En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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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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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When I left home, I was going to ride around a little while and then go to my mom's. As I rode and rode and rode, I felt even more anxiety coming upon me about not wanting to live.

quote by Susan Smith
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
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Hard For Them to Believe

I was asked,
At a time...
If I knew what I was doing?
As if my thoughts,
Could not produce my deeds.
As if my efforts,
Did not match where I lived.
Since I was born and lived in the ghetto.
And I should not be aware or know,
Of those things I did!

As If my blackness was for them limited!
Like it was for friends I had,
And some relatives.
All believing then I was trying to be white...
And not the black neighborhood kid!
Who did for me,
What I knew was right!

They believed I should be,
That kind to clown and be down to Earth.
And not have a mind as creative as mine!
With dreams to fulfill...
That broke down barriars and walls,
Others believed I existed behind!
And not to know my own value or worth.
Or reach for heights...
Few I knew took effort to climb!

I was asked,
At a time...
If I knew what I was doing?
I am not asked 'that' question anymore.

Today,
Some try to downplay...
My affect!
But I had always known,
To be grateful to be blessed.
And let God handle the rest!

I was asked,
At a time...
If I knew what I was doing?
Of course I knew.
From the very beginning.
But the few who did not know...
Now they do too!

And nothing has changed...
From where I live,
To what I do.
And that is a fact...
Hard for them to believe!
That I can say who I am.
Be who I am.
Stay where I am and know it!
AND achieve!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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What A Life Ive Led

(hicks / lynch)
There never was a man so doggone mean
I wore only black and my eyes were green
And I can tell you now that Im very old
Id kill any man for a piece of gold
Oh what a life Ive led
Ive been a real bad man and I oughta be dead
Oh what a life Ive led
Ive been real mean man, full of cheating and lying
Left a lot of men dead and a lot of girls crying
Yes I did
I rode into dodge on a sunny day
I went there to steal all the railmens pay
And when I left town all the streets ran red
I had ten grand in gold, and three guards lay dead
Chorus
I was a bad man with a heart made of stone
If you were a wise man, you wouldve left me alone
Ive lived all my life, such a lonely one
Just me and my horse and a fine six-gun
Ive lived and Ive loved and I knew great pain
But I know now Id do it over again singing
Chorus x 2

song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'm a lonely cowboy part one

A LONELY COWBOY, PART ONE

I'm a lonely cowboy, riding all alone,
I'm a lonely cowboy, no love to call my own,
I ride the lonely canyons and the mountains all day long,
looking for the cattle, and singing my lonely song,
no matter where I wander, no matter where I roam,
no matter where I'm riding, I still have no home,
no one to care about me, no one to hold my hand,
I'm just a lonely cowboy, I'm just a lonely man,
I talk to my only companion, I tell him how I feel,
that I want a sweetheart, I want a love thats real,
then he lets out a nicker to say he understands,
that I'm a lonely cowboy, I'm a lonely man,
it's the kind of life I'm living, the kind of life I've had,
it's why the songs I'm singing always seem so sad,
one day she will find me, the one I'm looking for,
then my life of sadness will finally all be o'er.
someone to share the sorrow, someone to share the joy,
someone to fill the emptiness, in this lonely cowboy,
I rode up in Montana, down in Texas too,
I'm going to keep on drifting, till I find a love thats true,
I rode in Colorado, and in Kansas just as well,
I rode in Nebraska my life a lonely hell,
I rode in Arizona and in New Mexico,
then in Oklahoma till I finally had to go
I rode in Wyoming, I rode in old Utah,
I rode in Missouri, now I'll go to Arkansas,
maybe I'll find her in the mountains
or in the high plains,
the woman that I've been needing, to take away my pain,
there will be no other, in this heart of mine,
I know I'll love her only, until the end of time.

written by Harry Bryant
4/16/03 7: 30: 53 AM �
all rights reserved

poem by Harry Bryant
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The Hidden Heart

AS I rode out of Lochinvar
About me all the scene was fair;
The skies, with not a cloud to mar,
Were filled with fresh and dewy air,
While making song, a merry throng,
The thrushes warbled everywhere.
As I rode out of Lochinvar
Through Fairydom I seemed to go,
For round about, and near and far,
Enchanted lights began to glow;
And where I went, on what intent,
And who I was I did not know!
For lo, I met a troubadour
As I rode out of Lochinvar;
His like on earth is seen no more,
With feathered hat and gay guitar;
And loud and clear, and sweet to hear,
He sang a song of love and war.
As I rode out of Lochinvar
He sang a song I somehow knew,
The while he touched his gay guitar;
And when I asked him, 'Who are you?'
'Yourself!' he said — and bowed his head,
And vanished like the morning dew.
Though I may see him nevermore,
This much in very truth I ken,
That one, at heart a troubadour,
May seem a sober citizen,
Who sets afar his gay guitar
To seem just like his fellow men.

poem by Roderic Quinn
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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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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
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It Was Early I Was Told

Happy I am,
To sit among those...
Of common faces.
No status have I ever wished,
To be a full fledged aristocrat...
With a flaunting strutted.

