As Children
On Sundays mother sent us to Sunday school
at the huge St Osmund’s church.
My brother said he’d look after our collection money,
but he always ran off, leaving sis and me in the lurch.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Well, it was sunday, bloody sunday when the shot the people there.
The cries of thirteen martyrs filled the free derry air.
Is there anyone amongst you dare to blame it on the kids?
Not a soldier boy was bleeding when they nailed the coffin lids!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, you claim to be majority, well, you know that its a lie.
Youre really a minority on this sweet emerald isle.
When stormont bans our marches, theyve got a lot to learn,
Internment is no answer, its those mothers turn to burn.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey! yeah!
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
All you anglo pigs and scotties sent to colonise the north,
You wave your bloody union jacks and you know what its worth.
How dare you hold to ransom a people proud and free?
Keep ireland to the irish, put the english back to sea!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey, hey, hey!
Alright!
Ooh -
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, its always bloody sunday in the concentration camps.
Keep falls road free forever from the bloody british hands.
Repatriate to britain all of you who call it home,
Leave ireland to the irish not for london or for rome.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunday, Bloody Sunday
Well, it was sunday, bloody sunday when the shot the people there.
The cries of thirteen martyrs filled the free derry air.
Is there anyone amongst you dare to blame it on the kids?
Not a soldier boy was bleeding when they nailed the coffin lids!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, you claim to be majority, well, you know that its a lie.
Youre really a minority on this sweet emerald isle.
When stormont bans our marches, theyve got a lot to learn,
Internment is no answer, its those mothers turn to burn.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey! yeah!
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
All you anglo pigs and scotties sent to colonise the north,
You wave your bloody union jacks and you know what its worth.
How dare you hold to ransom a people proud and free?
Keep ireland to the irish, put the english back to sea!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Hey, hey, hey!
Alright!
Ooh -
Yeah!
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Well, its always bloody sunday in the concentration camps.
Keep falls road free forever from the bloody british hands.
Repatriate to britain all of you who call it home,
Leave ireland to the irish not for london or for rome.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday, bloody sundays the day.
Sunday, bloody sunday.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunday Bloody Sunday
Well it was sunday bloody sunday
When they shot the people there
The cries of thirteen martyrs
Filled the free derry air
Is there any one amongst you
Dare to blame it on the kids?
Not a soldier boy was bleeding
When they nailed the coffin lids!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
You claim to be majority
Well you know that its a lie
Youre really a minority
On this sweet emerald isle
When stormont bans our marches
Theyve got a lot to learn
Internment is no answer
Its those mothers turn to burn!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
You anglo pigs and scotties
Sent to colonize the north
You wave your bloody union jack
And you know what its worth!
How dare you hold to ransom
A people proud and free
Keep ireland for the irish
Put the english back to sea!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Well, its always bloody sunday
In the concentration camps
Keep falls road free forever
From the bloody english hands
Repatriate to britain
All of you who call it home
Leave ireland to the irish
Not for london or for rome!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
Sunday bloody sunday
Bloody sundays the day!
song performed by by Lennon John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Always Another Sunday
There is always another Sunday,
From where do Sundays come from?
Do they sell them next to strike-anywhere matches,
Can you buy a three-pack and get one free
To make a perfect month, of Sundays?
Sunday afternoon might find you sitting at table
With some people you don't know too well,
Trying to make polite conversation
While slicing up some shoe-leathery beef roast,
That has always been the hallmark of the day.
Is it the first day of the week
Or effectively, the last?
How can the week start without any work?
Because it seems to make a better ending, instead.
Will we ever run out of Sundays?
Not unless we run out of football, baseball
Basketball and soccer first; it seems evident
That Sunday is merely a cog, attached to the sports wheel,
And is born and dies each week, with the big game.
You will not find most people discussing their sins
On Sunday afternoons:
You already know what they will be talking about.
poem by Patti Masterman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I attended Sunday School and then church with my father and mother throughout my childhood.
quote by Leverett Saltonstall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Church Going
Show me a health
That can context death,
There will be no escape
From age.
We shall all die some day,
And meet judgement day.
That is why we follow Christ,
And sleep while He rise.
In our sleep;
We dine in His house,
As we live in his heart.
Sundays!
Church going steals our day.
We are the Christians
Who worship in Jerusalem.
I was talking with a boy the other day
And to me he says:
Brother Benjamin
Why do we worship him?
And I said: We worship Him
Because there is non above Him
He sits on a throne up above,
And rule over us down below.
I worship him my dear boy;
Because I am Benjamin
And I wouldn't be
If not for Him.
They all go to church on sundays;
Because that is what the bible says,
But this is the only page they obey.
poem by Efe Benjamin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I always love to begin a journey on Sundays, because I shall have the prayers of the church to preserve all that travel by land or by water.
