En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Border Town

An old caballero with his worn out sombrero
came riding into town.
The town had been banished. Everyone vanished.
It seems there was no one around.

The buildings were broken. No words were heard spoken.
Everyone now was all gone.
He'd once had a wife here and children with life here.
The banditos had come, killed and rode on.

He'd been away. He'd gone hunting that day
and returned to the grisly sight.
He'd buried his wife and his bambinos three
and rode away into the night.

He lived with the thought that he could have fought
if only he had been there.
The thought had ruined him and it consumed him
It was more than he could bear.

The shot from the gun was heard by no one.
He died right next to their grave.
He'd prayed to his God to forgive him
and that his soul He would save.
.

poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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i Thought I Heard A Man Cry Last Night

'I THOUGHT I HEARD A MAN CRY LAST NIGHT'

I thought I heard him weep
I thought I heard a man cry last night
He woke me from my sleep
I thought I heard a man cry last night
I heard his gentle sob,
I thought I heard a man cry last night
I wondered why he was so sad,
I thought I heard a man cry last night
Or was I going mad,
I thought I heard a man cry last night
I heard his cries subside
I thought I heard a man cry last night
Before I returned gently to my sleep,
I thought I heard a man cry last night
My Pillow doesnt tell me any lies, !

David Bennett.

poem by David Bennett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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~! ! ~! ! ~! ! ~! ! ~! My City

Night rode pillion* in city
Where neighbours meet;
Only in seminars
Night rode pillion in city
Where mortar of fear
Hold bricks together
Night rode pillion in city
Where only sex can be
Legally traded for hunger
Night rode pillion in city
Whose beaches have to answer?
For their wet look
Night rode pillion in city
Where green n white hangs in shame
Rest brazenly flutter
Night rode pillion
Holy are the whores and
righteous are hounded
Night rode pillion in city
Where pillion riding is banned
Night rode pillion in city
Where I mooched sex
From my wife dressed in outage
Night rode pillion in city
Which gulped my love
Without a burp
Night rode pillion in city
Where mothers are kept collateral
To buy some text msgs and gas:
So that night may clandestinely
Ride pillion

* On of the commonest of Karachi’s sight and sounds is a motorbike. It would invariably have a young rider with his friend pillion riding. Pillion riding is a source of entertainment for majority of youth who prowl the city street overnight on their two-wheeler be it a religious, cultural or national occasion or an electrical outage. It is a most usual vehicle for street crimes like drive by shooting, cell phone/car snatching etc. Wrote this during outage when some thousand miles away someone’s “ceiling swam in shadows black when seen through hollow moisture laden eyes.

poem by Frank Lisa IndiRa Francesca Roger Platt Cornish Ma
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My Wild Love

My wild love went ridin
She rode all the day
She wrote to the devil
And asked him to pay
The devil was wiser
Its time to repent
He asked her to give back
The money she spent
My wild love went ridin
She rode to the sea
She gathered together
Some shells for her head
She rode and she rode on
She rode for a while
Then stopped for an evenin
And lay her head down
She rode on to christmas
She rode to the farm
She rode to japan
And re-entered a town
By this time the weather
Had changed one degree
She asked for the people
To let her go free
My wild love is crazy
She screams like a bird
She moans like a cat
When she wants to be heard
My wild love went ridin
She rode for an hour
She stopped and she rested
And then she rode on
Ride, cmon

song performed by by Doors
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Old Bloke With Heaps Of Money

The old bloke with heaps of money was buried yesterday
Yet for his funeral services and his burial the town charities will pay
For all the money that he had by him hidden away
At least a couple of million so those who knew him say.

He never fathered children he never had a wife
Earning money and hiding it was his great joy in life
He did not trust the banks at all so his millions he did hide
And of where his hidden fortune is the secret with him died.

He lived in a one bedrooom basement apartment he paid the cheapest rent
And he saved as much as he could save he never wasted a cent
In his very early seventies he died quite suddenly
The millionaire in money who died in poverty.

