En.Citatepedia^®.ro

I saw them

I saw Mr.Hitler was carrying an enormous swastika of bronze
on his shoulder.
I saw Mr.Napoleon too, was riding on a huge horse of copper
with his blunt sword.
both were heading to a pasture to cut some grass.
They passed themselves speechless
as two enimies of a movie.
The pasture was belonged to a pauper once.
He too a war-hero
and his name was unknown.

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Just a Horse

A friend died recently
Our hearts filled with remorse
Some may not understand
They’ll say, “He was just a horse”

Broke his heart to sell Apache
But when Dad died he was forced
Three hundred and fifty dollars
“If you want just a horse”

For my daughter, a new chapter
In her growing up course
Her heart and eyes burned bright
Yet, “he was just a horse”

In the arena, through the poles
Riding natures own source
Mounted on her lithe steed
“Yes, he was just a horse”

A queen in the parade
With a crown and sash, of course
Riding regally through the cheering crowd
Noble and proud, “but just a horse”

In the corral or just around the pasture
Listening to her gentle discourse
Love applied with a curry brush
For an animal “who was just a horse”

God created all the animals
Before he created man in due course
Gave humanity all his best
God’s own plan, but “never just a horse”

poem by Ron Secoy
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Bronzes

I

The bronze General Grant riding a bronze horse in Linc-
oln Park
Shrivels in the sun by day when the motor cars whirr
by in long processions going somewhere to keep ap-
pointment for dinner and matineés and buying and
selling
Though in the dusk and nightfall when high waves are
piling
On the slabs of the promenade along the lake shore near
by
I have seen the general dare the combers come closer
And make to ride his bronze horse out into the hoofs
and guns of the storm.

II

I cross Lincoln Park on a winter night when the snow
is falling.
Lincoln in bronze stands among the white lines of snow,
his bronze forehead meeting soft echoes of the new-
sies crying forty thousand men are dead along the
Yser, his bronze ears listening to the mumbled roar
of the city at his bronze feet.
A lithe Indian on a bronze pony, Shakespeare seated with
long legs in bronze, Garibaldi in a bronze cape, they
hold places in the cold, lonely snow to-night on their
pedestals and so they will hold them past midnight
and into the dawn.

poem by Carl Sandburg
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Get Back

(LennonMcCartney)
[Sweet Loretta Fat thought she was a cleaner but she was a frying pan.]
Jojo was a man who thought he was a loner
But he knew it wouldn't last.
Jojo left his home in Tucson, Arizona
For some California grass.
Get back, get back.
Get back to where you once belonged
Get back, get back.
Get back to where you once belonged.
Get back Jojo. Go home
Get back, get back.
Back to where you once belonged
Get back, get back.
Back to where you once belonged.
Get back Jo.
Sweet Loretta Martin thought she was a woman
But she was another man
All the girls around her say she's got it coming
But she gets it while she can
Get back, get back.
Get back to where you once belonged
Get back, get back.
Get back to where you once belonged.
Get back Loretta. Go home
Get back, get back.
Get back to where you once belonged
Get back, get back.
Get back to where you once belonged.
Get back Loretta
Your mother's waiting for you
Wearing her high-heel shoes
And her low-neck sweater
Get on home Loretta
Get back, get back.
Get back to where you once belonged.
[Thanks, Mo! ...on behalf of the group I hope we passed the audition.]

song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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He Entered Into Battle With A Blunt Edged Sword

He entered into battle with a blunt edged sword,
But he did not know quite why.
His sword selection was done without motive,
To battle and kill his fellow man.

So subconsciously he picked out this sword.
This sword not of this world, not out to cut to bleed.
But this innocent man didn't wish to realize,
What prize he would pay.

In midst of this battle, recieving the swiftest,
Blows from his enemy,
This soldier just kept getting hurt.
Five, six and seven more blows made him hit back,

This soldier proudly used his blunt sword,
Till his nemesis bearing a razor sharp one,
Came along and challenged the already fallen one,
Who gave a swift plunge into his enemy's heart.

But the enemy did not stagger or fall.
Neither did the soldier with the blunt sword.
This soldier's enemy left the battleground,
When he saw that the one with the blunt sword,

Knew all along the possibility of his death.
Still he fought, so he himself could die,
Which the other soldier was saddened by that man's stance.

He told that man, 'if we all fought battles with a blunt
sword,
Then we would all truly win,
For the battleground would know no mortality.

He further told him, 'because of you, your side
Truly wins. But so does our.
We love you,
Blunt edged sword soldier man.'

poem by Vera Sidhwa
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I was at the pinnacle of my career one day and the next day I was put out to pasture. I felt like a race horse with a broken leg.

quote by Jack Klugman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Morning Sunlight

The sunlight hits down on the dew of the grass.
The farm animals walk past,
I turn to my horse.
This animal is the best love source.
I look towards the sun,
A new day has begun.
The pinkish-orange sky is beautiful.
The chilly breeze is suitable.
It won't be long until it gets warm.
I look off into the distance to see around the fresh hay, an animal swarm.
I couldn't blame them, I'd be hungry, too.
Laying in that barn all night in the cold with nothing to do.
I slip into my cowboy boots and throw on my cowgirl hat,
soon, roams by, the old, fat, cat.
That cat is so old, he's older than me.
He probably can't even see.
I lead my horse out to the pasture.
I remember what it was like here last year.
Not even a single horse let-lone a pony.
Now its filled with grazer, even an animal full of balony.
That pig is so cute I could cry.
Cross my heart and hope to die, I promise this is not a lie.
I smile and fill the food pan.
Fill the water cans.
It is my job of course.
I mount my horse.

