En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Crisis

Be-wigged and gowned, the Speaker frowned,
And his frown was ill to see.
'Oddsfish!' he spake, 'Do I mistake?
Stands 'And' where 'Or' should be?
Be such the case, this land's disgrace
Shall shame our House no more.
Gadzooks, and by my halidame!
Call members hence, so our fair name
Be purged and shriven of ill-fame
And 'And' give place to 'Or'!'

From divers nooks, with guilty looks,
The mumbling members came;
With wimpering wails they gnawed their nails
And slunk in snivelling shame;
From party rooms, as from dank tombs,
From crypt and corridor.
The Speaker boomed, with beetling brow:
Yours was the sin! And, here and now,
I bid ye kneel and make the vow
To change yon 'And' to 'Or'!'

They bore the Mace from its resting place
In the dungeon 'neath the stairs;
Silk-breeched, but game, the Speaker came
And set the carven chairs.
Then the great Black Rod, at the Speaker's nod,
Waved o'er them as they swore
By this and that, by book and bell,
That one and all, what e'er befell
Would take the vow, and keep it well;
To change the 'And' to 'Or'.

Now in his place, with chastened face,
The Premier rose and spoke.
They harked to him in silence grim
While tears they strove to choke.
With trembling hand he seized that 'And'
And cast it thro' the door.
And now, amid subdued applause,
The brave upholder of our laws,
Square in it's place withn the clause
Enthroned the rightful 'Or'.

Sighs of relief replaced their grief
As members breathed short prayers.
They bore the Mace to its resting place
In the dungeon 'neath the stairs.
Honor to these, our bold M.P.'s!
All patriots to the core!
With bated breath the tale unfold
To your son's sons when you grow old.
Their fame uphold ... The cost, all told,
Was twelve pounds, eight and four!

And we poor hacks who yield the tax
Should we not be content
With these whose task was to unmask
That word malevolent?
Alas, who knows what weary woes
Might have best us sore
Had not that adamantine band
Upheld the honor of their land
By plucking out the craft 'And,'
And substituting 'Or?'

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mr Speaker Gets The Word

Wriggles from his captors arms
Mr speaker gets the word and
Running now from the alarms
Speaks his mind free as a bird
Free now to roam around
Stand up straight when he quotes
Spread the word that he has found
Books of verse and scribbled notes
Mister speaker gets the word
(to tell the secrets he has heard)
Speaks so fast his words are slurred
(mister speaker gets the word)
Stands up straight outside my door
I bring you now the words Ive learned
To whom it may concern senor
Tell my friends I have returned
Mister speaker gets the word
(to tell the secrets he has heard)
Speaks so fast his words are slurred
(mister speaker gets the word)
Excitement rages through his brain
Stirred and stirred throughout the years
Not enough time to explain
Eyes of many sighs of fear
Making space from colney hatch lane
Just some poetry my friend
Scuttles past my window frame
Vanishes right round the bend
Mister speaker gets the word
(to tell the secrets he has heard)
Speaks so fast his words are slurred
(mister speaker gets the word)

song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mr Speaker

Wriggles from his captors arms
Mr speaker gets the word and
Running now from the alarms
Speaks his mind free as a bird
Free now to roam around
Stand up straight when he quotes
Spread the word that he has found
Books of verse and scribbled notes
Mister speaker gets the word
(to tell the secrets he has heard)
Speaks so fast his words are slurred
(mister speaker gets the word)
Stands up straight outside my door
I bring you now the words Ive learned
To whom it may concern senor
Tell my friends I have returned
Mister speaker gets the word
(to tell the secrets he has heard)
Speaks so fast his words are slurred
(mister speaker gets the word)
Excitement rages through his brain
Stirred and stirred throughout the years
Not enough time to explain
Eyes of many sighs of fear
Making space from colney hatch lane
Just some poetry my friend
Scuttles past my window frame
Vanishes right round the bend
Mister speaker gets the word
(to tell the secrets he has heard)
Speaks so fast his words are slurred
(mister speaker gets the word)

song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paper Men To Air Hopes And Fears

The first speaker said
Fear fire. Fear furnaces
Incinerators, the city dump
The faint scratch of a match.