The old bloke with heaps of money was the meanest one in town
To be the town's greatest miser was his claim to renown
None ever sang his praises since praise he was not due
And where he hid his millions not one does have a clue.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ballad Of Jesse James

Jesse james was a man
And he killed many men
He robbed the glendale train
And he took from the richer
And he gave that to the poorer
Hed a hand and a heart and a brain
Oh jesse had a wife to mourn for his life
Three children they were so brave
But that dirty little coward
That shot mr. howard
Has laid jesse james in his grave
(instrumental)
On wednesday night
When the moon was shining bright
They robbed that glendale train
And the folks from miles about (yeah they can)
They all said without a doubt
It was done by her frankie and jesse james (yes it was)
Oh jessie had a wife, to mourn for his life
Three children they were so brave
But that dirty little coward
That shot mr. howard
Has laid (poor) jesse james in his grave
(instrumental)
Well the people held their breath
When they heard about jesses death (yeah)
And they wondered how poor jesse came to die (how did he die? )
It was one of his guys, called little robert ford
And he shot jessie james on the sly
Oh jessie had a wife to mourn for his life
Three children they were so brave
But that dirty little coward
That shot mr. howard
Has laid jesse james in his grave
Has laid poor jesse in his grave
He laid jesse james in his grave

song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Traveller

As I rode in to Burrumbeet,
I met a man with funny feet;
And, when I paused to ask him why
His feet were strange, he rolled his eye
And said the rain would spoil the wheat;
So I rode on to Burrumbeet.

As I rode in to Beetaloo,
I met a man whose nose was blue;
And when I asked him how he got
A nose like that, he answered, "What
Do bullocks mean when they say 'Moo'?"
So I rode on to Beetaloo.

As I rode in to Ballarat,
I met a man who wore no hat;
And, when I said he might take cold,
He cried, "The hills are quite as old
As yonder plains, but not so flat."
So I rode on to Ballarat.

As I rode in to Gundagai,
I met a man and passed him by
Without a nod, without a word.
He turned, and said he'd never heard
Or seen a man so wise as I.
But I rode on to Gundagai.

As I rode homeward, full of doubt,
I met a stranger riding out:
A foolish man he seemed to me;
But, "Nay, I am yourself," said he,
"Just as you were when you rode out."
So I rode homeward, free of doubt.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On The Front Line

I am a fireman here at home
And I put my life on the front line everyday
To save the people from burning buildings
Or from car accidents
Someday I am very lucky because I am able to save people from burning
Buildings and car accidents
But other days I am not so lucky because it depends where the fire is on The building
Sometimes I have to climb all the way to the top of the buildings
Very fast to save the people from the burning buildings here at home
Other times the fire on the buildings happened on the lower floor
Yes there had been times that I could not save the people from the
Buildings here at home because the buildings here at home had been Engulfed with smoke and all the people that live there died
Yes that was a very bad scene to see
At the end of the night I go home for my kids and my wife
When I arrive home my kids and my wife are already sleeping in bed
I don't have very much time to spend with my children
Because of my work
I don't enjoy being a fireman but the pay is good
So I don't have anything to complain about
I never talk about my work at home
At home I talk about different things to my wife and kids
But I know that my day starts very early everyday

poem by Aldo Kraas
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Gillespie.

Riding at dawn, riding alone,
Gillespie left the town behind;
Before he turned by the Westward road
A horseman crossed him, staggering blind.

'The Devil's abroad in false Vellore,
The Devil that stabs by night,' he said,
'Women and children, rank and file,
Dying and dead, dying and dead.'

Without a word, without a groan,
Sudden and swift Gillespie turned,
The blood roared in his ears like fire,
Like fire the road beneath him burned.

He thundered back to Arcot gate,
He thundered up through Arcot town,
Before he thought a second thought
In the barrack yard he lighted down.

'Trumpeter, sound for the Light Dragoons,
Sound to saddle and spur,' he said;
'He that is ready may ride with me,
And he that can may ride ahead.'

Fierce and fain, fierce and fain,
Behind him went the troopers grim,
They rode as ride the Light Dragoons
But never a man could ride with him.

