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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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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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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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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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Saint Stephen

Saint stephen with a rose, in and out of the garden he goes,
Country garden in the wind and the rain,
Wherever he goes the people all complain.
Stephen prospered in his time, well he may and he may decline.
Did it matter, does it now? stephen would answer if he only knew how.
Wishing well with a golden bell, bucket hanging clear to hell,
Hell halfway twixt now and then,
Stephen fill it up and lower down and lower down again.
Lady finger, dipped in moonlight, writing what for? across the morning sky.
Sunlight splatters, dawn with answer, darkness shrugs and bids the day good-bye.
Speeding arrow, sharp and narrow,
What a lot of fleeting matters you have spurned.
Several seasons with their treasons,
Wrap the babe in scarlet colors, call it your own.
Did he doubt or did he try? answers aplenty in the bye and bye,
Talk about your plenty, talk about your ills,
One man gathers what another man spills.
Saint stephen will remain, all hes lost he shall regain,
Seashore washed by the suds and foam,
Been here so long, hes got to calling it home.
Fortune comes a crawlin, calliope woman, spinnin that curious sense of your own.
Can you answer? yes I can. but what would be the answer to the answer man?

song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mesmeric

White tiger eyes, white tiger eyes,
So mesmeric in blue,
Are they to cut me down to size
So that I might fear you?
Or are they there to gain my trust
That friendship grows and grows?
If so, then why am I nonplussed,
Can't move my legs, feet, toes?

White tiger eyes, white tiger eyes,
If only you would blink!
I'd get a chance to realise!
I'd get a chance to think!
What lessons could you teach my soul?
What blessings for my heart?
Or would you quickly take control
And then tear me apart?

White tiger eyes, white tiger eyes,
What secrets lay behind?
What wonders lay in dark surprise
To captivate my mind?
Despite your gracious majesty,
You're getting on my wick!
First chance I get, I must break free,
Turn tail and scarper quick!

Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2011.

The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Mesmeric'.

More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com

poem by Denis Martindale
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Hallowe'en

high-up in the organ-loft
Saint Anonymous
where pillars of darkness
hide his smooth white face
weeps
for the unarrivals

the pilgrims
just off the beaten-track
in the chromium-plated
neon
of the wayside diners

who almost hear his call
from the juke-box in the corner
and shadows on the wall

poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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White Treasures

White tigers like their privacy,
It keeps their young cubs calm,
There's nothing like tranquillity
To ease off thoughts of harm...
Their blood flows at a gentle pace
In neighbourhoods serene
And pretty soon they like the place,
As if they've always been...

It's no surprise that parents feel
The need for some reprieve,
Some solitude, some time to heal,
Yes, even if it's brief...
Some call these golden moments yet
They're worth much more than that!
It's very hard to purr and fret,
It's true, ask any cat...

White tigers should be left alone,
To wind down, tails at rest,
To find a peace that's rarely known
Is how best to be blessed...
Don't say a word or point your hand,
Just crouch down and observe...
But if they chase us, quickly stand...
And run for all you're worth!

Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.

The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'White Treasures'
which is found on gayfordgallery-dot-com

More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com

poem by Denis Martindale
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St. Stephen

St. Stephen
-----------
Saint Stephen with a rose,
in and out of the garden he goes,
country garland in the wind and the rain,
wherever he goes the people all complain.
Stephen prospered in his time,
well he may and he may decline.
Did it matter, does it now?
Stephen would answer if he only knew how.
Wishing well with a golden bell,
bucket hanging clear to hell,
hell halfway twixt now and then,
Stephen fill it up and lower down and lower down again.
Lady finger, dipped in moonlight,
writing "What for?" across the morning sky.
Sunlight splatters, dawn with answer,
darkness shrugs and bids the day goodbye.
Speeding arrow, sharp and narrow,
what a lot of fleeting matters you have spurned,
several seasons with their treasons,
wrapped the babe in scarlet covers, call it your own.
Did he doubt or did he try?
Answers aplenty in the bye and bye,
talk about your plenty, talk about your ills,
one man gathers what another man spills.
Saint Stephen will remain, all he's lost he shall regain,
seashore walk by the suds and the foam,
been there so long, he's got to calling it home.
Fortune comes a calling, calliope woman,
spinning that curious sense of your own.
Can you answer, "Yes I can"?
but what would be the answer to the answer-man?
High green chilly winds and windy vines
in loops around the twisted shafts of lavender, they're crawling to the
sun.
Underfoot the ground is patched
with arms of ivy wrapped around the manzanita, stark and shiny in the
breeze.
Wonder who will water all the children of the garden
when they sigh about the barren lack of rain and droop so hungry neath
the sky.
William Tell has stretched his bow til it won't stretch
no furthermore and/or it may require a change that hasn't come before

