Saudade Banquet
A plethora of unconscious states dwindle
And sifts through the intricately entangled
Living, whilst recounting the direst in every breath
Fumbling downhill the insurmountable breadth
Of superfluous strides towards a slumbering aubade
Without a paramour, a beau without the valor
To brawl and bicker with the profane matrimony
To the innuendos of the picador's grand party—
The clout of spears girdled to every slip of malady
Augmented for every bat of the lash, regardless of
Vying, struggling, living on the surface or not,
We all are rather desiccating beneath our colors
Dead as cold fountains trying to spew glacial films
Of flimsy incorporeal yearnings, searing aloft
Reaching the singeing grazes of the Quasar King
Building a vertex to oust the quintessence,
To kiss the ring and slob the strangling,
Dispensing the stashed castles into the quicksand
And fulminating the feral feint cloyed inside
The orbs and corpuscles pumping not too subtly
As the myriad of action crawls in every word
To personify the form of a double-edged sword
That this nostalgic flagellating wisps beckon.
poem by Norman Santos
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Molting From The Flames
Trotting the sandy-hair of mazy maps
With ambivalence hoisted drearily
Into the wanton contours of flaccidly
Wavering irk of my shoulders, singeing
I succumb the obstinate weather
Where fireballs scintillate like doves
And shrills utter of profane debauchery
Dwindling in the lapses of the sine
The fences of three-legged sways espied
Superfluous trample and scars to pawn
Hang adroitly like wind chimes to reckon
I wallow to descry a pint of profanity
Augmented with the strings of vanity
Of sacred parodies, laced not of quandaries
And voraciousness bloats my belly
Burning an ulcer to destruct the veil
Intricately filleting the prostrate grin
Painted for the diurnal holiday spinning
Like a Ferriswheel of throbbing gears
Itching for crumbs and trims for calamities
And scarcities and tyrannies clotting
In the harried ducts of amorphous wraiths
Amidst exuberant pirouettes and drills
Puncturing the stark tinted firmament
I walked through the thin films of ice
Licking the scorching frost in stalactites
A sullying flame of cold tearing spears
Painfully, becoming and unbecoming
What the unfettered telegrams aloft
These sooty walls of rues and blues
Heart snooping coyly in the sinewy rivers
Running through the succinct veins
Molting through the chars and clouts
The prancing flame spew to devour
poem by Norman Santos
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The Days of the Sun
A spill of crimson engulfs the lusty fringing line
Whilst cobalt and mauve bicker to intertwine
And saturate in a gelid-steely hue to define
The girth and skin of the poignant horizon
As the gloaming dawn close to topple the occasion
How many colors does the dusk possess?
And why these few tarry on my firmament?
The plethora of sunsets I obstinately watched
Cannot descry what destitution beguiles
So I count and gaze, on an on, without a mind
A phalanx can beckon the exodus in His corolla,
Obstruct the panorama and anticipate the doom
As it esplanade through a month of setting suns
Futilely for the sunrise yonder its tawny cape
That never comes around, never fixes me bound
Of His elegiac maladroit songs by crickets and cicadas
Somnolent brewed to regurgitate the pensive calculations
For many a sunset only undulates to extend and never ascend
Is solitarily reckoned with a masquerade of rues and whines
As the light of hope and significance fell with the shade casted
In the immense parliament of the looming shadows
I trample vociferously disowned by my own days
And the feigned elation held the sunsets at bay
And, in a fencing veneer, stockpiled are the days to follow
For the adamant raiment of sedative bliss remained
Without my vicious skies, who then am I?
A ray of melancholia sifts through interpolating clouds
Struggling to expose its soigné flesh of albino
Into the torpor of my bleared yet thriving iron eyes
He breathed again, soldering, for a myriad of tomorrows
Emancipated from the mendacious lulls of a lunatic enchant
My heaving toes sauntered back His sorrowful malingering
In a day of dance of building shades, superfluous dips into the sea,
A thousand sheets of stripped sincerity and of risqué vulnerability,
Scull again, days of the sun! Here comes again the siphoned man!