Their rowels ripped their horses' sides,
Their hearts were red with a deeper goad,
But ever alone before them all
Gillespie rode, Gillespie rode.

Alone he came to false Vellore,
The walls were lined, the gates were barred;
Alone he walked where the bullets bit,
And called above to the Sergeant's Guard.

'Sergeant, Sergeant, over the gate,
Where are your officers all?' he said;
Heavily came the Sergeant's voice,
'There are two living and forty dead.'

'A rope, a rope,' Gillespie cried :
They bound their belts to serve his need.
There was not a rebel behind the wall
But laid his barrel and drew his bead.

There was not a rebel among them all
But pulled his trigger and cursed his aim,
For lightly swung and rightly swung
Over the gate Gillespie came.

He dressed the line, he led the charge,
They swept the wall like a stream in spate,
And roaring over the roar they heard
The galloper guns that burst the gate.

Fierce and fain, fierce and fain,
The troopers rode the reeking flight:
The very stones remember still
The end of them that stab by night.

They've kept the tale a hundred years,
They'll keep the tale a hundred more:
Riding at dawn, riding alone,
Gillespie came to false Vellore.

poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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In France They Say Only Pianists Are Shot

I saw there in the field
Far away from town
The people were killed
I saw the horses in the dust

I saw there in the filed
Far away from town
They whipped the plants
I heard the shots in an empty distance

I saw there in the field
Far away from town
Saw people trembling
Shivering with fear

I heard them whispering
‘In France, they say, only pianists are shot.’

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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A Doctor’s Mistake

As towns flourish and teem with life
Of all colours and creeds
In one of them lived with his wife
A doctor, with certain needs

Life and practice were more than good
He’d friends on every side
Yet took to drugs so oft he could
Which soon would turn the tide

One day a bad mistake was made
A fault he tried to hide
With pills a man in bed was laid
Who very nearly died

His medicine was wrong of course
The doctor was so high
The dose he gave could kill a horse
A man would surely die

For many years the doctor’s wife
Had prayed both night and day
For God to change her husband’s life
And take the drugs away

Her prayers were heard God saw how sad
His daughter lived with tears
Although her husband’s deeds were bad
God freed them of their fears

The doctor’s heart began to melt
He joined his wife in prayer
“Oh Lord my God what guilt I’ve felt
Since knowing You are there”

Salvation came because a wife
Had knelt in fervent prayer
Not only had her husband life
But now! Life’s Truth they share.

poem by Michael P. Johnson
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Trooper Campbell

One day old Trooper Campbell
Rode out to Blackman's Run,
His cap-peak and his sabre
Were glancing in the sun.
'Twas New Year's Eve, and slowly
Across the ridges low
The sad Old Year was drifting
To where the old years go.

The trooper's mind was reading
The love-page of his life --
His love for Mary Wylie
Ere she was Blackman's wife;
He sorrowed for the sorrows
Of the heart a rival won,
For he knew that there was trouble
Out there on Blackman's Run.

The sapling shades had lengthened,
The summer day was late,
When Blackman met the trooper
Beyond the homestead gate.
And if the hand of trouble
Can leave a lasting trace,
The lines of care had come to stay
On poor old Blackman's face.

`Not good day, Trooper Campbell,
It's a bad, bad day for me --
You are of all the men on earth
The one I wished to see.
The great black clouds of trouble
Above our homestead hang;
That wild and reckless boy of mine
Has joined M'Durmer's gang.

`Oh! save him, save him, Campbell!
I beg in friendship's name!
For if they take and hang him,
The wife would die of shame.
Could Mary or her sisters
Hold up their heads again,
And face a woman's malice
Or claim the love of men?

`And if he does a murder
'Twere better we were dead.
Don't take him, Trooper Campbell,
If a price be on his head;
But shoot him! shoot him, Campbell,
When you meet him face to face,
And save him from the gallows,
And us from that disgrace.'

`Now, Tom,' cried Trooper Campbell,
`You know your words are wild.
Though he is wild and reckless,
Yet still he is your child;
So bear up in your trouble,
And meet it like a man,
And tell the wife and daughters
I'll save him if I can.'

. . . . .

