Body Of God!
forgive me, i erred,
i thought God contained
in the wind.... but twas
only one breath of infinity!
i thought i saw God
in the starving child's eyes,
but twas only one heartbeat
of compassion!
i thought i heard God
in the cries of the dying
on the battlefields of greed...
but twas human despair!
i thought i found God
down in the homeless shelter,
but twas only the faces
of my brothers and sisters!
so i walked away,
thinking God didnt care....
then a voice startled me...
'but you're my body! '
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
I Had No Need
I had no need to be awake.
'Twas better in my bed.
The thought of facing life without him
was a thought better dead.
I had no need to open my eyes.
'Twas better not to see.
The thought of seeing the sun without him
was devastating to me.
I had no need to know the time.
'Twas better that time slip away.
The thought of time lingering now
is endless time each day.
There are no needs that now are mine.
'Twas a time I had them all.
We woke, we saw and knew the time,
now too hurtful to recall.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Kiss
'I saw you take his kiss!' ''Tis true.'
'O, modesty!' ' 'Twas strictly kept:
He thought me asleep; at least I knew
He thought I thought he thought I slept.'
poem by Coventry Patmore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
No, Not More Welcome
No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When half awaking from fearful slumbers,
He thinks the full quire of heaven is near --
Than came that voice, when, all forsaken,
This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
To such benign blessed sounds again.
Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing
Of summer wind through some wreathed shell --
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
Of all my soul echoed to its spell.
'Twas whisper'd balm -- 'twas sunshine spoken! --
I'd live years of grief and pain
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
By such benign blessed sounds again.
poem by Thomas Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To a Dead Poet
I knew not if to laugh or weep;
They sat and talked of you--
"'Twas here he sat; 'twas this he said!
'Twas that he used to do.
"Here is the book wherein he read,
The room wherein he dwelt;
And he" (they said) "was such a man,
Such things he thought and felt."
I sat and sat, I did not stir;
They talked and talked away.
I was as mute as any stone,
I had no word to say.
They talked and talked; like to a stone
My heart grew in my breast--
I, who had never seen your face
Perhaps I knew you best.
To G. C. And R. L.
'TWAS you, or I, or he, or all together,
'Twas one, both, three of them, they know not whether;
This, I believe, between us great or small,
You, I, he, wrote it not--'twas Churchill's all.
poem by Oliver Goldsmith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Twas Love—not me
394
'Twas Love—not me—
Oh punish—pray—
The Real one died for Thee—
Just Him—not me—
Such Guilt—to love Thee—most!
Doom it beyond the Rest—
Forgive it—last—
'Twas base as Jesus—most!
Let Justice not mistake—
We Two—looked so alike—
Which was the Guilty Sake—
'Twas Love's—Now Strike!
poem by Emily Dickinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Prelude To Joanie
At first we three thought
twas the biblical cord of life
Then noticing twas connected to his head
How strange, not to believed
I reached out to feel, and the ponys eyes opened
The cord got hard, the head looked around
And you know who pushed and gushed
The waters of life
First two hooved feet, then the shine of his fur
But at first to my eyes only
Feather - feathers - wings
The butterflies flew up in such colors
Exploding all around us
The rest I did not see - till there he stood - all eyes in wonder
Who me - who you
Look
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
September Days
'Twas the last time that I need you
'Twas the last time that I love you
'Twas the last I'm gonna say your name
Now you're begging for forgiveness
Sorry boy I can't forgive you
'Coz you've now broken my emo heart
Pre Chorus:
The sunlight's already gone down
The roses already wilted up
But sometimes...
Chorus:
I miss your loving ways
That I lost during
Those September days
I hope that
You'll be back someday
I want you to be the same
September's day is dying cold
The days are coming back to me now
Ring out the grief that saps your heart
And let yourself run Into my arms again
poem by Jas Andrada
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Jump!
He heard the planets being born,
he heard the dinosaur's first roar
he heard the voice of Hebrew slaves
plummeting to earth that day.
He thought he heard the voice of God
the devil too and all his souls,
he thought he heard the angels sing
within white clouds, enchantingly.
And there above the planet, blue,
his heart beat out a merry tune
but none did hear it beat so swift
or heard his gasping, breathlessness.