It was early I was told,
Don't spite my nose...
For a choice made to have another.
And any path that I chose,
To walk it the best I can.

Happy I am,
To be able to reflect...
With such great memories.
And daring to be challenged,
Was a gift and not a curse given to me.

I can see why today there are so many unhappy.
Those who wished to be kings and queens...
And referred to as someone's prince or princess,
Actually believed...
Themselves royalty.

And I always knew,
There was something within me great.
But I was taught to always appreciate life.
To respect everyone.
No matter what they had or however looked like.

And I always knew,
There was something within me great.
But I was taught to always appreciate life.
To respect everyone.
No matter where they lived.
Or impressions they 'gave'...
About how they lived their lives.

I was not raised to believe...
I was better than anyone to enable me,
To pass that kind of judgement.
And to have that encouraged,
To be welcomed or received as a belief.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Riding The Dark Horse

Riding along on the dark horse of sadness.
Each day or night.
The dark horse is my companion.
We ride through life.
On a dark stream of light.
Riding along side is depression.
My second companion.
We ride together in search of happiness.
We never find.

Riding the dark horse through this life.
I'm filled with sorrow.
Tears are inside.
As I reflect on my journey through life.
I see that the dark horse has always been,
what I ride.
The dark horse of sorrow.
Has always been by my side.

I will continue to ride,
The dark horse in this life.
Until I die.
Exchanging the dark horse for white,
as I cross the great divide.
Entering the gates of life on the other side.
Where happiness I may finally find.
Leaving the dark horse of sorrow behind.

Taking the two companions,
sorrow and depression with me.
As I ride to the other side.
Changing their apperance to laughter and joy.
As I dismount on heaven's shore.
Filled with so much joy.
As I look back on my journey.
That I rode to heavens door.
I finally see the beauty of my companions.
That rode with me upon life's shores.
They changed before my eyes.
Becoming laughter and joy.
Beautiful spirits of love to behold.
That rode on the dark horse of life with me.
Till reaching heavens shore.

poem by Weeping Willow
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Different Sunset.

Kempton was one of your
Best friends at school he
Was a year older than you
And having had polio it left
Him with a limp and when
He ran it seemed as if he was
Riding an imaginary horse
And to keep up with him
You had to ride one too.
Your horse was brown
And ordinary but his was
White like the one the Lone
Ranger rode and when you
Both came out of the movies
You rode off into the sunset
Together you trying to keep
Up with him as he rode ahead.
You envied his small collection
Of knives. His father brought
Them back from the WW2 taken
From dead Germans and they
Were laid out in his bedroom
Like a small treasure trove big
And small ones and your eyes
Ran over them bound down
With an inner envy. All you had
Was a small penknife which you
Bought out of pocket money
You’d earned running errands
And kept in the loop of your jeans
Where the belt went through.
Kempton rode off into another
Bright sunset from you in 1961.
You think of him now and then
Riding into a different sunset
A young boy amongst old men.

poem by Terry Collett
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Mostly it would be those who rode in a particular even would hang out with those who rode in the same event.

quote by Chris LeDoux
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A White Horse Of The Most Magical Kind

She rode a white horse,
rode it for sanity;
galloped and cantered
with rhythmic consistency,
walked for a while
along glistening streams
and trotted through dark woods
with the darkest of dreams.

Bridled with a need to express
she rode east and rode west,
never stopping or ceasing her quest,
until she reached
the most beautiful shore,
of a beach of white sand
with a moon in the sky
that reached with its moonlight
into her heart, that had cried.

She dismounted the horse
and danced on the sands
with stars in her eyes;
pure love in her hands.
She looked at her horse
praised it and said
'a horse such as you
is a magical find
a horse that's named poetry
is the most wonderful kind.'

poem by David Taylor
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They Rode My Back Like Hungry Fleas

The teachers I initially had,
Earlier in my developing life...
I despised.
Yes.
I thought them to be insensitive and mean.
And I held onto that belief,
With thoughts they were purposely picking on me.

And it took me years to realize their critiques,
Were from expectations they wanted me to reach.
They knew inside me I can and could do better.
They knew inside me an opportunity,
I did not then see.
But a pushing with their efforts increased my abilities.

The teachers I initially had,
Earlier in my developing life...
I despised.
Yes.
I thought them to be insensitive and mean.
And I held onto that belief,
With thoughts they were purposely picking on me.
Just to ride on my back like a pack of hungry fleas.

'Mister Pertillar?
I've read your essay...
'They Rode My Back Like A Pack Of Hungry Roaches'.
Change 'roaches' to 'fleas'.
Fleas are blood suckers.'

But...
My essay is about teachers I hate.

