake drugs I bought downtown
They were translated poorly, I felt like a clown
I looked like someone I used to know
I felt alright
And if I ever was myself
I wasn't that night
Oh it's okay for you to say
What you want from me
I believe that's the only
Way for me to be, exactly
What you want me to be
Oh it's okay for you to say
What you want from me
I believe that's the only
Way for me to be
Exactly what you want me to be
Oh I was chewin' gum for something to do
The blinds were being pulled down on the dew
Inside, out of love, what a laugh
I was looking for you
Saxophones started blowin' me down
I was buried in sound
The taxicabs were driving me around
To the handshake drugs I bought downtown
To the handshake drugs I bought downtown
Oh it's okay for you to say
What you want from me
I believe that's the only
Way for me to be
Exactly what do you want me to be?
Exactly what do you want me to be?
Felt like a clown
They were translating poorly
I looked like someone
I used to know
And if I ever was myself,
I wasn't that night
Exactly what do you want me to be?
Exactly what do you want me to be?
song performed by by Wilco
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Confession??? -Yun Dong-Ju
파란 녹이 낀 구리 거울 속에
내 얼굴이 남아 있는 것은
어느 왕조(王朝) 의 유물(遺物) 이기에
이다지도 욕될까.
O what shame it is
to see my face still intact
in this rusted-green bronze mirror
What dynasty's heritage this is,
I wonder!
나는 나의 참회(懺悔) 의 글을 한 줄에 줄이자.
― 만 이십 사년(滿 二十 四年일 개월(一個月) 을
무슨 기쁨을 바라 살아 왔던가.
Let me sum up this record of my confession
-24 years and one month of my life
for what joy have I lived?
내일이나 모레나 그 어느 즐거운 날에
나는 또 한 줄의 참회록(懺悔錄) 을 써야 한다.
― 그때 그 젊은 나이에
왜 그런 부끄런 고백을 했던가.
Tomorrow or the day after one of these days
I might have to write another line of confession...
Why did I have to write such a shameful confession
at that young age?
밤이면 밤마다 나의 거울을
손바닥으로 발바닥으로 닦아 보자.
Let me wipe the mirror night after night
with my palm and sole.
그러면 어느 운석(隕石) 밑으로 홀로 걸어가는
슬픈 사람의 뒷모양이
거울 속에 나타나온다.
Then I see a lone sad figure
walking alone under a meteorite
in this mirror
< 시집, ‘하늘과 바람과 별과 시' (1948) >
poem by Sangnam Nam
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Ay Me, Ay Me, I Sigh the Scythe A-field
Ay me, ay me, I sigh to see the scythe a-field;
Down goeth the grass, soon wrought to wither'd hay:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that beauty needs must yield,
And princes pass, as grass doth fade away.
Ay me, ay me, that life can not have lasting leave,
Nor gold take hold of everlasting joy:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that time hath talents to receive,
And yet no time can make a suer stay.
Ay me, ay me, that wit can not have wished choice,
Nor wish can win that will desires to see:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that mirth can promise no rejoice,
Nor study tell what afterward shall be.
Ay me, ay me, that no sure staff is given to age,
Nor age can give sure wit that youth will take:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that no counsel wise and sage
Will shun the show that all doth mar and make.
Ay me, ay me, come, Time, shear on and shake thy hay,
It is no boot to balk thy bitter blows:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, come, Time, take everything away,
For all is thine, be it good or bad, that grows.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Think For Things
greed you think of things
alas things degenerate
greed you think less of others
alas you tinker with things
greed you think less with sense
alas you kill your neighbour
gree you abhor with your thoughts
alas you make cultures perish
greed you are embodiment of evil
alas unsatiable are are your wants
poem by Venkatesh Ram
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Corn Grinders
O little mouse, why dost thou cry
While merry stars laugh in the sky?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah, who will ease my bitter pain?
He went to seek a millet-grain
In the rich farmer's granary shed;
They caught him in a baited snare,
And slew my lover unaware:
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
O little deer, why dost thou moan,
Hid in thy forest-bower alone?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah! who will quiet my lament?
At fall of eventide he went
To drink beside the river-head;
A waiting hunter threw his dart,
And struck my lover through the heart.
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
O little bride, why dost thou weep
With all the happy world asleep?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah, who will stay these hungry tears,
Or still the want of famished years,
And crown with love my marriage-bed?
My soul burns with the quenchless fire
That lit my lover's funeral pyre:
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
poem by Sarojini Naidu
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There is no refuge from confession but suicide; and suicide is confession.
quote by Daniel Webster
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Friend's Song for Simoisius
The breath of dew, and twilight's grace,
Be on the lonely battle-place;
And to so young, so kind a face,
The long, protecting grasses cling!
(Alas, alas,
The one inexorable thing!)
In rocky hollows cool and deep,
The bees our boyhood hunted sleep;
The early moon from Ida's steep
Comes to the empty wrestling-ring.
(Alas, alas,
The one inexorable thing!)
Upon the widowed wind recede
No echoes of the shepherd's reed,
And children without laughter lead
The war-horse to the watering.
(Alas, alas,
The one inexorable thing!)
Thou stranger Ajax Telamon!
What to the loveliest hast thou done,
That ne'er with him a maid may run
Across the marigolds in spring?
(Alas, alas,
The one inexorable thing!)
With footstep separate and slow
The father and the mother go,
Not now upon an urn they know
To mingle tears for comforting.
(Alas, alas,
The one inexorable thing!)
The world to me has nothing dear
Beyond the namesake river here:
O Simois is wild and clear!
And to his brink my heart I bring;
(Alas, alas,
The one inexorable thing!)
My heart no more, if that might be
Would stay his waters from the sea,
To cover Troy, to cover me,
To save us from the perishing.
(Alas, alas,
The one inexorable thing!)
poem by Louise Imogen Guiney
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Wetness
Keeping it a thought you detest...
Is a kept confession,
You love wetness.
You're no different than the rest.
Those who undress quick,
For sex and wetness.
Denying heat wont make it go away.
Saying something different,
Is in conflict with your mission.
Keeping it a thought you detest...
Is a kept confession,
You love wetness.
You're no different than the rest.
Those who undress quick,
For sex and wetness.
Lie about it!
Try to hide those naked wishes in your mind.
Deny and fight it.
But you know fresh meat is what you want to find.
To bump and grind as you're sighing.
Keeping it a thought you detest...
Is a kept confession,
You love wetness.
You're no different than the rest.
Those who undress quick,
For sex and wetness.
You despair for nakedness and wetness.
You want it there,
Some sex and wetness.
Keeping you uptight at night,
And restless.
Ooooohhhyeah...
Keeping it a thought you detest...
Is a kept confession,
You love wetness.
You're no different than the rest.
Those who undress quick,
For sex and wetness.
mmmmm...
That sex and wetness.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Walking Into You
Tonight
the nectar will be spread
to tame a random tormentor.
Black and white,
I never saw my father weeping.
Lonely he was.
I am
my own creation today
weather beaten. Confession to -
confession, unread. When the-
storm was tethered,
there was flooding and neck deep-
you were in tears. Am cannibalizing
my own poems, to write a new line.
It was a midnight moon.
poem by Satish Verma
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My Poems Are My Confession
MY POEMS ARE MY CONFESSION
My poems are my confession
No one else need read -
And yet without their readers
What can my poems mean?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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