And the moribund croon of the clock spun again
Contriving a forbidden tryst like a foreboding roulette
Pirouetting fate; pointing daggers and rolling heads
A montage in vapors of cold and sighs of incisive death
Mantled in familiar hues; Here comes his comrade gloom!
Back underneath my sky, his old barren dominion
Where sunsets give birth to another painstakingly
And soon it hopes to rise, perhaps in the fester of time
Shall it stand triumphant like a monument of beckoning
The eyes that remembered that once lingered here
For now as I woke from a lucid dream and fly from a debauchery
With sore and hope and rejuvenation of quintessence, I shall
Glacially muse upon the perpetual days of the sun
As it shred its glassine skin and run from everyone
Into oblivion, where all the quasar's grazes wan
poem by Norman Santos
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To Live and Not To Breathe
Five arms snooping coyly
At the persiennes of the equipoise
Of the red dying night and vim of dawn
Rapping the emollient shuddering
So everything paces with synergy
And in these times I am most alive
Inside the cloys of avarice and pride
Growing more eyes and superfluous hands
And my tentacles would permit me
To wander far off, maybe too far
That I reach the enemy lines
Ticking the mines, fulminating the wiles
And the expulsion of solitude
Malingers with the billowing dusts
In the silence of the hiatus
I have been to different abodes
Of auspicious filth dangling the throat;
Families masticating endearment
And thawing faces of loathe,
Lovers quaffing the treacle poison
In the most perfidious shape of words,
Friends plucking out the petals
And shredding the virulent thorns
Of vying to fit in the swirls of the vertigo
Severing honesty from its feral veraciousness
Tangling webs into the shrilling fault of stars
The wanton susurrations inveigles
A carnal strip show in blood bath;
Everyone skewing in the rift
Of astray algebraic fractions
That defines the world's utopic vision
And the paroxysm of the paradox
Disposes oxymoronic metaphors
Of becoming most alive in a submission
I am most alive, musing upon the damp soil
Where the dead lingers casted in the tombs
Of lack of quintessence, the decadence
Is putrefying from inside their bones
Four legs crawled like a centipede
And the thighs wearily pummeled
The verve spiraling in the hex
Of the moon's ostentatious smiles
Beaming in all hidden places
As the odorless town shuffled
And unfettered howls staggered
From precipitating in the rubble
Of a marionette's muffled jeremiad
They resume their deep slumber
They are dead from the very core
And I am most alive, ensconced in solitude
In these times, where I skate my legs
Atrophied from the impassable conquest
Of finding the buried sand castles
In the pores of the dermal scales,
I find myself breathing in to rupture
The inert stance of the rib cage
Incarcerating the daunted veracity
Of a soul, a body, and the malady
Of the vessels abundance in poverty
Ignorance shall save me
As everyone pretends to be fated
And as everyone fated to pretend
Fitting in the heraldry of stars
Or the garden of plucked tulips
Speaking only of foreign tongues
The accordance of the guzzled fangs
Three eyes crossed the pathos,
Two stones hit the head
One dying breath
I woke soused in sweat
Bleeding mediocrity in red
The shallow breaths haunt in echoes
The entire endeavor to become human
Is an aubade without a paramour
A mechanical breathing without verve.
