Stories from the Grave...
Stories fom th' grave, speak their tales....on winds of faith
Methodically, we lay our wreaths and sweet moon orchids
Standing o'er the steel-grey rock, with conscientious hope
Our whispered prayers somehow touch th' soul we beckon
Death's voice...cannot be qualified 'less you've been there
Yet, i've heard premonitions voice......choirs with credence
Of Sunday stories taught by men in black with white collars
An' faith, born of fear, as to when our winds of Death come
Stories from th' grave, shed no light upon th' deep unknown
Still, we follow olde traditions, in hopes to find new answers
We'll speak to steel-grey stone, upon......soft, unleveled soil
In hopes that all these stories olde......be blessed with truth
Perhaps, somewhere beyond th' winds....lay all th' answers
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Upon The Eve of All Hallows {Sonnet For The Saints}
Stories from th' grave, speak their tales on wind's of faith
Methodically, we lay our wreaths 'an sweet moon orchids
Standing o'er th' steel-grey rock, with conscientious hope
Our whispered prayer somehow touch th' soul we beckon
Death's voice....cannot be qualified 'less you've been there
Yet, i've heard premonitions voice.....choirs with credence
Of Sunday verse sung by men....in black with collars white
Evoking th' fear of God- for when our winds of Death blow
Stories from th' grave......shed no light upon those sleeping
Still, we follow old traditions, in hopes to find new answers
We'll speak to th' steel-grey stone, upon soft, unleveled soil
In hopes all these stories dark, be blest in God-Kissed Light
Still many questions live, in deepest sleep, with our Saint's
Perhaps somewher' beyond all this lay th' hallowed answers
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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Some Stories
some stories
about ourselves
are also the stories of
themselves
and then we write
these stories and
pretend that these are
but some short stories
from our mind
now in different names
and places
we read them and then
we wish that some of
these short stories
are not true at all
sometimes for those
we want to be
we want to believe
them to be true
wishes and hopes and
regrets, what if? what if i
chose that rather than this?
we poets write about pain
and joys and we tell sometimes
that we only fake them
deep inside we are silent
we prefer just to be left alone
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Stories
Through every window, we look out
what we see on the other side
holds many stories waiting to unfold.
Stories of great achievements
within someone’s life.
Stories of gathering love
found with in open arms.
Stories of perusing heartaches
where someone has gone away.
Stories a million fold
that surround every living thing.
Stories we are not aware of,
but happen before our eyes.
Stories to share with all
from those who can see them unfold.
The next time you look out a window
try and see what is really there,
the stories that are everywhere.
26 July 2009
poem by David Harris
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Stories
Every year has its own stories in this life,
Every month has its own stories in this life,
Every week has its own stories in this life,
Every day has its own stories in this life,
Every hour has its own stories in this life,
Every minute has its own stories in this life,
And like the muse of the mind as we grow up;
So, we are all with stories to tell in this world.
As white as snow,
As red as blood,
As balck as charcoal,
As green as the grass,
As blue as the sky;
But everybody has stories to tell in this world!
And like the muse o love in the land of beauty,
For each year has its own story.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Stories
when we were young stories were told
That I'd kiss you sweet like
People said there was a connection between us
Now that we're old stories are told
Of how I hold you tight
Whenever I see those people I tell them they were right
Stories will be told
From when our children are young
until they're old
About our endless love
We must have had a blessing from above
Stories will be told until we're old
Stories will be told until the end of time
Stories will be told until we're old
Stories will be told until the end of time
Until the sun won't rise
Oh
song performed by by Hanson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Mother
I
IT was April, blossoming spring,
They buried me, when the birds did sing;
Earth, in clammy wedging earth,
They banked my bed with a black, damp girth.
Under the damp and under the mould,
I kenned my breasts were clammy and cold.
Out from the red beams, slanting and bright,
I kenned my cheeks were sunken and white.
I was a dream, and the world was a dream,
And yet I kenned all things that seem.
I was a dream, and the world was a dream,
But you cannot bury a red sunbeam.