The sad Australian sunset
Had faded from the west;
But night brings darker shadows
To hearts that cannot rest;
And Blackman's wife sat rocking
And moaning in her chair.
`I cannot bear disgrace,' she moaned;
`Disgrace I cannot bear.

`In hardship and in trouble
I struggled year by year
To make my children better
Than other children here.
And if my son's a felon
How can I show my face?
I cannot bear disgrace; my God,
I cannot bear disgrace!

`Ah, God in Heaven pardon!
I'm selfish in my woe --
My boy is better-hearted
Than many that I know.
And I will face the world's disgrace,
And, till his mother's dead,
My foolish child shall find a place
To lay his outlawed head.'

. . . . .

With a sad heart Trooper Campbell
Rode back from Blackman's Run,
Nor noticed aught about him
Till thirteen miles were done;
When, close beside a cutting,
He heard the click of locks,
And saw the rifle muzzles
Were on him from the rocks.

But suddenly a youth rode out,
And, close by Campbell's side:
`Don't fire! don't fire, in heaven's name!
It's Campbell, boys!' he cried.
Then one by one in silence
The levelled rifles fell,
For who'd shoot Trooper Campbell
Of those who knew him well?

Oh, bravely sat old Campbell,
No sign of fear showed he.
He slowly drew his carbine;
It rested by his knee.
The outlaws' guns were lifted,
But none the silence broke,
Till steadfastly and firmly
Old Trooper Campbell spoke.

`That boy that you would ruin
Goes home with me, my men;
Or some of us shall never
Ride through the Gap again.
You know old Trooper Campbell,
And have you ever heard
That bluff or lead could turn him,
That e'er he broke his word?

`That reckless lad is playing
A heartless villain's part;
He knows that he is breaking
His poor old mother's heart.
He'll bring a curse upon himself;
But 'tis not that alone,
He'll bring dishonour to a name
That I'D be proud to own.

`I speak to you, M'Durmer, --
If your heart's not hardened quite,
And if you'd seen the trouble
At Blackman's home this night,
You'd help me now, M'Durmer --
I speak as man to man --
I swore to save that foolish lad,
And I'll save him if I can.'

`Oh, take him!' said M'Durmer,
`He's got a horse to ride.'
The youngster thought a moment,
Then rode to Campbell's side --
`Good-bye!' the outlaws shouted,
As up the range they sped.
`A Merry New Year, Campbell,'
Was all M'Durmer said.

. . . . .

Then fast along the ridges
Two bushmen rode a race,
And the moonlight lent a glory
To Trooper Campbell's face.
And ere the new year's dawning
They reached the home at last;
And this is but a story
Of trouble that is past!

poem by Henry Lawson
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Chase Henry

In my life I was the town drunkard;
When I died the priest denied me burial
In holy ground.
The which rebounded to my good fortune.
For the Protestants bought this lot,
And buried my body here,
Close to the grave of the banker Nicholas,
And of his wife Priscilla.
Take note, ye prudent and pious souls,
Of the cross-currents in life
Which bring honor to the dead, who lived in shame.

poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Jesse James

When Jesse James was a lad
He killed many a man
And he roamed over the Scarsdale range
Robbin' from the rich
And givin' to the poor
He was dark and cold and full of rage
Oh yes he was, sing with me
Poor Jesse had a wife
To mourn for his life
And three children
They were oh so brave
But that dirty little coward
He went and shot Mr. Howard
Laid poor Jesse in his grave yeah
It was on a Saturday night
When Jesse was at home
Talking to old railroad Jed
Along come Robert Ford
Like a theif in the night
And he shot poor Jesse in the back
Poor Jesse had a wife
To mourn for his life
Three children
They were oh so brave
But that dirty little coward
He went and shot Mr. Howard
Laid poor Jesse in his grave yeah
He lays
Six feet under the ground

song performed by by Bob Seger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Face Up

