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A matterof belief

Bob Adamson an ordinary guy,
woke suddenly one night and wondered why.
He saw or thought he saw within his room
a radiant figure lighting up the gloom.
Enrapt in thought composing a report.
A question sprang to Bob’s lips quite unsought.
To satisfy his curiosity
he summoned up all of his bravery
and to being he made bold to ask.
What is that you write what is your task.
The being spoke without a wasted word
I write the names of those who love the Lord.
Bob said I will not figure on your list
because you see I am an atheist..
The angel paused before he wrote again.
Your god has granted free will to all men.
Each man is entitled to his own view,
it matters not your God believes in you.

14-Jan-08

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes

Abou Ben Adhem

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

Anonymous Submission

poem by James Henry Leigh Hunt
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The Poet and The Angel

The poet woke up in his bed, he dressed and faced the day,
Not knowing what lay just ahead, he paused as if to pray.
Then suddenly, the angel came, right there within his room,
So how could things then stay the same? For that none could assume.

'Write down the words that I impart! ' the angel told him straight
And thus the poet made a start, in fact, he couldn't wait!
'Repent and mend your ways on Earth! Repent and start again!
Repent for every soul has worth. Repent for God not men! '

The poet nodded his consent, the words now on the page,
For this was always God's intent, as seen from age-to-age.
'The choice is yours and yours alone! The same for every man!
And Jesus waits the ones who've shown they wish to serve God's plan! '

How true, the poet sagely thought, there's no excuse at all.
We ought to do the things we're taught, or else we're bound to fall.
'You still have time to do what's right! Repent and serve the Lord!
Arise, stand fast, walk in the light, or else lose your reward! '

Of course, the poet's heart agreed, for that made perfect sense
To each lost soul that saw the need and each one that repents.
He asked the angel, 'Who's this for, lost Gentile or lost Jew? '
The angel shook him to the core, 'These words are just for you...'

poem by Denis Martindale
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Not a word He said

Before the Sanhedrin You spoke no word
and from Your lips no sound was heard.
Silent like a mute not a word was said
as awayto the cross, Lord You were led.

Your lips were silent and there came no sound.
In Your defence nothing was to be found.
As a lamb before the shearer is dumb
so from Your lips not a word was to come.

Angels were waiting for your bidding, Lord.
Silently You stood and spoke not a word.
You could have summoned that great army Lord.
They were ready and waiting for one word.

Silent there before Your accusers, Lord.
To their amazement You said not a word.
Louder than thunder was Your silence Lord.
Much more powerful than the spoken word.

Those gathered there did not understand why
You kept Your silence and did not reply.
Then there on the cross Your silence You broke.
'Father forgive them' were the words You spoke

poem by Royston
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It Is Me

He sat in his own world
writing down the stories
that came to his mind.
He never watched time,
for him there
was no time.

He wrote stories of love,
of mystery and suspense.
He wrote of everything
that popped into his head.
He was not a lonely person
as his characters kept him company.

He wrote things
for every writing sphere,
but there was one thing
he could not write
which may come as a surprise
to everyone.

He could not write a letter
no matter how hard he tried.
His mind went completely blank
whenever he tried.
Yet he could write
just about everything else.

He could write songs,
he could write stories at will.
He could write poems
on everything,
but writing a letter
was something he could not do.

Now all who read this
might take it as a joke,
but it is very true
every word I have spoke,
and how would I know that.
The answer is simple it is me.

19 April 2008

poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Cant Figure You Out

(jesse valenzuela)
Whos to say whats right or wrong
If I stand out in the rain too long
Filling up my drinking cup
When I know Ive had much more than enough
Write in the pages of my notebook
But they never sound the way they look
Kicking at this old tin can
And I wonder where the hell I am
I cant figure you out
I cant figure you out
When it seems so fine
When its held to the light
I cant figure you out
I cant figure you out
They push and pull till it breaks in half
I never trust a guy with a nervous laugh
Worried bout the smallest things
While the world is coming crashing in
I cant figure you out...

song performed by by Gin Blossoms
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Phantom Kiss

One night in my room, still and beamless,
With will and with thought in eclipse,
I rested in sleep that was dreamless;
When softly there fell on my lips

A touch, as of lips that were pressing
Mine own with the message of bliss--
A sudden, soft, fleeting caressing,
A breath like a maiden's first kiss.

I woke-and the scoffer may doubt me--
I peered in surprise through the gloom;
But nothing and none were about me,
And I was alone in my room.

Perhaps 't was the wind that caressed me
And touched me with dew-laden breath;
Or, maybe, close-sweeping, there passed me
The low-winging Angel of Death.

Some sceptic may choose to disdain it,
Or one feign to read it aright;
Or wisdom may seek to explain it--
This mystical kiss in the night.

But rather let fancy thus clear it:
That, thinking of me here alone,
The miles were made naught, and, in spirit,
Thy lips, love, were laid on mine own.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Dreamed.

I dreamed a dream and in that dream,
I dreamed that I had dreamed a dream,
Of hope and fairytales come true,
I dreamed a dream and thought of truth,
I dreamed a dream of life and love,
Of fate and angels and God above,
I dreamed a dream of good wishes and friends,
I dreamed a dream I dreaded to end,
But then I woke into my dream,
I dreamed I woke in a world obscene,
I dreamed a dream of violence and hate,
And once again I dreamed of fate,
I dreamed a dream of terror and fear,
I dreamed that each word went unheard,
And so children never spoke a word,
I dreamed a dream of demons and beasts,
I dreamed a dream that ended at last,
I woke in my bed and wondered if,
I dreamed a dream of dreams or if,
I dreamed a dream of truth that night,
And if so I wondered which was truth,
And which was merely a dream.

poem by Emma Wright
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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