One Of The Redeemed
Saint Peter, standing at the Gate, beheld
A soul whose body Death had lately felled.
A pleasant soul as ever was, he seemed:
His step was joyous and his visage beamed.
'Good morning, Peter.' There was just a touch
Of foreign accent, but not overmuch.
The Saint bent gravely, like a stately tree,
And said: 'You have the advantage, sir, of me.'
'Renan of Paris,' said the immortal part
'A master of the literary art.
'I'm somewhat famous, too, I grieve to tell,
As controversialist and infidel.'
'That's of no consequence,' the Saint replied,
'Why, I myself my Master once denied.
'No one up here cares anything for that.
But is there nothing you were always at?
'It seems to me you were accused one day
Of _something_-what it was I can't just say.'
'Quite likely,' said the other; 'but I swear
My life was irreproachable and fair.'
Just then a soul appeared upon the wall,
Singing a hymn as loud as he could bawl.
About his head a golden halo gleamed,
As well befitted one of the redeemed.
A harp he bore and vigorously thumbed,
Strumming he sang, and, singing, ever strummed.
His countenance, suffused with holy pride,
Glowed like a pumpkin with a light inside.
'Ah! that's the chap,' said Peter, 'who declares:
'Renan's a rake and drunkard-smokes and swears.'
'Yes, that's the fellow-he's a preacher-came
From San Francisco. Mansfield was his name.'
'Do you believe him?' said Renan. 'Great Scott!
Believe? Believe the blackguard? Of course _not!
'Just walk right in and make yourself at home.
And if he pecks at you I'll cut his comb.
'He's only here because the Devil swore
He wouldn't have him, for the smile he wore.'
Resting his eyes one moment on that proof
Of saving grace, the Frenchman turned aloof,
And stepping down from cloud to cloud, said he:
'Thank you, monsieur,-I'll see if he'll have _me_.'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Related quotes
Mr. Sheets
The Devil stood before the gate
Of Heaven. He had a single mate:
Behind him, in his shadow, slunk
Clay Sheets in a perspiring funk.
'Saint Peter, see this season ticket,'
Said Satan; 'pray undo the wicket.'
The sleepy Saint threw slight regard
Upon the proffered bit of card,
Signed by some clerical dead-beats:
'Admit the bearer and Clay Sheets.'
Peter expanded all his eyes:
''Clay Sheets?'-well, I'll be damned!' he cries.
'Our couches are of golden cloud;
Nothing of earth is here allowed.
I'll let you in,' he added, shedding
On Nick a smile-'but not your bedding.'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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St. Peter At The Golden Gate
St. Peter at the Golden Gate
Explained, for me it’s much too late
That Heaven’s gate, without a doubt
Was built right there to keep me out
It’s common knowledge, I’m no Saint
But a real bad guy, I surely ain’t
Heaven knows, I’ve done some wrong
But it doesn’t mean I don’t belong
I know I’m not the most devout
But pray, St. Peter, don’t fence me out
I promise I won’t cause chagrin
To those in Heaven, all fenced in
I’ll run a casino for all to enjoy
I’ll run it as pure as an altar boy
And dear St. Peter, I give you this pledge
At Heaven’s casino, I’ll give you an edge
So you see, St. Peter, Heaven can’t wait
What’s needed in Heaven, is me, your soul mate
Do what you can to unlock the key
So together we’ll be, St. Peter and me…
poem by Stanley Cooper
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Two Husbands
Unpenitent, I grieve to state,
Two good men stood by heaven's gate,
Saint Peter coming to await.
The stopped the Keeper of the Keys,
Saying: "What suppliants are these,
Who wait me not on bended knees?
"To get my heavenly Okay
A man should have been used to pray,
Or suffered in some grievous way."
"Oh I have suffered," cried the first.
"Of wives I had the wicked worst,
Who made my life a plague accurst.
"Such martyrdom no tongue can tell;
In mercy's name it is not well
To doom me to another hell."
Saint Peter said: "I comprehend;
But tribulations have their end.
The gate is open, - go my friend."
Then said the second: "What of me?
More I deserve to pass than he,
For I've been wedded twice, you see."
Saint Peter looked at him a while,
And then he answered with a smile:
"Your application I will file.
"Yet twice in double yoke you've driven . . .
Though sinners with our Saints we leaven,
We don't take IMBECILES in heaven."
poem by Robert William Service
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Accepted
Charles Shortridge once to St. Peter came.
'Down!' cried the saint with his face aflame;
''Tis writ that every hardy liar
Shall dwell forever and ever in fire!'