poem by Norman Santos
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Defenestration
Summer passed by the window pane
With a moribund myriad of sunsets
Leaving tricks of soldering sweat
That dissipates too easily in a gush
Like how the dampen tears of mire tousled
Into the affluent scorches of the hearth
And with everything passing by
Like eloquent taillight's goodbye
I found myself in the window pane
Musing with eager eyes and stealthily
Trying to pocket surreal painted memories
But somewhere in the vivid montage
The lucidity becomes agonizingly piercing
That it cuts to the flesh and evokes
Unwanted phantoms of ubiquity and perpetuity
Such abstraction of beauty
Reckoning what will never be
And the maudlin that I am becoming
Sates eagerly in the glacial and lifeless
Palm of the window cradling my thawing face
Winter came with slivers of white
Plummeting immaculately into the ground
And stocking hills in my windowsill
Like the coy elusive tears in my lids
Cliff hanging in incertitude, false hope's servitude
Hapless as the sporadic flight of vicissitude
And the mistral mantle swooned completely
Here goes the malady rapping on the glass
The harbinger of the churning machinism of direst
Yonder the melting of the thin ice
And its smooth moiré of aqueous white
Autumn crawls down into its staircase
With such complacent grace, in eager pace
Crackling maple leaves into the charred sole—
A glissando of cacophonies all too sore
Like debris and remnants of a burned home
Autumn shed its skin in a burlesque show
Whilst my vision doze riveted in the window
Fore the blossoming of the prairie, I grazed
And trample into the superfluous cloys
The balmy scent about to spring and rouse
And before the final clout, the sugary kiss of death
And the saccharine words of the final text
I closed the book, preempting what's next
And the pallid aberrational changes of the season
Had never again crossed and tapped the window
poem by Norman Santos
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To The Kingmakers
A thousand and almost a hundred days in a quicksand
Wavering in constant dithers of your mirage
We subconsciously pulled different directions
As you bask into your floridly tousled lives
I lurked behind the curtains of our allegiance
Drinking your blood crumbling from the banquet
Of a not so subtly profound carousal:
A vortex of your meshed grandiosity
Like a stalactite building fragments of delusions
And gorging upon the sparks of your constellations
I lay there silently vying and scavenging
The sliver of your diamond's affable grating.
From where I cringed saliently breathing
The throne loomed like a statue to envision
How lofty you are against the searing skies
That parted our trifling motions and corrosion
Hence, the swaying of your golden dusts
Revealed the clouds draping the swarthy crust
And in the veneer of this decaying river
I found myself a king amidst your kingdoms.
To my king-makers, let us pummel with the drizzle
And transpire with the smoke of the toppling
Cinders in our charred lips- from different derisions
And collapse with the walls of our celestial
Ideals and visions; let's rebuild a kingdom.
poem by Norman Santos
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Action This Day
Action
This street honey is a mean street
Living in thsi street honey needsa a mean
Streak
Weve got criminals living in this street
But theres a heartbeet pulse that keeps on
Pumping
Like a jukebox playing the same dead record
Or a radio in the corner keeps blaring
I gotta feeling, this world is using me
This town honey is a dead town
Living in this town honey is a showdown
But theres a heartbeat pulse that keep in
Pumping
Some sunshine ray through a crack in a
Shutter
Or a sight of a light at
The end of a tunnel
Still theres a feeling, this world is using me
Action this day
Action this night
Weve gotta learn to learn to live to love
You cant say it aint right
Action this day
Action this night
Youve got the power, youve got the power
Youve got the power to love and to live
You cant say it aint right
Your mind honey is a bleak place
Living in your minds living in a bleak place
Your mind is coming from a rat racce
But theres a heartbeet pulse that keeps on
Pumping
Like a jukebox playing the same dead record
Or a radio in the corner keeps blaring
I gotta feeling that just wont quit, this
World is using me
Action this day
Action this night
Weve gotta learn to learn to live to love
We cant say it aint right
Action this day
Action this night
Youve got the power, youve got the power
Youve got the power to love, to live
You cant say it aint right
Action
Action this day
song performed by by Queen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pleas of a Claymore II
Have you ever seen a saber?
Took so much beating
In a plethora of derision
As the hands pounded his convictions
Against the feral adversary
Of his stale conqueror,
Lackadaisical and crestfallen
But still fawning in a lash back
To find the elusive direst
Of his tethering fate,
And his silver blood spilled
And scintillated in stellar
Like the mistral tears of a maiden.
And some people esteemed it
Musing in avarice for the clout
That this claymore possessed
Despite of the scarred visage
Or perhaps, because of the incisions
And they would lather the lacquer
Of his chipped and dying blades
To thaw the poignancy
And bend him down to his knees
Rasping upon the stance
Of defensive resistance.
The surrender of a saber
Would stab his own soul
And the hero inside
And his parched tragedies
Would whittle and fritter away
Into the very zenith of cusps
To become a despondent weapon
In the final incarnation of a claymore
But the hands forget
Or sometimes do not care
What the saber was
And seize him in their cradles
Fervently seeking bloodshed
In favor of their legendary conquest.