‘Twas faster than the speed of sound
he catapulted to the ground
per chance to land upon his feet,
his own demise he aimed to cheat.
Then standing on the earths hard crust
he brushed aside his tousled fringe
as though he'd been out for a jog
all cavalier and nonchalant.
poem by Ruth Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Consumptive
The stars, the fields, will know him never-
more;
his friends, his trees, the restless swerving sea.
‘Three days to live,’ they said – the kind gave four.
They glide about his bed silently.
‘Twas not the lead of battle nor the shell
the spitting of Maxim’s basiliskine breath –
‘Twas through the falseness of the winds he fell;
the snow’s mock-warmth – a chill. His humble
death
will ne’er be sung in elegy and rhyme,
his passage bloodless was, unstained and still.
It brought no stir; and smiling all the time
He waved his last farewell behind the Hill.
I saw him die with my half-closed eyes,
And closing them I thought of Paradise.
poem by Leon Gellert
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Again
Well, I've met her again-at the Mission.
She'd told me to see her no more;
It was not a command-a petition;
I'd granted it once before.
Yes, granted it, hoping she'd write me.
Repenting her virtuous freak-
Subdued myself daily and nightly
For the better part of a week.
And then ('twas my duty to spare her
The shame of recalling me) I
Just sought her again to prepare her
For an everlasting good-bye.
O, that evening of bliss-shall I ever
Forget it?-with Shakespeare and Poe!
She said, when 'twas ended: 'You're never
To see me again. And now go.'
As we parted with kisses 'twas human
And natural for me to smile
As I thought, 'She's in love, and a woman:
She'll send for me after a while.'
But she didn't; and so-well, the Mission
Is fine, picturesque and gray;
It's an excellent place for contrition
And sometimes she passes that way.
That's how it occurred that I met her,
And that's ah there is to tell-
Except that I'd like to forget her
Calm way of remarking: 'I'm well.'
It was hardly worth while, all this keying
My soul to such tensions and stirs
To learn that her food was agreeing
With that little stomach of hers.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Do Not Misunderstand Me
do not misunderstand me
all that was good written in my heart
this was all given of God
this was all power of divine Holy Spirit
all my sins all that was bad
this was my free choice God given
this was dark depth abyss torment in heart
this was demon voice still peddling bitter sour grapes
yet through it all I do declare
twas more sinned against than sinning
twas mean rare generous so often heart giving
twas in depths despair searching searching I found God there
knowledge by grace of God did grow
mammon greed in heart found no place to grow
riches if any prized are best values aspired to in heaven
cup of blood body of clay ferments in holy spirit leaven to heaven
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
leaven – a rising agent used to make dough rise, especially yeast or another fermenting agent; something enlivening that lightens the weight or mood.
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Parcae; Or, Three Dainty Destinies:the Armilet
Three lovely sisters working were,
As they were closely set,
Of soft and dainty maiden-hair,
A curious Armilet.
I, smiling, ask'd them what they did,
Fair Destinies all three?
Who told me they had drawn a thread
Of life, and 'twas for me.
They shew'd me then how fine 'twas spun
And I replied thereto;
'I care not now how soon 'tis done,
Or cut, if cut by you.'
poem by Robert Herrick
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Shakespeare?
And what think ye of Shakespeare? 'Twas not he
Of Stratford is the lord of England's lyre;
Ay, not the rustic lad, whoe'er it be,
Momentous in his doing and desire.
But little Latin and less Greek? Ah, no!
It was a teeming scholar who enwrought
The wondrous pages where the wisest go
For th' culmination of the life of thought.
No jovial actor, no mere Shakescene who
Found it so hard his dear name to indite,
The marvellous pictures of our nature drew
And limned the universe in his delight.
We do not know the man; but 'twas not Will
Whose hand is on the lyre of England still.
poem by Robert Crawford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Twas such a little—little boat
107
'Twas such a little—little boat
That toddled down the bay!
'Twas such a gallant—gallant sea
That beckoned it away!
'Twas such a greedy, greedy wave
That licked it from the Coast—
Nor ever guessed the stately sails
My little craft was lost!
poem by Emily Dickinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
November's Chill
For 'twas in November's month
the change of guards took place
the month my heart fell to sleep
For 'twas in that darken time
our Love slowly faded away
and in passing, our words were few.