The second speaker said
Fear water. Fear drenching rain
Drizzle, oceans, puddles, a damp
Day and the flush toilet.

The third speaker said
Fear wind. And it needn't be
A hurricane. Drafts, open
Windows, electric fans.

The fourth speaker said
Fear knives. Fear any sharp
Thing, machine, shears
Scissors, lawnmowers.

The fifth speaker said
Hope. Hope for the best
A smooth folder in a steel file.

poem by Robert Francis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Speaker Newt Gingrich has appointed a task force, which I'm on, and over the next couple months the task force is going to try to come up with legislation that does what we're all trying to do. I feel pretty good about the members that are on the task force.

quote by Charlie Norwood
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Burial of Sarah

He stood before the sons of Heth,
And bowed his sorrowing head;
"I've come," he said, "to buy a place
Where I may lay my dead.

"I am a stranger in your land,
My home has lost its light;
Grant me a place where I may lay
My dead away from sight."

Then tenderly the sons of Heth
Gazed on the mourner's face,
And said, "Oh, Prince, amid our dead,
Choose thou her resting-place.

"The sepulchres of those we love,
We place at thy command;
Against the plea thy grief hath made
We close not heart nor hand."

The patriarch rose and bowed his head,
And said, "One place I crave;
'Tis at the end of Ephron's field,
And called Machpelah's cave.

"Entreat him that he sell to me
For her last sleep that cave;
I do not ask for her I loved
The freedom of a grave."

The son of Zohar answered him,
"Hearken, my lord, to me;
Before our sons, the field and cave
I freely give to thee."

"I will not take it as a gift,"
The grand old man then said;
"I pray thee let me buy the place
Where I may lay my dead."

And with the promise in his heart,
His seed should own that land,
He gave the shekels for the field
He took from Ephron's hand.

And saw afar the glorious day
His chosen seed should tread,
The soil where he in sorrow lay
His loved and cherished dead.

poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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One Little Comment

One little comment can really change your life;
It can make you feel good or cut you like a knife.
As a result, you may now want to try something new,
Or with an aspect of life, you may now be through.
You mull the comment over and take it to heart;
The speaker of the comment, unaware they’ve played a part.

The chances are that, of the comment, the speaker has forgotten,
But you are now left feeling really encouraged or really rotten.
Some comments are just throw-a-ways,
But they can easily make or break your day.
Some comments stick forever in your mind,
Whether they’re really hurtful or really kind.

Many years later, a comment you may still be able to quote;
It could be one which made you sink or one which made you float.
You will probably still be able to recall it word for word,
And even imitate the tone in which the comment was first heard.
As the result of a comment, you may feel better or worse,
And the speaker of the comment, you’ll either love or curse.

A comment can make you give up or give you the will to succeed;
Off one little comment, our further thoughts will often feed.
They can change the way that you see yourself,
And even have a good or bad effect on your health.
A bad comment can leave us feeling rather unsure,
Whereas a good comment, can leave us wanting more.

Just one comment, which may last only a few fleeting seconds,
May result in a whole new life, which suddenly now beckons.
You may leave your old life far behind,
Or a whole new life, you may now find.
So just take a moment and think before you speak;
Of the joy you may bring or the havoc you may wreak.

poem by Angela Wybrow
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Sonnet LVI: As to the Roman

As to the Roman that would free his land,
His error was his honor and renown
And more the fame of his mistaking hand
Than if he had the tyrant overthrown,
So, Delia, hath mine error made me known,
And deceiv'd attempt deserv'd more fame
Than if I had the victory mine own,
And thy hard heart had yielded up the same.
And so, likewise, renowned is thy blame,
Thy cruelty, thy glory; O strange case,
That errors should be grac'd that merit shame
And sin of frowns bring honor to thy face.
Yet happy, Delia, that thou wast unkind,
But happier yet, if thou wouldst change thy mind.

poem by Samuel Daniel
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I am committed to working with Speaker Hastert and the other members of the Illinois congressional delegation to do all that I can to ensure that Illinois' funding needs are adequately met.

quote by Bill Lipinski
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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18 Square Miles

The place is only eighteen square miles.
And is the home of over four thousand gang members.
Some segments of it,
Look as if negligence is tolerated.
And decadence celebrated.