'That's what I said the night that I died,'
The sinner, turning away, replied.
'What! _you_ said that?' cried the saint-'what! what!
_You_ said 'twas so writ? Then, faith, 'tis _not!_
I'm a devil at quoting, but I begin
To fail in my memory. Pray walk in.'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Saint Cloud
Soft spread the southern sumer night
Her veil of darksome blue;
Ten thousand stars combined to light
The terrace of Saint Cloud.
The evening breezes gently sigh'd,
Like breath of lover true,
Bewailing the deserted pride
And wreck of sweet Saint Cloud.
The drum's deep roll was heard afar,
The bugle wildly blew
Good-night to Hulan and Hussar
That garrison Saint Cloud.
The startled Naiads from the shade
With broken urns withdrew
And silenced was that proud cascade,
The glory of Saint Cloud.
We sate upon its steps of stone,
Nor could its silence rue
When waked, to music of our own,
The echoes of Saint Cloud.
Slow Seine might hear each lovely note
Fall light as summer dew
While through the moonless air they float
Prolong'd from fair Saint Cloud.
And sure a melody more sweet
His waters never knew,
Though music's self was wont to meet
With Princes at Saint Cloud.
Nor then, with more delighted ear,
The circle round her drew,
Than ours, when gather'd round to hear
Our songstress at Saint Cloud.
Few happy hours poor mortals pass-—
Then give those hours their due,
And rank among the foremost class
Our evenings at Saint Cloud.
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Charles And Peter
Ere Gabriel's note to silence died
All graves of men were gaping wide.
Then Charles A. Dana, of 'The Sun,'
Rose slowly from the deepest one.
'The dead in Christ rise first, 't is writ,'
Quoth he-'ick, bick, ban, doe,-I'm It!'
(His headstone, footstone, counted slow,
Were 'ick' and 'bick,' he 'ban' and 'doe':
Of beating Nick the subtle art
Was part of his immortal part.)
Then straight to Heaven he took his flight,
Arriving at the Gates of Light.
There Warden Peter, in the throes
Of sleep, lay roaring in the nose.
'Get up, you sluggard!' Dana cried
'I've an engagement there inside.'
The Saint arose and scratched his head.
'I recollect your face,' he said.
'(And, pardon me, 't is rather hard),
But--' Dana handed him a card.
'Ah, yes, I now remember-bless
My soul, how dull I am I-yes, yes,
'We've nothing better here than bliss.
Walk in. But I must tell you this:
'We've rest and comfort, though, and peace.'
'H'm-puddles,' Dana said, 'for geese.
'Have you in Heaven no Hell?' 'Why, no,'
Said Peter, 'nor, in truth, below.
''T is not included in our scheme-
'T is but a preacher's idle dream.'
The great man slowly moved away.
'I'll call,' he said, 'another day.
'On earth I played it, o'er and o'er,
And Heaven without it were a bore.'
'O, stuff!-come in. You'll make,' said Pete,
'A hell where'er you set your feet.'
1885.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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The Saint And The Monk
Saint Peter at the gate of Heaven displayed
The tools and terrors of his awful trade;
The key, the frown as pitiless as night,
That slays intending trespassers at sight,
And, at his side in easy reach, the curled
Interrogation points all ready to be hurled.
Straight up the shining cloudway (it so chanced
No others were about) a soul advanced
A fat, orbicular and jolly soul
With laughter-lines upon each rosy jowl-
A monk so prepossessing that the saint
Admired him, breathless, until weak and faint,
Forgot his frown and all his questions too,
Forgoing even the customary 'Who?'
Threw wide the gate and, with a friendly grin,
Said, ''Tis a very humble home, but pray walk in.'
The soul smiled pleasantly. 'Excuse me, please
Who's in there?' By insensible degrees
The impudence dispelled the saint's esteem,
As growing snores annihilate a dream.
The frown began to blacken on his brow,
His hand to reach for 'Whence?' and 'Why?' and 'How?'
'O, no offense, I hope,' the soul explained;
'I'm rather-well, particular. I've strained
A point in coming here at all; 'tis said
That Susan Anthony (I hear she's dead
At last) and all her followers are here.
As company, they'd be-confess it-rather queer.'
The saint replied, his rising anger past:
'What can I do?-the law is hard-and-fast,
Albeit unwritten and on earth unknown-
An oral order issued from the Throne.
By but one sin has Woman e'er incurred
God's wrath. To accuse Them Loud of that would be absurd.'