And I am left lonely an' oh so cold.....
For 'twas in November's month
we became two ships in passing
entering port's harbour at separate times
For 'twas in that lonely state
two hearts screamed of Love
and the sheets never warmed again.
And I am left lonely an' oh so cold.......
For 'twas in Novembers month
we tasted Love once again
and like the first time I know home
For 'twas in that lonely bed
separately we lay our heads
yet in dream, you are near as am I
No longer left lonely an' oh so cold...........
poem by Geoff Warden
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Lost
You left me with the autumn time;
When the winter stripped the forest bare,
Then dressed it in his spotless rime;
When frosts were lurking in the air
You left me here and went away.
The winds were cold; you could not stay.
You sought a warmer clime, until
The south wind, artful maid, should break
The winter's trumpets, and should fill
The air with songs of birds; and wake
The sleeping blossoms on the plain
And make the brooks to flow again.
I thought that the winter desolate,
And all times felt a sense of loss.
I taught my longing heart to wait,
And said, 'When Spring shall come across
The hills, with blossoms in her track,
The she, our loved one, will come back.'
And now the hills with grass and moss
The spring with cunning hands has spread,
And yet I feel my grievous loss.
My heart will not be comforted,
But crieth daily, 'Where is she
You promised should come back to me? '
Oh, love! where are you? day by day
I seek to find you, but in vain.
Men point me to a grave, and say:
'There is her bed upon the plain.'
But though I see no trace of you,
I cannot thiink their words are true.
You were too sweet to wholly pass
Away from earth, and leave no trace;
You were to fair to let the grass
Grow rank and tall above your face.
Your voice, that mocked the robin's trill,
I cannot think is hushed and still.
I thought I saw your golden hair
One day, and reached to touch a strand;
I found but yellow sunbeams there -
The bright rays fell aslant my hand,
And seemed to mock, with lights and shades,
The silken meshes of your braids.
Again, I thought I saw your hand
Wave, as if beckoning to me;
I found 'twas but a lily, fanned
By the cool zephyrs from the sea.
Oh, love! I find no trace of you -
I wonder if their words were true?
One day I heard a singing voice;
A burst of music, trill on trill.
It made my very soul rejoice;
My heart gave and exultant thrill.
I cried, 'Oh heart, we've found her - hush! '
But no - 'twas the silver-throated thrush.
And once I thought I saw your face,
And wild with joy I ran to you;
But found, when I had reached the place,
'Twas a blush rose, bathed in dew.
Ah, love! I think you must be dead;
And I believe the words they said.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Night of Nights
‘Twas deep; so deep of night,
When I saw what I had seen -
So truly deep of night,
When I went where I had been,
And really deep of night,
When I heard what I had heard:
Perhaps a fox or badger,
Or a sort of night-time bird.
‘Twas late that night of nights,
When something there was there -
So very late that night of nights,
Where that thing was where -
'Twas deep of night of nights,
When it ran to where it ran:
Perhaps a stoat or Billy goat,
Or ghostly little man.
‘Twas in the night of night of nights,
When something scary caused a scare -
So late of night of night of nights,
When something hairy raised my hair -
The deep of night of night of nights…
So don't you wonder what it was?
Well I never really truly saw it -
Why? Because because!
‘Twas in the night of night of night of nights
Oh I've had enough!
Night night.
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
Night night, night night
Night night, night night
Night night
night
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
My Dream About You
My grief 'twas unendurable
Suffocating each instant in my breaths sigh
Ne'er to forget the reality that 'twas you
Forever as the Benediction of light in the sky;
Oh, that final moment still tarrys too long
All the flowers burned in a pyre of despair
I looked for a book of answers or an anthem
Suffering 'twas almost too much to bear;
I chose to praise your inner beauty and balance
Loosing myself in the immortal life stream
Recalling your face in a fragment of sweet memory
Oh, how blessed, are those who can still dream;
poem by Theodora Onken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On The Cover Of John B. Tabb's Late London Volume
His eyes are dim;
And so for him,
They thought in London, 'twas enough
To bind his book in blind-man's buff.
poem by John Bannister Tabb
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!