The place is only eighteen square miles.
And sits in a state that use to brag about its affluence.
Clearly with ignorance to salivate.
As disrespect for others is shown...
And lack of discipline and illiteracy,
Considered top rate and obviously condoned.

The place is only eighteen square miles.
With hidden pockets of poverty.
Neighborhoods are divided,
Into sections like an apartheid.
With those who control this...
Absent of vision and intelligence free.

The place is only eighteen square miles.
With racism practiced as a way of life.
And those who inflict their bigotry,
See themselves in a self righteous light.

The place is only eighteen square miles.
And the affects of hunger and homelessness,
Is as protected as the theft that goes on.

The place is only eighteen square miles,
Of illogical standards valued.
Eighteen square miles,
Of blinded physical and mental abuse!

Reflecting a nation,
Unraveling from the inside.
And using those victimized as an excuse.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Confidential Canberra

Nay, Mr Speaker, let the ideal stay,
The picture that voters have in mind
Of Solons in debate far leagues away
Deep in the problems of poor humankind.
Here where the Cotter wends by verdant banks,
Let them imagine eloquence sublime
And for those blessings offer grateful thanks,
And vote for us again when comes the time.

Never the real! Ah, let no listening 'mike'
Whose ear ubiquitous within the house,
Gathers too truly what debates are like
When Ministers grow hot and members rouse,
When shouts across the floor fly back and forth
And loose tongues wag with little thought for care,
When words released in unconsidered wrath
Are flung regardless to the ambient air.

Think, Mr Speaker. All that Canberra means
All that it typifies is here at stake.
Must Cairns be privy to unlovely scenes,
The Leeuwin learn of all the bulls we make?
Must the unguarded phrase the tart retort
From Darwin down to Derwent and beyond
Borne on the trembling ether be a sport
Where'er loud speakers mockingly respond.

Why have we set these legislative halls
Midst sylvan scenes within the distant bush
If, broadcast, all the clamor but recalls
Forgotten pictures of a noisy push
That once in other cities held debate
Too publicly to let our words run free.
Condemn us not again to that sad fate.
Preserve our prestige! Spare our dignity.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Home, Sweet Home

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;
Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gayly, that come at my call --
Give me them -- and the peace of mind, dearer than all!
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!

I gaze on the moon as I tread the drear wild,
And feel that my mother now thinks of her child,
As she looks on that moon from our own cottage door
Thro' the woodbine, whose fragrance shall cheer me no more.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!

How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile,
And the caress of a mother to soothe and beguile!
Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam,
But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!

To thee I'll return, overburdened with care;
The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there;
No more from that cottage again will I roam;
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.
Home, home, sweet, sweet, home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!

poem by John Howard Payne
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Mr. Speaker, we are a blessed Nation. We have not suffered another attack on our soil since September 11, and we are grateful. We have killed or captured dozens of members of al Qaeda and the Taliban. Our military and intelligence forces are working both hard and smart.

quote by Marsha Blackburn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Only Regret

Look of beggars just frighten me
They have full right to stand anywhere they feel free
Not that they are deprived of some essentials
But not given anything to live honorably for survival

I blame no one but only regret
The right to livelihood is for all and be let
No religion teaches any one to be kept starved
Yet they are in pathetic condition and not saved

What do I feel when I find them in front of church?
Have I to enter holy place and make search?
If he was inside then whom did I see outside?
I keep mum with tears in eyes and merely confide