For though in the under-grave's doom-night
I lay all silent and stark and white,
Yet over my head I seemed to know
The murmurous moods of wind and snow,
The snows that wasted, the winds that blew,
The rays that slanted, the clouds that drew
The water-ghosts up from lakes below,
And the little flower-souls in earth that grow.
Under earth, in the grave's stark night,
I felt the stars and the moon's pale light.
I felt the winds of ocean and land
That whispered the blossoms soft and bland.
Though they had buried me dark and low,
My soul with the season's seemed to grow.
II
From throes of pain they buried me low,
For death had finished a mother's woe.
But under the sod, in the grave's dread doom,
I dreamed of my baby in glimmer and gloom.
I dreamed of my babe, and I kenned that his rest
Was broken in wailings on my dead breast.
I dreamed that a rose-leaf hand did cling;
Oh, you cannot bury a mother in spring!
When the winds are soft and the blossoms are red
She could not sleep in her cold earth-bed.
I dreamed of my babe for a day and a night,
And then I rose in my grave-clothes white.
I rose like a flower from my damp earth-bed
To the world of sorrowing overhead.
Men would have called me a thing of harm,
But dreams of my babe made me rosy and warm.
I felt my breasts swell under my shroud;
No star shone white, no winds were loud;
But I stole me past the graveyard wall,
For the voice of my baby seemed to call;
And I kenned me a voice, though my lips were dumb:
Hush, baby, hush! for mother is come.
I passed the streets to my husband's home;
The chamber stairs in a dream I clomb;
I heard the sound of each sleeper's breath,
Light waves that break on the shores of death.
I listened a space at my chamber door,
Then stole like a moon-ray over its floor.
My babe was asleep on a stranger's arm,
'O baby, my baby, the grave is so warm,
'Though dark and so deep, for mother is there!
O come with me from the pain and care!
'O come with me from the anguish of earth,
Where the bed is banked with a blossoming girth,
'Where the pillow is soft and the rest is long,
And mother will croon you a slumber-song–
'A slumber-song that will charm your eyes
To a sleep that never in earth-song lies!
'The loves of earth your being can spare,
But never the grave, for mother is there.'
I nestled him soft to my throbbing breast,
And stole me back to my long, long rest.
And here I lie with him under the stars,
Dead to earth, its peace and its wars;
Dead to its hates, its hopes, and its harms,
So long as he cradles up soft in my arms.
And heaven may open its shimmering doors,
And saints make music on pearly floors,
And hell may yawn to its infinite sea,
But they never can take my baby from me.
For so much a part of my soul he hath grown
That God doth know of it high on His throne.
And here I lie with him under the flowers
That sun-winds rock through the billowy hours,
With the night-airs that steal from the murmuring sea,
Bringing sweet peace to my baby and me.
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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We sat down and told stories that happened to us in our childhood, to our children. They were all basically based on the truth. These stories were funny and poignant to us. They just took off. These are all stories from my life.
quote by Howie Mandel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Fragment of Seneca Translated
After Death nothing is, and nothing, death,
The utmost limit of a gasp of breath.
Let the ambitious zealot lay aside
His hopes of heaven, whose faith is but his pride;
Let slavish souls lay by their fear
Nor be concerned which way nor where
After this life they shall be hurled.
Dead, we become the lumber of the world,
And to that mass of matter shall be swept
Where things destroyed with things unborn are kept.
Devouring time swallows us whole.
Impartial death confounds body and soul.
For Hell and the foul fiend that rules
God's everlasting fiery jails
(Devised by rogues, dreaded by fools),
With his grim, grisly dog that keeps the door,
Are senseless stories, idle tales,
Dreams, whimseys, and no more.