September 24,2012

poem by Anna Hardin
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Sufferings

Transplanting is a disturbance-
From pasture to desert
Or desert to pasture, no doubt.
Parting is a discomfort-
From heaven to hell
Or hell to heaven, like that.
Discomfort is suffering
That you can not escape
As change is a recurrence.
17.03.2006

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Lovers In The Back Seats At The Movies

Two young lovers in the back seats of the movie house
Beautiness cuddliness loveliness holding hands,
Youths pleasure, everyone quiet as a mouse
The flickering light shows a Caliph riding across the burning sands,

Riding hard to save a captive princess his love of many years,
The two, oblivious to everything except each other's touch
This caliph, has the princess in his arms certainly with no tears,
An' wow this hour they love each other oh so much.

A mighty sword flashes across the screen and downs the Devil thief,
The victor frees his love and lifts her on to his horse
Then rides off on to the horizon goodness his belief,
A movie we all love with a happy ending of course.

OMG our young lovers are still kissing
Wake up little Susie what a movie they've been missing,
A flashing torch makes them end their date
For he did say 'I promise we won't be late'

poem by Ken e Hall
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Lust Africans

Looking for greener pasture
outside the greenland
what are they really
looking for outside the
greenland
how can i leave my greenland
for lust of madness
the lust keep blinding
them
the greener pasture is
here in Africa

poem by Senator alufalism
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I remember one day I was at Grandpa's farm and I asked him about sex. He sort of smiled and said, 'Maybe instead of telling you what sex is, why don't we go out to the horse pasture and I'll show you.' So we did, and there on the ground were my parents having sex.

Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XIII

And what strange sights have these threewindows seen,
Mid bonnes and children, in the Tuileries!
What flights of hero, Emperor and Queen,
Since first I looked down from them, one of these!
Here, with his Mornys and his Persignys,
Louis Napoleon, the Prince President,
Rode one December past us, on the breeze
Of his new glory, bloodstained and intent.
Later, I too my love's diplomacies
Played at Eugenia's court,--blest Empress! Then
How did men curse her with their Marseillaise,
When the foe's horse was watered in her Seine,
And the flames, lit for her last festival,
Licked out her palace and its glories all.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Telling The Truth

Telling of Truths
A brown horse galloped across a snowy field at the end
of the pasture a fence, it jumped over and continued its
crazy gallop into the woods only came to a shuddering
halt when it saw a moose. Steaming nostrils, the moose
charged, horse fled deeper into the woods. Where it met
a forest troll who took it into his cave and gave the horse
a bucket of hot chocolate to drink. Since the snow deep
and tiring to sink into when walking, the troll also fitted
the horse with snow shoes; also, the troll had no need of
a horse led it back to its field. When the farmer came to
fetch his horse and saw the snowshoes, he had a nervous
breakdown and sent away to an asylum, where doctors
tried to convince him it was all in his mind. But the farmer
would have none of it. So he is still there and they will not
release him until he agrees with them that a horse wears
iron shoes and not snowshoes.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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A pale Horse, George A. Custer and the Seventh Calvary

A horse to Ride, A sword to wield,
an ocean of grass to tame.
The Seventh was out in the field
to make George Custer’s name.

The village stretched before them,
Custer split his force in three.
Reno’s men struck from the south
and were taking casualties.

Did Custer reach the river
before the native’s struck?
This hero of the Civil war
had just run out of luck.

Major. Reno sensed the trap and fled
And found a place to stand
Benteen brought his men to Reno
to lend a helping hand.

A horse to Ride, A sword to wield
An ocean of grass to tame
The Seventh was out in the field
to make George Custer’s name.

Out upon the greasy grass
George tried to make a stand
Two hundred men surrounded
There was a breakdown in command.

Outnumbered and surrounded
Some men simply broke and ran
But death was not to be denied,
Their blood fed thirsty sand.

Custer, mortally wounded,
with a bullet near his heart.
did not live to see the rest.
His troopers hacked apart.

The position held by Reno
And commanded by Benteen
survived several furious assaults
before the natives fled the scene.

Relieved by General Terry’s force,
They sought their fallen ones-
The bodies hacked and naked,
decomposing in the sun.

No horse to Ride, No sword to wield,
an ocean of grass untamed.
The Seventh lay out in the field
That was the cost of fame.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Clearing of the Land: An Epitaph

The trees went up the hill
And over it.
Then the dry grasses of the pasture were
Only a kind of blonde light
Settling everywhere
And framing the randomly strewn
Outcropping of gray stone

That anchored them to soil.