I hear long call from top of the loud speaker
It is worship call to ask blessing for all seekers
But what do I see and find on beggar’s face?
He is not for anything big but only small things in case

Basically I found no difference
It was pronounced different sentence
I was well gifted with something to pull
He was denied with favor and looked helpless and fool

I carried silently for plight and hunger
It was mixed with sympathy and anger
Why a person should beg instead of praying?
Stand before holy place for little saying

Nothing changes except few deaths
We console only after laying wreaths
Beggars do stand there and disappear
Yes unknown disgrace creates fear

I can be in same place tomorrow
What would I do to address it or follow?
I have no answer to address its roots
Pray for only grace to walk on foot

Ask mercy for not happening same with you
You will not have strong will to go through
Not same feeling may be shown towards
You only beg with on the name some words

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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A Tale of a Nose

Twas a hard case, that which happened in Lynn.
Haven't heard of it, eh ? Well then, to begin,
There's a Jew down there whom they call " Old Mose,"
Who travels about, and buys old clothes.

Now Mose — which the same is short for Moses —
Had one of the biggest kind of noses:
It had a sort of an instep in it,
And he fed it with snuff about once a minute.

One day he got in a bit of a row
With a German chap who had kissed his frau,
And, trying to punch him a la Mace,
Had his nose cut off close up to his face.

He picked it up from off the ground,
And quickly back in its place 'twas bound,
Keeping the bandage upon his face
Until it had fairly healed in place.

Alas for Mose! 'Twas a sad mistake
Which he in his haste that day did make;
For, to add still more to his bitter cup,
He found he had placed it wrong side up.

"There's no great loss without some gain;"
And Moses says, in a jocular vein,
He arranged it so for taking snuff,
As he never before could get enough.

One thing, by the way, he forgets to add,
Which makes the arrangement rather bad:
Although he can take his snuff with ease,
He has to stand on his head to sneeze!

poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Failure

THE BOY went out from the ranges grim,
And the breath of the mountains went with him;
With a song in his heart and a smile on his face,
And a light in his eyes for a foremost place:
And the good green earth, and the salt sea spray,
And the soft blue skies, they were his that day;
And, like Eden, ringed with a golden fire—
Afar rose the Land of His Heart’s Desire.
The boy went down to the city’s strife,
And his face was lost in the surge of life;
But a Power that he did not understand
Had nerved his brain and his fighting hand.
And he strove and failed, and he rose and won—
And he failed again ere the fight was done;
But he battled on when the days were dire
To win to the Land of His Heart’s Desire.

And there, in the heart of the stress and din,
’Mid want and labour and wealth and sin,
The strong man struggled with shining eyes,
And forced a passage, and grasped the prize.
And he cried to the Power who had lent the fire:
“Lo! Fame is the Land of My Heart’s Desire!
Give the cup to me with a beaded brim.”
And the Power that he knew not gave it him.

But the air is keen on the Cliffs of Fame,
And the shafts that fly have a deadly aim!
With a foothold scarce, and a sleepless dread
For the gulfs below and the heights o’erhead,
He cried to the Power who had steeled his hand:
“I am outcast yet from my Fairyland!
For Fame is a land where no strength may tire,
But Love is the Land of My Heart’s Desire!”

Then there came to the man all his dream of Love,
With the brow of snow and the eyes of a dove,
With the glint of the sun on her wavy hair,
And her soul as pure as her face was fair.
Like a living lily to him she came,
Till his eyes were wet and his soul was flame,
And she called to him, with an outstretched hand,
And they entered into the Promised Land.

But there came a day when he asked his soul,
“Is this the land, and is this the goal?”
In his heart there lay what his lips denied—
The pang of a hunger unsatisfied.
“For Fame,” he said, “and for Love I wrought;
They are not the things that I should have sought:
’Tis to boundless power that my dreams aspire—
And Wealth is the Land of My Heart’s Desire!”