Have you ever seen a saber?
Malleable with a sole graze
As the hands guided itself
Down his glacial crassness
Reckoning the beatings
In the crevasses of his edges
Ravening upon the triumphs
That the saber gave them
And in spite of the disease
The saber would plead
To be held once again
And take the brunt and blames.
And when the hero bequeaths
The glory of his subsistence
Coming clean and pristine
While the downtrodden friend
Smother in the draping
Of the chrysalis in his scabbard
The claymore would plead
In profound reiteration
To be held once again;
Have you ever heard the hilt of a saber
Call for euthanasia?
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Slob
Leave me alone
I won't pick up the phone
And I won't listen to messages
Sent by someone who calls up and says:
'I don't like how you're living my life
Get yourself a wife
Get yourself a job
You're living a dream
Don't you be a slob
Slob
song performed by by Weezer from Maladroit
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Garden Of Drudgery
My vicious skies disengaging the exiguous quasars
To thaw the soldering frost-mourn aloft inside
And the maudlin with a frozen brook in a jar
Drowned with shriveled legs from the labyrinthine stride
Now, above head is a mirror of the vast sea
Of people feigning their sedative bliss for agonies
And abortive sorrows propelled in the chalcedony
Sinking everything in a valley of roses and drudgery
Come, lay with me and muse as the albino sun
Scull its superfluous fingers to sine the parliament
Of hostile macabre breaths debauching the wan
And pointless toiling to own or keep the firmament
In the brambly floor of this frowned vale
We shall lacerate to bleed out the vying soul
Until our skin can feel no more, our bones so frail
Shall not break no more, and we will be the lips of the hole
In this garden of drudgery, fluttering with the plucked petals
Everything is painted with the darkest golderfloes
The nadirs are preempted fluent in stains of the vestal
And walls are mightier than the bridges' tows
For the plethora of flowers brew a puissant redolence
That vexes the quintessence of a mystified vagabond
The strings of aromatic auspicious few is now in valence
With treacherous taste of cyanide flaming to abscond
poem by Norman Santos
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Living Inside Myself
In my life
Ive felt so self assured
But suddenly its all changed
Shes a cloud
That hangs above my world
And I find myself wondring in the rain
And now I cant go on
cause I am lost
Living inside myself
Living inside this shell
Living outside your love
I am lost
Somewhere inside my own dreams
Afraid of what life really means
Living without your love
I need a guiding light
To shine on my darkest days
I was young, and time was on my side
But like a fool I let it slip away
And now those days are gone
And I am lost
Living inside myself
Living inside this shell
Living outside your love
I am lost
Somewhere inside my own dreams
Afraid of what life really means
Living without your love
In my life
Ive felt so self-assured
But oh how all the seasons change
And now Im not that strong
cause I am lost
Living inside myself
Living inside this hell
Living outside your love
I am lost
Somewhere inside my own dreams
Afraid of what life really means
Living without your love
I am lost
Living inside myself
Living inside this shell
Living outside your love
I am lost
song performed by by Gino Vanelli
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Backyard Brawl
Got a cut on my thigh, got a nail in my eye
And I'm bleedin' all over the wall
Got a barbed wire bat and a dude on the mat
Ain't getting up soon at all
Got a head full of rage and a belly full of hate
I'm the neighborhood legend that just can't wait
For the backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Don't matter who you are, don't matter what color
Brown or white'll do
But if you're yellow you'll be covered in red
A whole lotta black and blue
Jump off the trailer in a pile full o' guys
Scratching and kicking and pulverized
For the backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Only got six teeth but three of those
Are sharp enough to bite off your nose
At the backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
[Spoken:]
You think you're so tough
You talkin' to me?
You're mine
Come on, let's go
Come on stitches...
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Prayer to Sandman
Sandman, heave my head
For I have stained my hands
With blood and anguish
I found in virulent berries
I will take your gift as a punishment
As I lunge into wakefulness
Towards my penchant for people
Of lovely and nubile words
From their vestal gaiety
A wonderful profusion of fantasy;
That is, and will never be.
Beneath the thicket of periwinkles
And the cold belly of the earth
I will buoy my apprehensions
In a slumber induced by your grains
Perhaps, from the sands of time.