Who were they?
One in the picture, & one not, & both
Scotch-Irish drifters,
With nothing in common but a perfect contempt
for a past;
Ancestors of stumps & fallen trees & . . . .
One sits on a sorrel mare,
Idly tossing small stones at the rump
of a steer
That goes on grazing at tough rosettes
of pasture grass & switching its tail
In what is not yet irritation.

What I like, what I

Have always liked, is the way he tosses each small
Stone without thinking, without
A thought for anything, not aiming at all,
The easy, arcing forearm nonchalance
Like someone fly casting,
For this is what
He wanted:
To be among the stones, the grasses,
Savoring a stony self
That reminded him of no one else,
And on land where that poacher, Law,
Had not yet stolen through his fences,
The horse beneath him tensing
Its withers lightly to keep

The summer flies away,

And the woman in the flower-print dress hemmed
With stains
A half mile off
Is the authoress of no more than smoke rising,
Her sole diary & only publication,
From a distant chimney.
They have perhaps a year or two
Left of this
Before history begins to edit them into
Something without smoke or flies, something
Beyond all recognition.

poem by Larry Levis
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Meadow

We are not harmful to any creature
then why they hurt us?
instead of rain
they pour us bombs
from the helpless sky.
Do not forget my friends
under the grass,
Alexander the Great,
Adolf Hitler, Napoleon Bonapart
and so many heroes are quiet
and they are in a deep sleep.

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Get Back

(john lennon, paul mccartney)
[all this and world war ii, various artists, 1976]
Damn this bloody war. periscope up. [spoken by ringo]
Alright, ow
Jo jo was a man who thought he was a loner,
But he knew it wouldnt last.
Jo jo left his home in tucson arizona,
For some california grass.
Get back! get back!
Get back to where you once belonged
Get back! get back!
Get back to where you once belonged.
Get back jo jo
[nstrumental verse]
Get back! get back!
Get back to where you once belonged
You better go on back! get back!
Get back to where you once belonged.
Get back
Yeah
Sweet loretta modern
Thought she was a woman,
But she was another man.
All the girls around her
Said she had it coming
But she gets it while she can.
Get back! get back!
Get back to where you once belonged
Get back! you better get on back
Get back to where you once belonged.
Get back! get back!
Get back to where you once belonged
Get back jo jo
Get back! get back!
Get back to where you once belonged
Ah yeah, ow
Get back, loretta
Youre mamas waitin
Oh yeah
Oh yeah
Ow ow
Ow ow ow
Get back
Me and you
Jo jo was a man who thought he was a loner,
But he knew it couldnt last.
Jo jo left his home in tucson arizona,
For some california grass.

song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dignity

at par
with you
my equal
in this fight
you are
so gentle

when i
lose the grip of
my sword and it falls
on the ground
you have the courage
to pick it up
for me and tell
me
i need it most now

and then
the point of the sword
now faces
frozen at the eye
of my heart

i stare
coldly and i perspire
to the thought
of my death

at this point
you say
tnanks it is fair
and i look at
you again
at par
shoulder to shoulder
my equal

you let me go
you put your sword
in your scabbard
and take the stride
on your white horse
and leave me

agape my mouth
opens
you are at par
with me
my equal
you have all the chance
to kill me at once

but you didn't
you make me live
now
a new man
a fighter rising from his fall
gentle and
brave as ever
to fight
my own wars.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Am Part Of The Load

I am part of the load
Not rightly balanced
I drop off in the grass,
like the old Cave-sleepers, to browse
wherever I fall.

For hundreds of thousands of years I have been dust-grains
floating and flying in the will of the air,
often forgetting ever being
in that state, but in sleep
I migrate back. I spring loose
from the four-branched, time -and-space cross,
this waiting room.

I walk into a huge pasture
I nurse the milk of millennia

Everyone does this in different ways.
Knowing that conscious decisions
and personal memory
are much too small a place to live,
every human being streams at night
into the loving nowhere, or during the day,
in some absorbing work.

poem by Rumi
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A Hero?

Her hero is pretty and thin
Her hero is a hero to many
A hero of fame and a hero of fortune
A role model, a hero of glamour
Her hero is a hero to many

His hero is fit and fast
His hero is a hero to many
A hero of sport, a hero of games
A role model, a hero of victory
His hero is a hero to many

Her hero is clever yet plane
Her hero is a hero to few
A hero of science, a hero of logic
A role model, a hero of knowledge
Her hero is a hero to few

His hero is a hero of art but he is poor
His hero is a hero to few
A hero of word a hero of writings
A role model, a hero of language
His hero is a hero to few

But that’s the thing with your heros....
Hero worship is only skin deep.

poem by Timothy Venard
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The Horse That I Am Riding

then finally, the horse that i am riding,
the black one with long hair and
long feet, flying without wings,
speed nearing the speed of light,
has taken the lead, and the rest follow
tirelessly still,
i do not look back,
i do not beat the horse with a stick
i keep on riding making the horse
feel confident that i am still
supporting its cause, to be first,
to be famous

and then my horse wins,
the owner gets the real buck,
and i the jockey,
merely receives a little name
and a little commission.

the horse gets nothing.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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