That friar sighed, but, calling up a smile,
Said, slowly turning on his heel the while:
'Farewell, my friend. Put up the chain and bar
I'm going, so please you, where the pretty women are.'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Judgment Day
Saint Peter stood, at Heaven's gate,
All souls claims to adjudicate
Saying to some souls, 'Enter in!'
'Go to Hell,' to others, 'you are steeped in sin.'
When up from earth, with a great hubbub,
Came all the members of the Tuscarora Club.
The angel Gabriel, peering out,
Said, 'What, the devil, is this noise about?'
'Gabe,' said Peter, 'There's always lots of noise,
At any get-together of the Tuscarora boys -
Those are anglers and they all tell lies
About the trout that got away, their fierceness and their size -
They want to enter Heaven, for our brooks are full of trout,
But I won't have any liars, and I'll keep the whole gang out;
No liars enter Heaven, and I'll most distinctly tell
The whole danged Tuscarora Club, it has to go to Hell.'
Then, at a little distance from the precious pearly gate,
The Tuscarora fellows paused to talk and cogitate;
One Barr said this, one Barr said that, McAlpin had his say,
But foxy Charley Roberts said, 'This is the only way -
'You'd best leave this to me,' he said. 'Just let me handle Pete
and in a trice we'll be inside upon the golden street;
I'll show him that he's one of us, because he used to be,
Himself, a brother fisher, in the Sea of Gallilee-
And I move you, Mr. President, we make the poor old dub
An honorary member of the Tuscarora Club.'
'Agreed! Agreed!' the members cried, but Manny Barr said, 'Wait!
Amend it thus 'PROVIDED - That he didn't fish with bait.''
Saint Peter saw them coming but his face was hard and stern,
He had formed his resolution from which he would not turn,
Not even Roberts' palaver would ever change him so
He'd send the Tuscarorans anywhere, but down below.
But now upon his countenance there came a look of pain,
He stepped from foot to foot, and then from foot to foot again:
He hailed a new-come resident, who near the portal stood,
A goodly Christian gentleman, whose name was Hubert Wood.
He said to him, 'Come here, my friend, and tend awhile this gate-
Just take my place for half an hour - I've got to urinate.'
With that Saint Peter hustled off. The gate-keeper pro tem
Observed the Tuscarorans and he waved his hand at them.
'Come in! come in!' he shouted, for he was an angler, too,
And he knew that anglers, as a whole, were earth's most harmless crew.
So all the Tuscarorans got to heaven, thanks to Wood,
And the Secretary's last report says, 'Fishing there is good.'
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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25 (Thyagaraja) Musicians Admired the Saint
Musicians around the country
Heard the growing popularity
Of the great Saint Thyagaraja,
O’er his devotion to Lord Rama.
They all came one by one,
To the Tiruvaiyar Town
Heard his music, in turn,
Gave him their appreciation.
Gopinatha Bhattacharya from Kasi,
A musician famous in Hindustani,
He came all the way to meet
And hear the songs of the Saint.
Pleased with his request,
A song came out
From the Saint then
A pleasant melodious one.
(He sang in Raga Thodi
Dasaradhi Nee Runamu Theerpa Naa
Tharama Parama Pavana Nama)
“Oh the great Dasaradha’s son,
How can I repay your loan?
Oh Master of my listeners,
For whom my music shines.”
“To me, you only taught,
Both day and night,
All the songs, more divine,
For the pleasure of my fans.”
Thus, it was his humbleness,
That brought him greatness.
Besides the melody part
Of each song that came out.
A Saint who loved music,
Who lived always for music,
Whose very breath was music
Gave an eternal life to his music.
poem by Rajaram Ramachandran
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Bats In Sunshine
Well, Mr. Kemble, you are called, I think,
A great divine, and I'm a great profane.
You as a Congregationalist blink
Some certain truths that I esteem a gain,
And dropp them in the coffers of my brain,
Pleased with the pretty music of their chink.
Perhaps your spiritual wealth is such
A golden truth or two don't count for much.
You say that you've no patience with such stuff
As by Renan is writ, and when you read
(Why _do_ you read?) have hardly strength enough
To hold your hand from flinging the vile screed
Into the fire. That were a wasteful deed
Which you'd repent in sackcloth extra rough;
For books cost money, and I'm told you care
To lay up treasures Here as well as There.
I fear, good, pious soul, that you mistake
Your thrift for toleration. Never mind:
Renan in any case would hardly break
His great, strong, charitable heart to find
The bats and owls of your myopic kind
Pained by the light that his ideas make.