Then the Power that he did not understand
Gave him ships and houses and gold and land,
And the man’s power grew with each passing year;
But his thoughts were vexed with a sleepless fear,
And his hair grew gray with the iron strain
Of the dread of loss and the lust of gain,
And he bowed his head on his hands and said.
“All things are mine, but my heart is dead!”

And he thought of the boy from the ranges grim
With the breath of the mountains over him,
With a song in his heart and a smile on his face,
And a light in his eyes for a foremost place,
And the good green earth and the salt sea spray,
And the soft blue skies that were his that day,
When, like Eden, ringed with a golden fire,
Afar rose the Land of His Heart’s Desire.

Then clear on his startled ear there fell
A voice like the sound of a silver bell:
“To each is the work that he best can do,
But you turned from the work when it called to you.
And you sought instead for the vulgar praise,
For the lips of love, and for prosperous days.
And with all that the world can give you here,
You have lost the thing that you hold most dear.
For who hears the word that the Gods inspire—
In his work finds the Land of His Heart’s Desire.”

poem by George Essex Evans
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The life or death question

You could guess from the crowd
converging on the Memorial Hall
and on a Saturday night, that
the speaker must be world-famed in his field,
making his first visit to the college.

A French scientist of renown –
cognitive theory or some such –
turned Buddhist monk these thirty, forty years,
he carried the blessing and the curse,
the burden of responsibility not only of his vocation
but his fame. The hall was packed.

Serene – ‘together’ has to be the word –
he spoke for an hour; enthusiastic applause;
then question time.

There’s always that tense silence before
the first question…how will
the hall respond tonight? Will it hold the level
of the speaker’s mind? …we knew all too well
those ‘first question’ students – the one
who had to wrap a compliment in
confectioner’s sugar, eliciting an inward groan –
as if the speaker were unaware of his own ability...
she’d marry rich, then live a life of patronising
complacency bestowing well-publicised charity…

or the one whose ‘clever’ question blatantly advertised
to whoever might be impressed, beyond herself,
that she was already on the speaker’s wavelength
before the lecture and before the rest of us…
she’d commit herself to a future academic life
of maintaining this self-superiority,
exhausting herself, losing friends and influencing few…

but no – tonight it was that wild and self-abusive student
who seldom attended any lecture except to challenge –
‘Can you give me one single reason
why I should go on living? ’..

You could have heard a cliché drop..
a pin; a paperclip; but loud, the universal thought –
how could the speaker know, this was the brilliant boy
of already three serious suicide attempts…
representative of the rite of passage greatly magnified,
sex, drugs, rocknroll, and whatever lay beyond…

‘No… I cannot…’

This was the boy we detested, despaired of, tried to befriend,
hated for his disruption, but almost feared,
feared for the wild openness of his mind…
the hall united in hushed, waiting silence…

‘… for you have given yourself the reason –
you have asked the question few of us
have dared to ask… and a question
sincerely asked, brings its answer with it…

‘..when you hear the answer that your question
holds in its heart, like some golden lotus,
you will have the answers to all questions,
and you will be a wiser, happier man than me…’

only Buddhists and their like can smile
with such detached serenity; with
a space that’s full of meaning. The hall
broke into the laughter of relief; great laughter;
the unqualified love of five hundred students
poured like a mighty river on that boy

who was still standing, wild-haired –
and I saw that he was laughing too
and through my mind flashed the thought,
the air is full of angels..

where had those angels who laughed
so lightly with us, where had those angels been,
before; and would go, after?
The boy, still laughing as he left.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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I want to be with you always

I want to be with you always
That is what my heart says…

I want to be with you always
All the nights and all the days

I want to be with you always
Like the two eyes on your face.

I want to be with you always….
Be it devil’s curse or God’s grace

I want to be with you always
For you, no one can replace.

I want to be with you always….
In the warmth of your embrace

I want to be with you always…
As without you, I’m just a trace.

I want to be with you always
Like Hanuman Ji and his mace!

I want to be with you always
Be it fame or disgrace.

I want to be with you always…
Like a frock’s embroidered lace

I want to be with you always....
For you, from my life I cannot erase.

