The Gates of Paradise
The eternal entrance into Eden
Is not locked with seven precious seals;
It has no charms nor light of heaven,
And the people don't know that it is.
It's a doorway in a wall forgotten --
Stones, moss and nothing more else,
Near stands a beggar; and the rotten,
Keys are hanging at his gaudy waist.
Paladins ride by in agitation,
Trumpets wail, and minted silver chant;
Nobody spares his attention
To the Peter -- the Apostle, the saint.
They dream: There, by Sepulchre of Savor,
Paradise will open doors for us;
At the footing of the Mount Thabor
The committed hour will thrust.
So by the armored monster goes;
In the air the trumpets ring and wail;
The Apostle in the tattered cloth,
Like a beggar, looks and poor and pale.
poem by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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Running To Paradise
As I came over Windy Gap
They threw a halfpenny into my cap.
For I am running to paradise;
And all that I need do is to wish
And somebody puts his hand in the dish
To throw me a bit of salted fish:
And there the king is but as the beggar.
My brother Mourteen is worn out
With skelping his big brawling lout,
And I am running to paradise;
A poor life, do what he can,
And though he keep a dog and a gun,
A serving-maid and a serving-man:
And there the king is but as the beggar.
Poor men have grown to be rich men,
And rich men grown to be poor again,
And I am running to paradise;
And many a darling wit's grown dull
That tossed a bare heel when at school,
Now it has filled a old sock full:
And there the king is but as the beggar.
The wind is old and still at play
While I must hurty upon my way.
For I am running to paradise;
Yet never have I lit on a friend
To take my fancy like the wind
That nobody can buy or bind:
And there the king is but as the beggar.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Wail! , Wail! ! , Wail! ! ! for HAITI.
Wail, ! Wail, ! ! Wail for HAITI! ! ! ! ! !
Wail for the sight is Gory,
Wail for the deaths of these Infants
Wail for the deaths of these women, ; young, and Old
Wail for the loss of the productive workforce of this Nation
Wail for the Calamity that came within few seconds to claim thousands of lives.
Wail for the loss of generations of this Land called Haiti
Wail for the Unconsolable mothers, and fathers for the loss of their loved ones
Wail, if you have tears in your tear glands,
Wail, if you have heart that is meek
May the Almighty console us all, for the sights of the dead in the rubbles too frightening to look.
poem by Segun Rasaki
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Be not a beggar
Avoid seeking aids
Unless in bare needs;
Avoid getting helps
Unless in dire needs.
Provide in equals
To those aids and helps.
You should not afford
To be a beggar.
Offer help and aids
That must not be baits;
Offer gifts and kinds
That should not be a debt.
Your pay out should not be
Less than your receipts.
You cannot afford to be a beggar,
You be not greedy
Which makes you ugly.
Then you aren’t shut
Doors by the dear ones.
You may remain poor
But not a beggar.
Being a beggar
Is worse than a slave.
18 09,2005
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Hind Horn
In Scotland there was a babie born,
Lill lal, etc.
And his name it was called young Hind Horn.
With a fal lal, etc.
He sent a letter to our king
That he was in love with his daughter Jean.
He's gien to her a silver wand,
With seven living lavrocks sitting thereon.
She's gien to him a diamond ring,
With seven bright diamonds set therein.
"When this ring grows pale and wan,
You may know by it my love is gane."
One day as he looked his ring upon,
He saw the diamonds pale and wan.
He left the sea and came to land,
And the first that he met was an old beggar man.
"What news, what news?" said young Hind Horn;
"No news, no news," said the old beggar man.
"No news," said the beggar, "no news at a',
But there is a wedding in the king's ha.
"But there is a wedding in the king's ha,
That has halden these forty days and twa."
"Will ye lend me your begging coat?
And I'll lend you my scarlet cloak.
"Will you lend me your beggar's rung?
And I'll gie you my steed to ride upon.
"Will you lend me your wig o hair,
To cover mine, because it is fair?"
The auld beggar man was bound for the mill,
But young Hind Horn for the king's hall.
The auld beggar man was bound for to ride,
But young Hind Horn was bound for the bride.
When he came to the king's gate,
He sought a drink for Hind Horn's sake.
The bride came down with a glass of wine,
When he drank out the glass, and dropt in the ring.
"O got ye this by sea or land?
Or got ye it off a dead man's hand?"
"I got not it by sea, I got it by land,
And I got it, madam, out of your own hand."
"O I'll cast off my gowns of brown,
And beg wi you frae town to town.
"O I'll cast off my gowns of red,
And I'll beg wi you to win my bread."
"Ye needna cast off your gowns of brown,
For I'll make you lady o many a town.
"Ye needna cast off your gowns of red,
It's only a sham, the begging o my bread."