'Tis Truth's best purpose to shine in at holes
Where cower the Kembles, to confound their souls!
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Heaven
Everynight I go to sleep, youre there baby inside my head
Whats the secret that you keep
Its not fair baby, I toss in bed
One night I had the strangest dream
Dreamt I made love to you
You better believe it, it felt so real
Spent the night in the sea of love
Its crazy the attraction that I feel, now baby
It hit like a heart attack, I feel in my soul
But the trains running off the track and I cant get control
Sleepwalking in the house of love
I heard saint peter was calling
As I was making love to you
Dreamed that Id died and gone to heaven
I woke up in your arms
Dreamed that I died and gone to heaven
Nothing now will ever be the same
Saint peter call me back again
Take me there baby, you got me good
I want to hear his choir of angels sing
I say a prayer baby, I knock on wood
That every night I wake up restless from the heat
You got to believe I never had such a physical dream baby
Its built on sacred ground, your image in my head
So I lay my body down on the alter of my bed
I wait in the house of love and hope for sleep to come calling
So Ill be making love to you
Dreamed that Id died and gone to heaven
I woke up in your arms
Dreamed that I died and gone to heaven
Nothing now will ever be the same
Dreamed Id died and gone to heaven
Dreamed my life was through
Dreamed Id died and gone to heaven, woke in love with you
It hit like a heart attack, it came from out of nowhere
But the trains running off the track on a fragile wing and a prayer
Sleepwalking in the house of love I heard saint peter was calling
As I was making love to you
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ballad Of Peter Pumpkinhead
Peter pumpkinhead came to town
Spreading wisdom and cash around
Fed the starving and housed the poor
Showed the vatican what golds for
But he made too many enemies
Of the people who would keep us on our knees
Hooray for peter pumpkin
Wholl pray for peter pumpkinhead?
Oh my!
Peter pumpkinhead pulled them all
Emptied churches and shopping malls
Where he spoke, it would raise the roof
Peter pumpkinhead told the truth
But he made too many enemies...
Peter pumpkinhead put to shame
Governments who would slur his name
Plots and sex scandals failed outright
Peter merely said
Any kind of love is alright
But he made too many enemies...
Peter pumpkinhead was too good
Had him nailed to a chunk of wood
He died grinning on live tv
Hanging there he looked a lot like you
And an awful lot like me!
But he made too many enemies...
Hooray for peter pumpkin
Wholl pray for peter pumpkin
Hooray for peter pumpkinhead
Oh my oh my oh!
Doesnt it make you want to cry oh?
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Soul Singing
Written by: r. robinson & c. robinson
Ive been down
Cascading and blue w/out a sound
Now Ive traded my black feathers for a crown
So feed me milk & honey
Lay me down
Lay me down
Look around
Show me holy places not yet found
Lets disappear and well hide underground
Well get high and well feel safe & sound
It comes around arayayayound
Chorus:
You got my soul singing my soul singing
You got my soul singing my soul singing
You got my soul singing my soul singing
You got my soul singing my soul singing
Home bound
Tired of tired of running town to town
Tired of my heart turned upside down
Now my lifes a smile not a frown
The sound
The sound
Chorus
song performed by by Black Crowes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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En Paris Ces't Ma Maison
En Paris Ces't Ma Maison
The Paris Skylight
Shines upon your rose room in the early morning.
Portraits of the sea
portraits of Monet and Renoir...serene
boating scenes
You saunter to your full-length mirror
you comb your soft silky hair.
Joy is in your heart...You have found
Paradise.
Your morning walk begins
You pass the Luxemborg Gardens
Le Belle fleur de jardin
A smile glistens off your face
The Arc De Trimphe...The symbol of Liberties de France
The beauty continues
with the Champs Elysees
and the Concorde
In Paris you have found your heart
your love
your home
Peter LeBuhn
Copyright ©2005 Peter B. Lebuhn
poem by Peter LeBuhn
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The Master of Death
I am falling head over heals in love with
The Master of Death
He’s the one that makes you look over your shoulder… twice
Sends chills down your spine
And forces your fairy tail dreams into nightmares
That would make the devil cry and shiver in terror
My body urns for his touch but
His hands set fire to everyone’s flesh
My moist rosy red lips hunger for the taste of his,
But know he has the kiss of death
With his morbid pen within his right hand
The letters on the paper run in fear
And laugh at the pain of the other writers
For he is the best and
The letters know the other writers are reading
The Master of Death’s
They are reading Saint Cynosure’s
Greatest way to get inside your head
I am falling for The Master of Death
So let it be
But to me he is not so scary
That you all can’t see
poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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Christmas At The Pearly Gates
Three men die on Christmas day
And then arrive at the pearly gates
St Peter starts to turn them away
Since his records say they’re reprobates
But since it was Christmas …well
He might let them in
If they had any symbol
of Christmas with them
The first had an ornament in his pocket
St Peter ushered him in
The second had pine needles on his shirt
St Peter bade him within
The third gentleman with a look of chagrin
Pulled out a pair of panties of green and red
“How do these represent Christmas? ”
Astounded, St Peter said
“Well Pete, I know you are familiar
With beautiful, Christmas carols
And these skimpies might seem to you
Simply as risqué apparel.”