Puissant Sandman,
Before you jeopardize me
Let me show you how I freeze
On this incorporeal nakedness
As I till a barren soil
And condense with the milieu.
Watch me die whilst living
And live whilst dying,
So you can truly vindicate me.
poem by Norman Santos
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Sylvan Guest in the Forlorn Forest
As I lay in the resentment of serrated ryes
And beneath the tempest of impaling lances
That I stashed inside the scathing frame
Of my blatant harlequin repose;
Such a sapid filth, such a torment,
A stranger intruded my forlorn forest
Marauding with a flock of gypsies and pixies
Cloven beneath the echoes of her gyratory
Ebullience, submerged in her spruce plumes,
She laid another set of superfluous cards
In a house of marble and sycophantic pillars—
In the form of her vessel; gilded jewelries
Sealed in sprightly paintings and poetries
All for a shambling gambler's ineptitude
And unsheathe a sword of nimble odds
Succoring, caressing, a despondent hand
In an earnest finagling, you've sublimated
An ornate forest into a lustrous Silver Lake
Adorned by a buoyant polished Swan
Pardon my florid tongue, please do not dispense
This guise I feigned inside a poetry into
A brazen, unabashed, and deprived blarney
And I plea, do not err, do not be beguiled
For truth be unfurled, I like you
In the most unromantic fashion
So as to keep it unstained from treachery
And so, one night I opted to fold a letter
And slip it inside the notches of your door
And as I waft in writing you an epistle
About the gaiety, your gaiety, that tinkers
Beneath your wings, do you know that you have wings?
I saw you used it to inscribe and paint
And probe and divulge the unwritten splendor
Basking in every insignificant possessions
I dallied and mused upon your enigmatic grace
Are you the Zephyr: an ubiquitous crooning?
Or a damsel lost between your own lines?
Or a dreamer at the veers of every stroke?
A sanguine nomad in supernovas, or her fancy, thereof?
Perhaps, you are the psychedelic sunrise
Grazing the films of my weary eaves
And I would not permit Atropos or The Sisters
To rust our modest yet pliant chains
And the combing of your seething rays
Beaux of the unnamed king,
That thrones in a museum,
This is what I meant
When I called you a rubber duck,
You are, pleasantly, a guest
Purging an ornate forlorn forest.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hiding God’s Word
God’s Truth echoes deep inside, from the Word that we hide,
Deep inside the believer’s heart, from Truth God does impart;
God’s Word hidden deep within, helps us in this world of sin,
From the evils of sin’s temptation, to living out our Salvation.
How should one keep his ways, in spiritually darkened days?
Through God’s Word and Light, God helps man walk upright,
As we tap God’s wealth inside, The Spirit helps one to abide,
In Jesus Christ, our Savior, as The Word guides our behavior.
Christ can help one stay pure, as His Word’s sound and sure,
Sharper than a two edged sword, is The Word from The Lord;
His Word’s able to divide, thoughts and motives deep inside,
As actions God begins to weigh, with Truths God will convey.
When believers will do their part, by hiding Truth in their heart,
His Word becomes our shield, and a sword that we can wield,
When God’s Truth we proclaim, in the power of Christ’s Name,
In each and every circumstance, as God gives us that chance.
As The Word we continue to hide, with The Spirit as our guide,
In Christ alone we can stand, knowing that we are in His Hand,
As God leads us in the night, to be for Him an awesome light,
Being God’s Witness, in this life, for The Savior, Jesus Christ.
(Copyright ©06/2010)
Bible Stories: Daniel, Bel and the Dragon
When King Astyages died,
Cyrus of Persia became king;
Daniel was his honored companion.
The Babylonians’ idol was Bel;
Each day, they offered twelve bushels of flour,
Forty sheep and fifty gallons of wine;
The king too worshipped Bel;
But Daniel worshipped his own God!
When the King asked Daniel,
‘Why don’t you worship Bel? ’
Daniel answered he didn’t revere
Any man-made idols,
But worshipped the One, living God,
Who’d created heaven and the earth.
The king asked him, “Isn’t Bel’s a living God?