'I hate roaches too!
However...
If you accept my recommendation,
You will eventually come to realize...
The usage of 'fleas' will have a uniqueness.
And a far better bite.
I suggest...
'They Rode My Back Like Hungry Fleas''

There is no pleasing 'you' people,
Is it?

'Excuse me?
What did you say? '

They Rode My Back Like Hungry Fleas.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Faces Of Death

Rode a motorbike in the rain
rode it wild and fast
soon as now I shall feel the pain
when I shatter like crystal glass.

I’m so tired I’m so tired
clouds race across the sky.
I saw a man I saw a man
a man about to die.
I’ve lived too long lived too long
too much I’ve seen have I.

As broken he lay dying
alone on an alien shore
the birds all stopped singing
till after, he would breathe no more.

Silence sharp profound
until rain fell like tears,
upon the ground.
Sheltering the peace he wears
a soothing healing sound
washing away anguish of cruel years.

To those who gave
understanding beauty love.
A blessing that will save
the end is not the grave.

To those who crushed or killed
the blood of innocence
cries loud and shrill.
This is no secret not to know
in humility teach and show.

In the hall of recorded memories,
restitution judgment is at hand.
Every act, anywhere, ever done,
conscience imposes on the man.

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Chameleon? Me? No!

A chameleon? Me? No!
But I have appeared on scenes,
Unseen.
Ignored...
And not directly disrespected.
Unless someone regarded me as a pesty insect.
And someone named Jackson...
In my youth did me like that.
A bitter woman that lack attraction.

A chameleon? Me? No!
But I have appeared on scenes,
Unseen.
Not that others were being mean.
I'm not one to call attention to myself.
If it is given,
What can I say?
Go away?

I've tried that before!
It doesn't work.
Then I'm considered a complete jerk.
An egomaniac with insecurities.

A chameleon?
Me?
No!
I don't choose or wish to be.
Nor is that need inside of me.

I just love who it is I am.
With a love of life I experience.
And if others see that differently?
What about that can I really say?
Don't do it like that...
Do that my way?

There is too much to digest.
Too much life I have not lived yet.
To make confessions,
Of how I wished I had lived my life?
The way I 'could' have lived it.
And did that to my delight!

A chameleon?
Me?
No!
'Me' know just 'me' and that's it!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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An Uncommon Reality

I never lived in your world.
I never knew what it was like.
I have no real conception, of what normality is?
I never had to take drugs to escape.

I already lived in a world of my own.
I never aimed for or earnestly sort the high life.
I lived an artistic life, of the mind of the soul,
forever separating my life, from the common life.

From the common man and the common clay.

Everything was so sharp and clearly in focus.
Everywhere I saw and heard and knew too much.

I lived upon a heightened vibration rate
an awareness; as incredibly focused intensity.
I lived with such dynamic, personal passion,
I did not know; what it was like; to be passionless.

I knew that some people lived husks of life
but I; did not fully know; what it was to be a husk.
I always had somewhere beneath adversity
which afflicted me; the redemption; of artistic insight.

I guess this explains why husks gather,
so many possessions, to prop up their lives.
Husks are so empty, they often get blown away,
by the soulless wind, generating materialistic values.

I bequeath
a sacred gift
to enhance
enrich such lives.

Come live within
spirit of creativity
one spirit almighty
our divine creator.

Copyright © Terence George Craddock

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Here Lie's The truth

“Here Lies the truth”,
On Her tombstone this will be wrote.
It was never spoke when She was living,
So also in death, it will be unspoke.
By Her it was never said
it was as though pulling out Her soul,
So here lies the truth and herself dead
Both has died in sadness and woe.

Here lies the truth,
Not once by her was it cried,
Not in the days that she was living,
Not even in the day that She had died.
She must of believed that it was a sin
To open Her heart and listen to the word
So She closed her heart and locked it shut,
And She never believed in no one but Her.

Here lies the truth,
It lived but a very short life,
Though the Woman died of years of age
The truth though, never had a chance to try.
Everyone She knew had learned Her lie
They never believed a word that she said
So when She finally tried to speak the truth,
Her heart stopped; and She laid dead.

Here lies the truth
It lived but a very short life,
It was loved by neither Child or Man,
For they believe its living was but a lie.
So here in the grave it will lay dead
As it had lived in this woman's soul,
Never again will it be uttered or thought of,
Never till the end of time will it be thought of or known.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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So Much Life Longing For More Life

SO MUCH LIFE LONGING FOR MORE LIFE

So much life longing for more life
Wanting to live so much
To feel to experience to know to enjoy to love.

So much life
Others have lived
So much life
I would have lived.

And the life I have lived?
More than I can know or understand
So much of it gone forever.

And all the longing and all the memories
And all the love,
Where is it now?

I have lived so much
And never lived enough
And want to live too much more
And know I will never live enough
And know I have lived so much much more
Than I will ever know again.

Life and more life,
Longing and more longing,
Life- Please God-
Not Death.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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