I want to be with you always
Be it life’s race or gentle pace

I want to be with you always
You are my world’s every place.

I want to be with you always
In my life’s cards, you are the Ace.

I want to be with you always....
Wherever I am, you fill that space.

I want to be with you always

Death, are you listening?
If you take him, take me
And let me rest my case.

poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Social Illiterates

Why are the people angry?

'Comments made to them,
Were upsetting when expressed.'

But...
Were they true?
And from who?

'All of it was true.
And everyone listening knew it too.
Those who stayed after the booing died down.
And paid attention with a listening done.'

Then...
What is the problem?

'The speaker who spoke,
Came dressed to impress.
And no one expected,
Their delusions to become affected...
By such an effectiveness as to them addressed.'

So what did the speaker say?

'He kept calling them social illiterates.
And many of them began to leave,
Saying...
No one is going to tell them,
They are 'dumb' and do not know how to read.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Not On Record

'Nothing will go on record' speaker ruled
People watch on screen lives but are not fooled
They know it is sheer wastage of their money
It is unruly scene and created in temple of democracy

It is parliament that shapes county's future
All laws are passed after making it sure
That they form no bias and for the people
As country has gained freedom after great struggle

People's representatives act foolish and trade the charges
Break the furniture, snatch the mike and crowd in large
What a way to witness an unruly scene on large scale!
As if citizens are like fishes and to be swallowed by whale

Speaker finds it hard to control the disciplined representatives
More of them are from families known and relatives
Country has gained information that they have large assets outside
People die in remote parts and suffer poverty at country side

It is observed from the emerging facts that country is ruled by dynasty
Where members openly reflect their loyalty sans honesty
Parliament is reduced to lower level and country is put to shame
We need to share the sentiments as we are also equally to be blamed

We exercise franchise in selection and hand over the country
We all know what they do after reaching there to corner the money
We can do nothing as judiciary take circuitry path
Terrorists openly defy the law of land and enjoy blood bath

We can helplessly watch soldier's plight
No proper weapons are provided to fight
Look at the plight of farmer's who toil hard in sun
They suicide in despair and their fate is on run

I would love to mourn and bury the democracy
Prefer sometimes one hand rule and autocracy
But all wolves are same in white cloth
They disguise as our savior but as both

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sadness

Shine not on me, oh, moon! with the weak light
Of thy still beauty, mocking the turmoil
Of this tumultuous and jarring world,
With thy serenity, as if it were
Thy satellite, and thou didst deem it scorn
To let her passions move thee. I am sad—
And how may I have fellowship with thee,
Thou thing of perfect brightness? If the clouds
That sometimes pass athwart thy lovely brow
And shadow it as with a pensive thought,
Were round about thee now, with thy mild veil,
I would not turn from gazing;—but away,—
Thou art too brilliant for a tearful eye!
And mine is dim in sympathy and shame,
For the heart-broken, and the guilty ones,
Of my star-banner'd land.
The blessed breeze!
How most deliciously its coolness comes
With its soft stealing touch, to charm away
The slow, dull fever of my heavy brow;
And as I close beneath it, my wet lids,
To dry away their tears.—Yet is't not strange
How lightly it e'en bears its load of sighs!
Why, 't is from the soft south—the guilty south!
Where those who should lift up a free clear brow
To the pure light of Heaven, go bending down
The clouded forehead, ‘neath the heavy shame
Of painful fetters, to the very grave.
How, then, light thing of music, how canst thou
Come thus, all gladness, from the burial-place
Of the heart's best affections? Didst thou not
A moment check the fluttering of thy wings
To listen to the voice of woman's grief,
Lamenting for her lost ones? Hence with thee!—
Thou seem'st to me as thou wert made of sighs,
And the beseeching breath of woman's prayers,
Poured out to hearts that knew not how to feel!
Woe for man's selfishness! I will go in
And cover up my brow in the dull light,
As with a mourner's garment.

poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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