He eats and drinks each day”
But Daniel told him not to be deceived;
The idol was just inner clay,
And outer brass that never ate nor drank.
The angered King ushered the priests,
And ordered them to prove
That Bel ate /drank each day;
If so, Daniel would die for blasphemy;
If not, all of them would be killed;
The priests agreed to prove the same;
There were seventy priests, their wives and children.
The king entered the temple;
The priests asked him to place the food
And wine himself, and shut the door,
And seal it by his signet ring;
The priests didn’t care as below the statue,
They had a secret route through which they went
In and out, devouring the offerings.
When the food had been placed,
Then Daniel sifted ashes all
O’er the temple-floor;
With the help of servants,
in the king’s presence and left;
The door was sealed by the king’s ring.
At night, the priests and others secretly
went in and ate everything;
Next day, the king with Daniel came
And opened the sealed temple door,
But found that the food had vanished!
The king shouted aloud to Bel,
“You’re great and undeceiving God.”
But Daniel laughed and showed the king
The footsteps on the temple’s floor;
The king agreed that it was that of
men, women and children.
The enraged king then seized the priests
They showed the secret route;
They were all put to death;
The king gave Daniel the temple of Bel;
Daniel destroyed both Bel and the temple.
The Babylonians revered a dragon;
The king asked Daniel, “Isn’t this a living God? ”
But Daniel said that he worshipped
Only his one, living God;
If permitted by the king,
He would slay the dragon
by sword or club.
So, Daniel fed the dragon
Cakes containing pitch, fat and hair;
The dragon consumed it all
and burst open dead!
The angered Babylonians
Spread word that the king had turned a Jew;
They demanded that Daniel
Be put into a lion’s den;
Compelled, the king did as they urged.
Daniel was inside the den
For six days with seven lions;
The lions were not fed anything;
They were denied the daily food
Of two human bodies and two sheep.
The prophet Habakkuk was in Judea;
While taking food to the reapers,
God sent an angel to him
And ordered him take dinner to Daniel;
Habakkuk told he had never seen Babylon,
The angel took him by his crown of head
And put him aloft the lion’s den with the food;
The prophet shouted to Daniel
To come and eat the food given by God;
Daniel thanked the Lord for his remembrance.
On seventh day, the king went to the den,
He thought that Daniel would be dead;
To his utter surprise, he was alive;
He took him out and praised
The one living God of Daniel.
He threw into the lion’s den;
All those who plotted against Daniel;
Immediately, they were all killed
And devoured by the hungry lions.
(4-11-2007)
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Waiting Room
As I lay, pensively, dying
Beneath the seething graze of the sun,
In a metaphorical metamorphism,
I found myself, in films, meandering
Like a white eccentric and fictional lion
Dashing through the endless pitch
Hollowness of an ornate forest
The insipid beast teemed with fear
And not of valiance, as in the label
In this pocket of a gyratory cul-de-sac
The ghosts, glacial and searing,
Runs along with my buoyant feet
Their wails struck the barricades
Of the looming myrtle trees
And an echolalia came to life
In its corporeal form, a wintry
Pang that gnawed upon my chest
And I ran faster, like a frenzied fiend
‘Till I saw an opalescent stranger
With a lamp on his rooted feet
And a knowing smile to trust
His ghastly fingers pierced
To an escape door beneath
A virulent garden of mushrooms
Without hesitations, I advanced
And he was left there unaccompanied
With a broken and ghastly smile
A wave of oppressive light surges
In the starkness of the brand new alleys
I can almost stare back at their eyes
But in this estrangement, I fumbled
Severing the savvy of recuperation
Nausea ubiquitously hanged
On a noose for two heads
A tinge of wonder rested on the other—
Why did the spectral stranger
Never went for the escape door?