song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sing A Song Of Stephen Foster's

Sing a song of Stephen Foster's a song from long ago
Sing 'Jeanie with the light brown hair' or even 'Old black Joe'
Or sing my 'Old Kentucky home' for that would please me so
Or 'old folks at home' or 'Oh Susanna' to the strains of the banjo.

I hate to hurt your feelings sir but to you I must say no
For I've never heard of this Foster and his songs I do not know
It's the first that I've heard tell of him, never heard of him before
Is he some old ballad monger dead one hundred years or more? .

So you've never heard of Stephen Foster then it only goes to show
That you are not a true folk singer when his songs you do not know
He was America's greatest song writer and his is an undying fame
And I find it hard to believe that you've not heard of his name.

So you can't sing a song of Stephen Foster's, then I'll go elsewhere for beer
For to hear one of his oft sung songs the reason I come here
The drinks are dearer here tonight just to cover your fee
And you can't even sing a Stephen Foster song for me.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Martyr Stephen Was By An Angry Mob Killed

Saul actively present when first Christian

martyr Stephen was by an angry mob killed;
assumed responsibility of guarding clothes
of all who zealously to death stoned Stephen.

For is it not written?
'At this they covered their ears
and, yelling at the top of their voices,

they all rushed at him, (Stephen)
dragged him out of the city and began
to stone him. Meanwhile, the witnesses

laid their clothes at the feet
of a young man named Saul.
While they were stoning him, Stephen

prayed, 'Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.'
Then he fell on his knees
and cried out, 'Lord, do not hold this sin

against them.' When he had said this,
he fell asleep. (To death Stephen
was by the mob executed.) Acts 7: 57-60.

Split imaging from the poem ‘Transformation Inquisition Saul Into Paul Of Tarsus'.

poem by Terence George Craddock
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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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St. Adrian

to St. Adrian I give thanks
the dead leader of dead Roman ranks
a silent prayer to the Roman man
that calm man like deadly white hands
his steadfast wife even locked her door
when she thought he was like her no more

so a prayer to Adrian, saint of knights
a St. only after the lion beasts rites
to him be a morsel of honor, be it true
not more flames or a blunt corkscrew
to Saint Adrian I give thanks
the dead leader of dead Roman ranks

enter the night of Adrianus Incarsaurus
the holy, now, of Rome...MARTYR US!
to Saint Adrian, the saint, the beast
oh cover us, Adrian, from Abaddon and the beast
to Saint Adrian I give thanks
the dead leader of dead Roman ranks

sing your hymn with the name on your lips
or simply, silently 'Adrian' in felt tips
to him be a morsel of honor, be it true
not more flames, or unjust undo
to the leader of dead Roman ranks
to St. Adrian I give thanks

poem by Michael Cook
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Rarity

Across the plains my Jeep went well,
Yet something slowed me down,
As if I were within a spell
So far away from town...
Binoculars were by my side,
I raised them to my eyes,
For I beheld a lion's pride
And then a great surprise...

White lions here? Yes, I felt blessed!
I got my camera out...
Who could have known? Who could have guessed?
And yet there was no doubt.
I snapped some pictures there and then,
Because I needed proof...
For who among the wisest men
Would trust me with the truth?

But then I paused... Should I pass on
These pictures to Mankind?
My heart said yes, before they're gone,
Their beauty left behind...
Now all the world can celebrate
White lion cubs born free,
To watch them grow and think they're great!
God bless such rarity...

Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2011.

The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Rarity'.