The bridegroom he had wedded the bride,
But young Hind Horn he took her to bed.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Keys To The Kingdom
The keys to Heaven’s Kingdom, open up eternal things to come,
They’re keys that you do receive, when in Christ you do believe.
A Truth revealed to us from, The God of Heaven about His Son,
That His Son is indeed The Christ, and in The Son we have life.
Christ dear friend is The Key, to open hearts and minds to see,
This Truth will help you to see, that God’s Kingdom is in Eternity,
Eternal truth of God from above, the Truth of God’s Eternal Love.
Keys that open up Truth of God, on this earth we presently trod.
To reach men of every nation, with the keys to God’s Salvation.
With the Keys we will enter in, His Eternal Kingdom with no sin.
He will build His Church with us, as in Christ men place their trust,
Living stones upon one foundation, Christ our Rock and Salvation.
All Authority is given to the Son, to build the Church and Kingdom.
His Authority gives men power, to live for Him each day and hour.
To share this access with others, bringing to Christ many brothers.
Access we receive from Christ, is used by God through every life,
With access comes responsibility, helping other men come to see,
It’s His Name we must confess, the name of Christ to gain access.
Whatever you bind on this earth, will become for you eternal worth,
And whatever you do not bind, upon this earth, shall be left behind.
You must deny your earthly plan, when you follow The Son of Man,
Dying to our worldly needs, to share with men The Kingdom’s Keys,
Becoming for Him a living sacrifice, to gain New Life in Jesus Christ.
Leading men from the dark of night, into the Kingdom’s Eternal Light,
This by passing on the only Keys, to His Kingdom that will not cease.
(07/2006)
Apostle's Warning
apostle's warning,
this is the apostle's warning,
keep integrated in love,
for the earth front fought us,
there are numerous way you can sin,
for Christ warned us not to sin,
We move praising creation and teaching the lost soul's,
That the true apostle's shouldn't envy,
That they are all different for the true spiritual redemption,
Keep up for that infinite occult eye that changed thee.
poem by Maxim Muyu
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Ring Them Bells
Ring them bells yea heathen from the city that dreams
Ring them bells from the sanctuaries cross the valleys and streams
For they're deep and they're wide
And the world's on it's side
And time is running backwards and so is the bride
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells!
Ring them bells Saint Peter where the four winds blow
Ring them bells with an iron hand so the people will know
That the rush hour is now on the wheel and the plow and the sun is going down upon the sacred cow
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells Saint Martha for the poor man's son
Ring them bells so the world will know that God is one
For the shepherd is asleep where the willows weep
And the mountains are filled with little lost sheep
Ring them bells for the blind and the deaf
Ring them bells for all of us who are left
Ring them bells for the chosen few who would judge the many when the game is through
Ring them bells for the time that flies
song performed by by Heart from Desire Walks On
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Spaewife
OH, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Why chops are guid to brander and nane sae guid to fry.
An’ siller, that ’s sae braw to keep, is brawer still to gi’e.
It ’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
Oh, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Hoo a’things come to be whaur we find them when we try,
The lasses in their claes an’ the fishes in the sea.
It ’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
Oh, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Why lads are a’ to sell an’lasses a’ to buy;
An’ naebody for dacency but barely twa or three.
It ’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
Oh, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
Gin death’s as shure to men as killin’ is to kye,
Why God has filled the yearth sae fu’ o’ tasty things to pree.
It ’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
Oh, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I—
The reason o’ the cause an’ the wherefore o’ the why,
Wi’ mony anither riddle brings the tear into my e’e.
It ’s gey an’ easy spierin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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What Power On Earth Changes Saul?
What miracle of transformation
what power on earth in heaven changes
Saul into amazing Apostle Paul?
Saul of Tarsus changed his name, became widely known,
as Apostle Paul, wrote about 25% of New Testament;
devoted next 32 years, witnessing Jesus as the Messiah.
Yes Apostle Paul was martyred;
for his faith in Jesus as Messiah
a man chosen personally by God;
Paul's written words;
are the testimony of a man
that violently persecuted;
as many early Christians
as he could arrest seize execute;
then became a Christian
due to a supernatural spiritual experience;
God assigns Saul a unique transformation Acts 22: 6-11
as Apostle Paul he will preach to gentiles.
Split imaging from the poem ‘Transformation Inquisition Saul Into Paul Of Tarsus'.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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St.Gregory's Guest
A TALE for Roman guides to tell
To careless, sight-worn travellers still,
Who pause beside the narrow cell
Of Gregory on the Caelian Hill.
One day before the monk's door came
A beggar, stretching empty palms,
Fainting and fast-sick, in the name
Of the Most Holy asking alms.