poem by Lord John Wilmot
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Legacy Of Kings
Out in the fields
The full moon is rising
Enlightens the name on our shields
Blessed with pride
Steel on our side
Were horsemen of thunder
The ground starts to shake as we ride
Side by side
Stormbringer led us into the unknown
On wings of glory we will carry on
Legacy of kings c legacy of kings
Forever to surrvive, were
Riding on the winds c riding on the winds
Unchained and free, alive forevermore
Deep in the night
We circle around them
The honor compels us to fight
All for one
All hewed with steel
In the toil of the battle
Our enemies fate will reveal
And be sealed
The chill of the wind keeps on calling our names
Theres no turning back now, keep hold of the flame
Legacy of kings c legacy of kings
Forever to surrvive, were
Riding on the winds c riding on the winds
Unchained and free, alive forevermore
Now we are here
And there is nothing left to fear
The secrets of steel
The path of glory will reveal
Legacy of kings c legacy of kings
Forever to surrvive, were
Riding on the winds c riding on the winds
Unchained and free, alive forevermore
song performed by by Hammerfall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stories We Could Tell
By: john b. sebastian
1974
Talkin to myself again
Wonderin if this travellin is good
Is there somethin else a doin
Wed be doin if we could
Chorus:
But ah, the stories we could tell
And if it all blows up and goes to hell
I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
Listen to the stories we could tell
Stared at that guitar in that museum in tennessee
Nameplate on the glass brought back twenty melodies
Scars upon the face told of all the times he fell
Singin all the stories he could tell
Chorus:
Ah, the stories he could tell
And Ill bet you it still rings like a bell
I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
And listen to the stories it could tell
So if youre on the road trackin down your every night
Playin for a livin beneath brightly colored lights
And if you ever wonder why you ride the carousel
You do it for the stories you can tell
Ah, the stories we could tell
And if it all blows up and goes to hell
I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
Just listen to the stories we could tell
Coda:
Yes, I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
Listen to the stories it could tell
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Most politicians - those people who live, eat and breathe politics - like to sit around and talk about politics and tell political war stories. Reagan didn't do that. His war stories were movie war stories and Hollywood war stories. He loved that.
quote by Lyn Nofziger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Well, religion has been passed down through the years by stories people tell around the campfire. Stories about God, stories about love. Stories about good spirits and evil spirits.
quote by Andrew Greeley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You see, I was told stories, we were all told stories as kids in Nigeria. We had to tell stories that would keep one another interested, and you weren't allowed to tell stories that everybody else knew. You had to dream up new ones.
Stepping Into Something New This Summer
white sea spreading before me
so silky
tiny ripples of the wind
from a far
bringing some stories
from the other island
some leaves fall from
the pitogo tree
some flowers pink and white
lay on the shore
white sands of silence
and peace
soft whispers of the winds
seeping in my skin
i am barefoot
i am naked down to the waist
i am waiting
for the sun to descend upon the bosom
of the horizon
i am dreaming of palm trees
soft winds
of summer
a door opens in my mind
i get in
stepping into something new this summer
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Edgar Allan Poe
These are the stories of Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
He'll tell you tales of horror
then he'll play with your mind
if you haven't heard of him
you must be deaf or blind
These are the stories of Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
He'll tell you about Usher
whose house burned in his mind
his love for his dear sister
her death would drive him wild
The murder of a stranger
the murder of a friend
the callings from the pits of hell
that never seem to end
These are the stories of Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
These are the stories of Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
The diabolic image of the city and the sea
the chaos and the carnage that reside deep within me
Decapitations, poisonings, hellish not a bore
you won't need 3D glasses to pass beyond this door
Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
No Nosferatu Vincent Price or naked women here
a mind unfurled, a mind unbent is all we have here
Truth, fried orangutans flutter to the stage
leave your expectations home
And listen to the stories of Edgar Allan Poe
We give you the soliloquy the raven at the door
flaming pits the moving walls no equilibrium
No ballast, no bombast
the unvarnished truth we've got
mind swoons guilty
cooking ravings in a pot
Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
Tell-tale heart a rotting cask
a valley of unrest
a conqueror worm devouring souls
keep the best for last
Rings for Annie Lee
as Poe's buried alive
regretting his beloved's death in
all her many guises-a
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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These Walls
If these walls could talk,
I wonder what what would they say
Would they thank me for being painted
Or will they ask me, to wash the paint away.
Would they tell me of the pictures
That once hung upon them their
Pictures that once adorn those walls
Or I wonder would they even care.
Would they speak upon the stories
That was heard within these walls
That no one else even knows about,
That is if the stories these walls could recall.
Was there children laughter all about
Or any secrets heard and being told
I wonder what have they listened to
And I wonder if anyone will ever know.