Perhaps he already knew
The drudgery in leisurely vying
To sprawl your qualms and quandaries
Inside a waiting room, half-alive.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Double E
Back in the country, living on the Double E
In the sunshine of her life
There's already a young fellow but Mom and Daddy won't let her leave
Mom and Poppa won't let her go
But when they go out dancin'
She breaks out on her own
She's hot enough to burn the house down
But Mom and Poppa don't know
When Edith and Earl renamed the Double E
They nearly made history
The locals rose up, some of them were mad as hell
Cause it used to be the Double L
Change comes slow in the country
When you're new there's a lot of distrust
Years fly by uneventful
Memories turn to dust
Meanwhile Granny has got her bright colors on
And the sun's shinin' in her eyes
Cruisin' by the bars and honky-tonks where she met Grandpa
And caught that young man's eye
Dusty white El Dorado
Cruisin' through the trees
Slippin' through the shadows
Of what used to be
Back in the days, living in the summer of love
Living in the summer of love
Grandma's okay, not the same since Grandpa's gone
She's living in the summer of love
Back in the days, living in the summer of love
Living in the summer of love
Living in the summer of love
Living in the summer of love
Back in the days, living in the summer of love
Living in the summer of love
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Screaming Through December
What a crew we made up there was faustus
Burnt out from playing too many bars, on a jersey shore
And sammy, almost bald from ironing her hair too much
Back in 64
And me and phazon out of phase, of least my temporary
Name for the day
Oh, blown away and screaming
All blown away and screaming
All blown away and screaming thru december
We crossed state lines we were burning
Although the cold could freeze your hand, to the steel
Of the wheel
Miami, just a cold hearted word
From a warm smiling man on a sign in a field
We laughed just o take up some time my (hmmm) job
Was staring to dry, and we went screaming thru december
Quasar, quasar, where the first words I heard from faustas
All day
And giggling he apologized and then returned to flicking
His blade
I sighed bleary-eyed, and tried to remember the way, as we
Went screaming
A year does go by what a difference, twelve months can make when youre living a
Hundred years in one
And sammy, she went home and now shes living in a room with
A gun
Faustas ate glass for an appetizer, and bled all over his synthesizer
As he went screaming
As he went screaming
As he went screaming thru december
song performed by by Hall & Oates
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Written-In-Red
(To Our Living Dead in Mexico's Struggle)
Written in red their protest stands,
For the gods of the World to see;
On the dooming wall their bodiless hands
have blazoned "Upharsin," and flaring brands
Illumine the message: "Seize the lands!
Open the prisons and make men free!"
Flame out the living words of the dead
Written-in-red.
Gods of the World! Their mouths are dumb!
Your guns have spoken and they are dust.
But the shrouded Living, whose hearts were numb,
have felt the beat of a wakening drum
Within them sounding-the Dead men's tongue—
Calling: "Smite off the ancient rust!"
Have beheld "Resurrexit," the word of the Dead,
Written-in-red.
Bear it aloft, O roaring, flame!
Skyward aloft, where all may see.
Slaves of the World! Our cause is the same;
One is the immemorial shame;
One is the struggle, and in One name—
MANHOOD— we battle to set men free.
"Uncurse us the Land!" burn the words of the Dead,
Written-in-red.
poem by Voltairine de Cleyre
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Living Word
I thank God for the day I heard the proclamation of The Living Word.
Faith comes from hearing, my friend, hearing the very Word of God,
Now The Word goes with me always to be proclaimed wherever I trod.
I thank The Lord as The Living Word entered my heart the day I heard.
The Word is very powerful my friend, as sharp as a two-edged sword.
It penetrates to divide soul and spirit to the attitude of the heart,
Convicting one of what really matters, once The Spirit truly starts.
The Word will fulfill its purpose as The Living God is not ignored.
The Living Word can truly change you, with no doubt about its power.
It took me from a world of darkness, where I lived but had no sight,
And opened my eyes from spiritual blindness into a world of light.
Maybe if you heard The Word you would accept Him this very hour.
But how can they hear and believe if no one has been sent to preach?
How can they have the inner peace deep within that will never cease?
Beautiful are the feet of those who preach the Good News of peace.
That is why I so eagerly choose to seek any available heart to reach.
As you face life's final curtain The Word alone is full of certainty.
God has prepared a place in Paradise for all of those who are His,
And for the unwise, fools and scoffers, He's prepared a fiery abyss.
God's not hindered by your uncertainty and ahead for all is Eternity.
(Copyright ©04/2004)