And the monk answered, 'All I have
In this poor cell of mine I give,
The silver cup my mother gave;
In Christ's name take thou it, and live.'
Years passed; and, called at last to bear
The pastoral crook and keys of Rome,
The poor monk, in Saint Peter's chair,
Sat the crowned lord of Christendom.
'Prepare a feast,' Saint Gregory cried,
'And let twelve beggars sit thereat.'
The beggars came, and one beside,
An unknown stranger, with them sat.
'I asked thee not,' the Pontiff spake,
'O stranger; but if need be thine,
I bid thee welcome, for the sake
Of Him who is thy Lord and mine.'
A grave, calm face the stranger raised,
Like His who on Gennesaret trod,
Or His on whom the Chaldeans gazed,
Whose form was as the Son of God.
'Know'st thou,' he said, 'thy gift of old?'
And in the hand he lifted up
The Pontiff marvelled to behold
Once more his mother's silver cup.
'Thy prayers and alms have risen, and bloom
Sweetly among the flowers of heaven.
I am The Wonderful, through whom
Whate'er thou askest shall be given.'
He spake and vanished. Gregory fell
With his twelve guests in mute accord
Prone on their faces, knowing well
Their eyes of flesh had seen the Lord.
The old-time legend is not vain;
Nor vain thy art, Verona's Paul,
Telling it o'er and o'er again
On gray Vicenza's frescoed wall.
Still wheresoever pity shares
Its bread with sorrow, want, and sin,
And love the beggar's feast prepares,
The uninvited Guest comes in.
Unheard, because our ears are dull,
Unseen, because our eyes are dim,
He walks our earth, The Wonderful,
And all good deeds are done to Him.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Beggar To Beggar Cried
'TIME to put off the world and go somewhere
And find my health again in the sea air,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
'And make my soul before my pate is bare.-
'And get a comfortable wife and house
To rid me of the devil in my shoes,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
'And the worse devil that is between my thighs.'
And though I'd marry with a comely lass,
She need not be too comely -- let it pass,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
'But there's a devil in a looking-glass.'
'Nor should she be too rich, because the rich
Are driven by wealth as beggars by the itch,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
'And cannot have a humorous happy speech.'
'And there I'll grow respected at my ease,
And hear amid the garden's nightly peace.'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
'The wind-blown clamour of the barnacle-geese.'
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Coronation
At the king's gate the subtle noon
Wove filmy yellow nets of sun;
Into the drowsy snare too soon
The guards fell one by one.
Through the king's gate, unquestioned then,
A beggar went and laughed, 'This brings
Me chance, at last, to see if men
Fare better being kings.'
The king sat bowed beneath his crown,
Propping his face with listless hand;
Watching the hour-glass sifting down
Too slow its shining sand.
'Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?'
The beggar turned, and pitying,
Replied, like one in dream, 'Of thee,
Nothing. I want the king.'
Uprose the king, and from his head
Shook off the crown, and threw it by.
'O man, thou must have known,' said he,
'A greater king than I.'
Through all the gates, unquestioned then,
Went king and beggar hand in hand.
Whispered the king, 'Shall I know when
Before
his
throne I stand?'
The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste
Were wiping from the king's hot brow
The crimson lines the crown had traced.
'This is his presence now.'
At the king's gate, the crafty noon
Unwove its yellow nets of sun;
Out of their sleep in terror soon
The guards waked one by one.
'Ho here! Ho There! Has no man seen
The king?' The cry ran to and fro;
Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween,
The laugh that free men know.
On the king's gate the moss grew gray;
The king came not. They called him dead;
And made his eldest son one day
Slave in his father's stead.
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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Paradise Sold For A Bargain Profit
paradise found a precious miracle opportunity
paradise lost a sold tragedy for all humanity
we seek strive to find an Eden flash back steadily
an angel no longer stands guard prohibitively
contract entrance denied industrial rivalry enmity
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Trumpets
Your love feels
Like trumpets sound
I said your love feels
Like trumpets sound
Your life is like a mountain
Yes, your life is like a mountain
And your heart is like a church
With wide open doors
And to be with you
Is to find myself in the best of dreams
Your love feels like trumpets
Your love feels
Like high summer
Your love feels
Like high, high, summer
Your life is like an ocean
Yes, your life is like an ocean
I want to dive in naked
Lose myself in your depths
I want to be with you
To find myself in the best of dreams
Your love feels like trumpets
Please dont wake me
No dont shake me
I want to be with you
When being with you is the same
The same as being you
Your love feels like trumpets
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Only One Mediator
Friend, there is but one mediator, set between man and his Creator.
And it was the very Son of God, Jesus Christ, who received the nod.
Pray not to common folk like us, even if that be the mother of Jesus.
God’s chosen vessel, this is true, but still a sinner, like me and you.