Ever since Ive seen your face
This life of mine has gone to waste
I was young and you were old
And I always knew you were cold
At the start you had a heart
But in the end you lost your friend
Can you see your own dark face?
Its dieing in a lonely place
Oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
I said, oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
As we get old, we lose our place
Reflecting back the worlds disgrace
I feel so low, I feel so humble
Sometimes in life we take a tumble
Dont let anybody tell you that youre no good
Cause you know they would
Dont let anybody tell you what you should do
Cause its not that way and...
Oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
I said, oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
We were young and we were pure
And life was just an open door
I said oh, oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
You were me and I was you
This world of ours it felt brand new
You took me a little further...
I heard it all before, Ive heard it all before
I cant hear it anymore
Your hair was long, your eyes was blue
Guess what Im gonna do to you
Oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
I said, oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
We were young and we were pure
And life was just an open door
I said oh, oh, how I cannot bear the thought...
Oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
I said oh, oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
We were young and we were pure...

song performed by by New Order
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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He Rode On a Bus

Since he rode on a bus,
They believed him to be without powerful allies.
Since he rode on a bus,
They believed him to be limited in influence.
Since he rode on a bus,
And lived amongst the poor and not the rich...
He was disrespected more.
But only a few knew,
His worth was more than this.
Even though his funds were limited.

And since he chose to ride on a bus,
He knew he could do what he wished.
His life was not lived to acquire material possessions.
His life was lived for him...
To enjoy every bit of it.
Being there with the people,
As his experience.
And if he rode on a bus...
That was a piece of 'his' happiness.
No explanations did he have to make,
Since for him this was a perfect fit.
Unlike the others,
Who expressed pretentions...
Every chance they would get.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Girl from a Little Town

In a little town, close to a park,
Lived a girl in a small house.
She had a dog, who liked to bark,
And always had a cold, black nose.

This girl grew up in the town at last,
And dreamed to leave the city fast.
Her dog was unhappy and sad,
But she decided to follow a lad

Who lived in a very big city
Without any nice dog or cat.
The boy was nice and even witty
And bore a funny, little hat.

The girl dreamed colorful dreams
About the future, interesting life.
And she thought: “I’ve got a good wheeze,
I’ll be a beautiful, young wife! ”

The boy sensed the coming prose
And vanished fast into thin air.
She had to remain in the small house
With the happy, black dog to care.

poem by Jolanta Gradowicz
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Richard Coeur de Lion

Richard the First, Coeur-de-Lion,
Is a name that we speak of with pride,
Though he only lived six months in England
From his birth to the day that he died.

He spent all his time fighting battles,
Dressed up in most rigid attire,
For he had his suits made by the Blacksmith,
And his underwear knitted of wire.

He married a lady from Flanders,
Berengaria's what they called her;
She turned out a good wife to Richard,
In spite of a name like that there.

For when he came home from his fighting
She'd bandage the wounds in his sconce,
And every time a snake bit him
She'd suck out the poison at once.

In their 'ouse they'd a minstrel called Blondel
To amuse them at t'end of the day'
And the King had but one thing against him...
He had nobbut one tune he could play.

The Queen saw nowt wrong with the number
And would have it again and again,
And when Richard said: "Put a sock in it!"
She'd give 'im a look full of pain.

The King got fed up at the finish,
And were so sick of 'earing it played,
That he packed his spare suit on a wagon
And went off and joined the Crusade.

He got fighting the moment he landed,
And though Saracen lads did their best,
He cut off their heads in such numbers,
That the hatmakers lodged a protest.

The Sultan, whose name were Saladin,
Thought he'd best try this business to stem,
So he rode up to Richard and told him
He mustn't do that there to them.

Said Richard: "Oh! Who's going to stop me?"
Said Saladin: "I will-and quick!"
So the King poked his sword at the Sultan,
Who, in turn, swiped his skimpter at Dick.

They fought all that day without ceasing;
They fought till at last they both saw
That each was a match for the other,
So they chucked it and called it a draw.

As Richard rode home in the moonlight
He heard someone trying to croon,
And there by the roadside stood Blondel,
Still playing his signature tune.

He'd worked out his passage from England
In search of his Master and Lord,
And had swum the last part of the journey
'Cos his tune got 'im thrown overboard.