“Well…These are Carol’s, ”
the man said with a grin
Saint Peter rolled his eyes…
And then let him in
poem by David Whalen
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One And One Are Two
The trumpet sounded and the dead
Came forth from earth and ocean,
And Pickering arose and sped
Aloft with wobbling motion.
'What makes him fly lop-sided?' cried
A soul of the elected.
'One ear was wax,' a rogue replied,
'And isn't resurrected.'
Below him on the pitted plain,
By his abandoned hollow,
His hair and teeth tried all in vain
The rest of him to follow.
Saint Peter, seeing him ascend,
Came forward to the wicket,
And said: 'My mutilated friend,
I'll thank you for your ticket.'
'The _Call_,' said Pickering, his hand
To reach the latch extended.
Said Peter, affable and bland:
'The free-list is suspended
'What claim have you that's valid here?'
That ancient vilifier
Reflected; then, with look austere,
Replied: 'I am a liar.'
Said Peter: 'That is simple, neat
And candid Anglo-Saxon,
But-well, come in, and take a seat
Up there by Colonel Jackson.'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Unarmed
Saint Peter sat at the jasper gate,
When Stephen M. White arrived in state.
'Admit me.' 'With pleasure,' Peter said,
Pleased to observe that the man was dead;
'That's what I'm here for. Kindly show
Your ticket, my lord, and in you go.'
White stared in blank surprise. Said he
'I _run_ this place-just turn that key.'
'Yes?' said the Saint; and Stephen heard
With pain the inflection of that word.
But, mastering his emotion, he
Remarked: 'My friend, you're too d-- free;
'I'm Stephen M., by thunder, White!'
And, 'Yes?' the guardian said, with quite
The self-same irritating stress
Distinguishing his former yes.
And still demurely as a mouse
He twirled the key to that Upper House.
Then Stephen, seeing his bluster vain
Admittance to those halls to gain,
Said, neighborly: 'Pray tell me. Pete,
Does any one contest my seat?'
The Saint replied: 'Nay, nay, not so;
But you voted always wrong below:
'Whate'er the question, clear and high
You're voice rang: '_I_,' '_I_,' ever '_I_.''
Now indignation fired the heart
Of that insulted immortal part.
'Die, wretch!' he cried, with blanching lip,
And made a motion to his hip,
With purpose murderous and hearty,
To draw the Democratic party!
He felt his fingers vainly slide
Upon his unappareled hide
(The dead arise from their 'silent tents'
But not their late habiliments)
Then wailed-the briefest of his speeches:
'I've left it in my other breeches!'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Prayer to St. Francis
'The eyes of the saint make all beauty holy and the hands of the saint consecrate everything they touch.' Thomas Merton
Look at me, O Saint,
sagging skin,
thinning hair, face
lined with roads
too far traveled.
Can you see
in me God's
beauty?
Then touch me!
O take into
your holy palms
my living heart.
Fill me with desire!
Make of me
a holy psalm,
consecrated host,
eternal fire.
poem by Steven Federle
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Ghoul Care
Sour fiend, go home and tell the Pit
For once you met your master, -
A man who carried in his soul
Three charms against disaster,
The Devil and disaster.
Away, away, and tell the tale
And start your whelps a-whining,
Say 'In the greenwood of his soul
A lizard's eye was shining,
A little eye kept shining.'
Away, away, and salve your sores,
And set your hags a-groaning,
Say 'In the greenwood of his soul
A drowsy bee was droning,
A dreamy bee was droning.'
Prodigious Bat! Go start the walls
Of Hell with horror ringing.
Say 'In the greenwood of his soul
There was a goldfinch singing,
A pretty goldfinch singing.'
And then come back, come, if you please,
A fiercer ghoul and ghaster,
With all the glooms and smuts of Hell
Behind you, I'm you master!
You know I'm still your master.
poem by Ralph Hodgson
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