The adoration of the Virgin Mary, and its practice is oh so contrary,
Conflicting with Words of Scripture, where we see a different picture.
A humble servant knew her Creator, was indeed her Lord and Savior.
As the chosen vessel she was blessed, yet a sinner just like the rest.
And as of today, close to a myth, is the exalted office of the Pontiff.
Only a man raised in a sinful life, named by men the Vicar of Christ.
Said to be the successive leader, of the very first Pontiff Saint Peter,
The leader of the Gentile Church, but have you done any research?
By Peter it would have been refused, as he was Apostle to the Jews.
Paul was Apostle to the Gentiles, read the epistles, there’s no denial.
Today men don’t follow Peter’s trend, for he was also married friend.
From an Apostle who had a wife, to today’s leader of the celibate life.
Call no man Father, Jesus had said, for no one can stand in His stead.
Christ’s heart it must surely bother, when they call a Pope Holy Father.
Worship of any man, there’s no denial, is akin to the worship of an idol.
This is one Commandment of the ten, which is forgotten by Holy men.
These are only two fabrications, which have deceived all the nations,
Fabrications contrary to God’s Word, that the early Church had heard.
But, God’s Truth will not be denied, no matter how long men have lied.
Though they believe it to be true, Christ will say Truth you never knew.
(Copyright ©10/2005)
Sad Trumpets
sad trumpets pronouncing
taking me to a place
i can only almost reach.
always wanting
my hand outstretched
empty
and the sad soft trumpets
echo
somewhere.
they call to me
full
and soon the sad trumpets
are gone.
they never were.
only the faded shadow
of a memory.
poem by Anna Moriarty Lev
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Hagar
SHE went along the road,
Her baby in her arms,
The night and its alarms
Made deadlier her load.
Her shrunken breasts were dry;
She felt the hunger bite.
She lay down in the night,
She and the child, to die.
But it would wail, and wail,
And wail. She crept away.
She had no word to say,
Yet still she heard it wail.
She took a jagged stone;
She wished it to be dead.
She beat it on the head;
It only gave one moan.
She has no word to say;
She sits there in the night.
The east sky glints with light,
And it is Christmas Day!
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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A Lament For Adonis
Cytherea, thy dainty Adonis is dying!
Ah, what shall we do?
O Nymphs, let it echo, the voice of your crying,
The greenwood through!
O Forest-maidens, smite on the breast,
Rend ye the delicate-woven vest!
Let the wail ring wild and high:
'Ah for Adonis!' cry.
O Sappho, how canst thou chant the bliss
Of Kypris — after such day as this?
'Oh Adonis, thou leavest me — woe for my lot!
And Eros, my servant, availeth me not!'
So wails Cytherea, grief-distraught.
'Who shall console me for thee? There is none —
Not Ares my god-lover, passionate one
Who sware in his jealousy forth to hale
Hephaestus my spouse from his palace, if he
Dared but to lift his eyes unto me.
Not he can console me, Adonis, for thee!'
Wail for Adonis, wail!
Behind closed doors
Doors made of steel
others made of wood
life going on behind them
things that are bad and good.
Doors that are always closed
while some are forever open wide
behind doors can lie secrets
and where people can go to hide.
A door opened to a new future
another one blocking your way
families at war behind the door
but where children can happily play.
Prisoners locked in behind solid doors
waiting for the key to turn in the lock
as lonely people sit in their homes
waiting for someone just to knock.
The doors of Gold created in Heaven
only opened for the chosen few
behind them lies an eternal life
but will they open for me or you?
poem by Kevin Halls
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‘He came unto His own, and His own received Him not’
As Christ the Lord was passing by,
He came, one night, to a cottage door.
He came, a poor man, to the poor;
He had no bed whereon to lie.
He asked in vain for a crust of bread,
Standing there in the frozen blast.
The door was locked and bolted fast.
‘Only a beggar!’ the poor man said.
Christ the Lord went further on,
Until He came to a palace gate.
There a king was keeping his state,
In every window the candles shone.
The king beheld Him out in the cold.
He left his guests in the banquet-hall.
He bade his servants tend them all.
‘I wait on a Guest I know of old.’
‘’Tis only a beggar-man!’ they said.
‘Yes,’ he said; ‘it is Christ the Lord.’
He spoke to Him a kindly word,
He gave Him wine and he gave Him bread.
Now Christ is Lord of Heaven and Hell,
And all the words of Christ are true.
He touched the cottage, and it grew;
He touched the palace, and it fell.
The poor man is become a king.
Never was man so sad as he.
Sorrow and Sin on the throne make three,
He has no joy in mortal thing.
But the sun streams in at the cottage door
That stands where once the palace stood.
And the workman, toiling to earn his food,
Was never a king before.
poem by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
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