These walls inside this house
That for years have stood alone
With the stories that was told and heard
While this house had became a home.
The Sadness that they might had seen
And the worries and sorrow that they felt
Maybe they don't want to remember it at all
And maybe they too keep it bottled upon their self.
Were they painted to cover up secrets
Was they battered as to protect someone's lies
Or were they wallpapered to cover up the truth
And did they hear the whispers and the cries.
These walls they are still standing
Through the years of the days and nights
While listening and knowing all done and said
In the darkness and also in the light.
I look at these walls just one last time
As I head home from my walk,
How I wish I knew what they heard and know,
But that is, if these walls could only talk.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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The Chronicles Of Life And Death
You come in cold,
You're coverd in blood
There all so happy you've arrived
The doctor cuts your cord,
Hands you to your mom
She sets you free into this world
And where do you go
With no destination,
No map to guide you
Wouldn't you know
That it doesn't matter;
We all end up the same
These are the chronicals of lifeand death and everything between
These are the stories of our lives,
As fictional as they may seem
You come in this world,
And you go out just the same
Today could be the best day of your life
And money talks,
In this world
Thats what idiots will say
But you'll find out
That this world
Is just an idiots parade
Before you go,
You've got some questions,
And you want answers
But now your old,
Cold, covered in blood,
Right back to where you started from
These are the chronicals of life and death and everything between
These are the stories of our lives,
As fictional as they may seem
You come in this world,
And you go out just the same
Today could be the best day of
today could be the worst day of
today could be the last day of your life
These are the chronicals of life and death and everything between
These are the stories of our lives,
As fictional as they may seem
You come in this world,
And you go out just the same
Today could be the best day of
Today could be the worst day of
Today could be the last day of your life
Its your life
Your life
song performed by by Good Charlotte
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stories We Could Tell
Talkin to myself again
Wondering if this travelin is good
Is there something better wed be doing if we could
And oh the stories we could tell
And if this all blows up and goes to hell
I can still see us sittin on the bed in some motel
Listenin to the stories we could tell
Remember that guitar in a museum in tennessee
And the nameplate on the glass brought back twenty melodies
And the scratches on the face
Told of all the times he fell
Singin every story he could tell
And oh the stories it could tell
And I bet you it still rings like a bell
And I wish we could sit back on the bed in some motel
And listen to the stories we could tell
So if youre on the road tracking down here every night
And youre singin for a livin neath the brightly colored lights
And if you ever wonder why you ride this carousel
You did it for the stories you could tell
And oh the stories we could tell
And if this all blows up and goes to hell
I can still see us sittin on the bed in some motel
Listenin to the stories we could tell
I can still see us sittin on the bed in some motel
Listenin to the stories we could tell
song performed by by Tom Petty
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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About The Winner
he was once the winner
and they listened to him
every word he says becomes
their new laws and he amazed
them with all his wits
and they all liked him
he made a name for himself
and for this
he forgot his real name
the one given by this mother
when he was born
and for that new name
he invented
all the stories about himself
how he was as a warrior who slayed
the dragon in their heads
how he saved the princess from the
clutches of the beast
how he built his castle in the clouds
where they can all be happy
and all his stories were recorded
as truths and
they all believed them
until finally
he lost his face
and hands and
he kept on looking
for all of these
in the sands of the desert
under the orange moon
and then one day he found
his pair of eyes
and opened it before all of them
he told the truth
that all his stories are lies
that he who is now making a speech before them
is no longer himself
he is a lie. and that is the truth.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Poet's Song
~♥ ♥ ♥ ~
I have read
Works of great men and women
Simple poems and stories
I also have written
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
I love poetries
So too are stories
They are simple daisies
Filling my fantasies
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
It is my refuge
When in sorrow
My hopes and dreams
In my unknown tomorrow
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
I am a poetess
With the dream of sharing
And with my knowledge and skills
Tomorrow, my dreams I will be fulfilling
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
I and my works
May never be great
But I will never lose hope
In God, I place my faith
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
I will never surrender to failure
I shall never retire until I reach my goal
I will read and write literature
I will hear the cry of my hoping soul
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
~♥ ♥ ♥ ~
poem by Belleza Edella Marian SwanCullen
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