This meeting filled Richard with panic:
He rode off and never drew rein
Till he got past the Austrian border
And felt he could breathe once again.

He hid in a neighbouring Castle,
But he hadn't been there very long
When one night just outside his window
Stood Blondel, still singing his song.

This 'ere took the heart out of Richard;
He went home dejected and low,
And the very next fight he got into
He were killed without striking a blow.

poem by Marriott Edgar
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Part Of America Died

Part Of America Died

Somebody killed a soldier today
And part of America died

The child who shot him won't even be punished
After counsel asks his record not be tarnished
The flag of our country he swore to protect
Will be buried, with him, at his side
Today more of America died

The truck that he rode, was a battlefield too
A respite from a hard day at war
The flag of our nation won't fly at half staff
The purple heart they gave on his behalf
Won't change that a part of America died

Yes, Somebody killed a brave soldier today
It happened this day in a land, far away
While some slept in comfort, at home
A soldier put his life on the line
He answered the call then gave it his all
And on this day much of America died

Jim 1972

poem by James Casey
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I'm Alive (That Was The Day My Dead Pet Returned To Save My Life)

I was just kicking down the street
And the sun was in my eyes
So I couldn't see the truck
That was sixty times my size
And just seconds off from splattering me
Let me tell you
I was so scared I couldn't move
Like my boots were full of glue
Then I felt a little tug
And I thought of good Old Blue
And he pulled me from that catastrophe
That was the day
My dead pet returned to save my life
I'm alive
He's alive
I'm alive
I was spitting in the canyon
Near the cliff up on the mountain
When an unexpected sneeze
Hung me in the breeze
At forty five degrees in the sky
Suddenly I felt something
Had me by the belt
And in between my praying
Swore I heard a stallion neighing
Was the ghost of my horse
And I cried, yes I cried
That was the day
My dead pet returned to save my life
That was the day
My dead pet returned to save my life
I'm alive
He's alive
Hey, I'm alive
Things were getting gory
Got caught on territory
Belonging to the Crutches
In an alley in their clutches
Looking kind of dismal that night
Well the leader's name was Fats
Swinging broken baseball bats
Things got really frantic
Starting jumping in their panic
That was the day
My dead pet returned to save my life
That was the day
My dead pet returned to save my life
I'm alive, I'm alive, real alive
That was the day my dead pet returned
That was the day my dead pet returned
That was the day my dead pet returned
That was the day my dead pet returned
To save my life
Hallucinating billions of rats
Lots of rats
I'm alive, I'm alive
He's alive, he's alive, he's alive
I'm alive, yeah
He's alive, he's alive
I'm alive, real alive
Alive, alive, alive
Alive, alive, alive, alive
Alive, alive, alive, alive
I'm alive

song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ballad of Father Gilligan

The old priest Peter Gilligan
Was weary night and day
For half his flock were in their beds
Or under green sods lay.

Once, while he nodded in a chair
At the moth-hour of the eve
Another poor man sent for him,
And he began to grieve.

'I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,
For people die and die;
And after cried he, 'God forgive!
My body spake not I!'

He knelt, and leaning on the chair
He prayed and fell asleep;
And the moth-hour went from the fields,
And stars began to peep.

They slowly into millions grew,
And leaves shook in the wind
And God covered the world with shade
And whispered to mankind.

Upon the time of sparrow chirp
When the moths came once more,
The old priest Peter Gilligan
Stood upright on the floor.

'Mavrone, mavrone! The man has died
While I slept in the chair.'
He roused his horse out of its sleep
And rode with little care.

He rode now as he never rode,
By rocky lane and fen;
The sick man's wife opened the door,
'Father! you come again!'

'And is the poor man dead?' he cried
'He died an hour ago.'
The old priest Peter Gilligan
In grief swayed to and fro.

'When you were gone, he turned and died,
As merry as a bird.'
The old priest Peter Gilligan
He knelt him at that word.

'He Who hath made the night of stars
For souls who tire and bleed,
Sent one of this great angels down,
To help me in my need.

'He Who is wrapped in purple robes,
With planets in His care
Had pity on the least of things
Asleep upon a chair.'

poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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