More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com

poem by Denis Martindale
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Silent Waters

The wise white tiger eased his way
Through the silent waters
And with such stealth he proved that day
Just how much he taught us...
For he was such a wily soul,
With cunning so sublime,
Content to maintain self-control,
Content to take his time...

The minimum of noise was made
As he swam dead ahead,
Yet then with gentle paws to wade,
As if a thoroughbred...
Determination drove him on
Towards his destiny...
Another life would soon be gone,
Who knows what it could be?

For now, there were no sudden thrills,
He drifted like a log...
The silence helped his hunting skills,
As if he were a dog...
Yet no dog stared with eyes like his,
Two sapphires burning bright...
Like two gas flames and each flame is
A symbol of his might!

Denis Martindale, copyright April 2011.

The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Silent Waters'.

More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com

poem by Denis Martindale
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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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The Sublime

The leopard left his sleep behind,
Arose and walked around
And with that walk his waking mind
Was glad at what he found...
The sun was shining in the sky,
A wondrous breeze drew near
And yet not once did he ask why
Such blessings should appear...

And yet this world is so sublime,
In every single part
And blessed are they that spend their time
In painting perfect art...
Think of all creatures... great and small...
That artists sit and paint,
Yet Stephen Gayford, he stands tall,
To some, he is a saint...

He captures insights when on tour,
He gets each detail done
And then he thrills us to the core
And shares his sense of fun...
From meerkats to the giant cats,
Fantastic dolphins, too!
He paints them like aristocrats...
Sublime... each time... for you...

Denis Martindale, copyright, August 2012.

The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'The Sublime'.

More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com

poem by Denis Martindale
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Forest Splendour

White tigers try to keep awake,
Yet keep on dozing off!
So ultra cool, for goodness sake,
They think that others scoff...
Look at him now, he's not that strong,
Sleep's beaten him again!
Plum tuckered out, he can't last long...
Bet he can't count to ten!

White tigers like to do their best...
They show off every day!
They're happy most when they've impressed
And not just thought okay!
The strain soon wears, fatigue comes back
And nobody's immune...
And all at once their muscles slack,
About late afternoon...

This white tiger's now flat out,
All restful, suddenly...
Wondering how that came about -
It's quite a mystery!
He's run around and feasted well...
He's warmed up by the sun...
I think he'll stay there for a spell...
Don't wake him, anyone!

Denis Martindale, copyright, November 2010.

The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Forest Splendour'.

More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com

poem by Denis Martindale
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Arctic Apparition

The white wolf waited wilfully
With what would pass for guile,
So long it seemed eternity
I looked at his profile...
Yet in my quest to photograph
This untamed creature there,
He hardly moved along the path
And seemed content to stare...

Until his prey was seen or heard,
He breathed in and breathed out,
As if a statue, never stirred,
To leave me full of doubt...
But finally, he heard a sound
And like a ghost he flew,
As up he sprang, one single bound,
The hunter through and through...

My camera clicked as he streaked by,
Like lightning left-to-right,
An apparition leaping high
And such an awesome sight...
I have his pictures to this day,
Still mounted on the wall...
'The white wolf hunting for his prey! '
What memories I recall...

Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.

The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Arctic Apparition'.

More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com

I found the picture on the Osborne-Allen website:

osborne-allen-dot-co-uk

Search for Stephen Gayford prints.

poem by Denis Martindale
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The Spirit Of A Sponge

I dreamed one night that Stephen Massett died,
And for admission up at Heaven applied.
'Who are you?' asked St. Peter. Massett said:
'Jeems Pipes, of Pipesville.' Peter bowed his head,
Opened the gates and said: 'I'm glad to know you,
And wish we'd something better, sir, to show you.'
'Don't mention it,' said Stephen, looking bland,
And was about to enter, hat in hand,
When from a cloud below such fumes arose
As tickled tenderly his conscious nose.
He paused, replaced his hat upon his head,
Turned back and to the saintly warden said,
O'er his already sprouting wings: 'I swear
I smell some broiling going on down there!'
So Massett's paunch, attracted by the smell,
Followed his nose and found a place in Hell.

poem by Ambrose Bierce
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We cannot both preach and administer financial matters.

quote by Saint Stephen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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