Jonathan Swift in A Complete Collection of Genteel and Ingenious Conversation (1738)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Sunday Morning
Sunday morning silence, curtain stay closed late
No one thinks of kitchens mornings in a filthy state
Dishes cups and beer stains, ashtrays on the floor
Sunday morning papers are left outside the front door
Sunday school and sunday roast
Sunday papers sunday post
Sunday morning sunday rest
Sunday sermon sunday best
(sunday, bloody sunday rest)
Glass of fizzy water helps to start the day
Sit and listen to sunday silence, problems fade away
Sunday cars and drivers break the morning air
Uncollected milk outside reveals theres no one there
Sunday school and sunday roast
Sunday papers sunday post
Sunday morning sunday rest
Sunday sermon sunday best
Sunday school and sunday roast
Sunday papers sunday post
Sunday morning sunday rest
Sunday sermon sunday best
Bathrobes hang in waiting, windows steaming up
Somewhere in the sink downstairs lies an unwashed cup
Tea and toast for breakfast clear away the plates
Wash-up prepare for cooking sunday lunch awaits
Sunday lunch awaits
Sunday lunch awaits
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Can't Go to School
I can’t go to school because I am sick
If I walk out my house I’ll get hit by a brick
I can’t go to school because I’m afraid
On my way there I might get run over by a huge parade
I can’t go to school because I have a funereal to attend
School uniforms just aren’t the new trend
I can’t go to school because I woke up late
I broke my thumb while learning how to skate
I can’t go to school because I feel a little blue
My brother stuck my hands together with supper glue
I can’t go to school because school is boring
I wonder what excuses I’ll have tomorrow morning
poem by Jasmine Shipp
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wind Up
When I was young and they packed me off to school
And taught me how not to play the game,
I didnt mind if they groomed me for success,
Or if they said that I was a fool.
So I left there in the morning
With their God tucked underneath my arm --
Their half-assed smiles and the book of rules.
So I asked this God a question
And by way of firm reply,
He said -- Im not the kind you have to wind up on sundays.
So to my old headmaster (and to anyone who cares):
Before Im through Id like to say my prayers --
I dont believe you:
You had the whole damn thing all wrong --
Hes not the kind you have to wind up on sundays.
Well you can excomunicate me on my way to sunday school
And have all the bishops harmonize these lines --
How do you dare tell me that Im my fathers son
When that was just an accident of birth.
Id rather look around me -- compose a better song
'cos thats the honest measure of my worth.
In your pomp and all your glory youre a poorer man than me,
As you lick the boots of death born out of fear.
I dont believe you:
You had the whole damn thing all wrong --
Hes not the kind you have to wind up on sundays.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Church On Sunday
Today is the first day of the rest of our lives
Tomorrow is too late to pretend everything's alright now
I'm not getting any younger as long
As you don't get any older
I'm not gonna state that yesterday never was
Bloodshot
Deadbeat and lack of sleep
Making your mascare bleed
Tears down your face
Leaving traces of my mistakes
When I say
If I promise to go to church on Sunday
Will you go with me on Friday night?
If you live with me I'll die for you
And this compromise
I hereby solemny swear to tell the whole truth
And nothing but the truth is what I'll ever hear from you
"Thrust" is a dirty word that comes from such a liar
But "Respect" is something I will earn
If you have faith
Bloodshot
Deadbeat and lack of sleep
Making your mascare bleed
Tears down your face
leaving traces of my mistakes
When I say
If I promise to go to church on Sunday
Will you go with me on Friday night?
If you live with me I'll die for you
And this compromise
If I promise to go to church on Sunday
Will you go with me on Friday night?
If you live with me I'll die for you
And this compromise
Let's go
Ohhhhhhhhh........
If I promise to go to church on Sunday
Will you go with me on Friday night?
If you live with me I'll die for you
And this compromise
If I promise to go to church on Sunday
Will you go with me on Friday night?
If you live with me I'll die for you
And this compromise
And this compromise
It's a compromise
song performed by by Green Day from Warning
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Walking Bell
A CHILD refused to go betimes
To church like other people;
He roam'd abroad, when rang the chimes
On Sundays from the steeple.
His mother said: "Loud rings the bell,
Its voice ne'er think of scorning;
Unless thou wilt behave thee well,
'Twill fetch thee without warning."
The child then thought: "High over head
The bell is safe suspended--"
So to the fields he straightway sped
As if 'twas school-time ended.
The bell now ceas'd as bell to ring,
Roused by the mother's twaddle;
But soon ensued a dreadful thing!--
The bell begins to waddle.
It waddles fast, though strange it seem;
The child, with trembling wonder,
Runs off, and flies, as in a dream;
The bell would draw him under.
He finds the proper time at last,
And straightway nimbly rushes
To church, to chapel, hastening fast
Through pastures, plains, and bushes.
Each Sunday and each feast as well,
His late disaster heeds he;
The moment that he bears the bell,
No other summons needs he.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Intro
My momma said
"It seemed like yesterday my brother
Said him was gunna leave here
Said he was gunna go and make some money himself"
See my brother wants still to be a rapper
And he can rap real good too
He use to have this book he carried around with him all the time
He use to call it a diary, He use to take it everwhere he went
One day he took it to church when we went to sunday school
And the pastor asked him "Boy, whats that you got in your hand"
And he said this is my diary
And the pastor told him that sinners couldn't have no diary (sinner)
My brother said he was lying, And my brother said if he couldn't have a diary
and he was a sinner, he would just call it a diary of a sinner (diary)
My momma told him don't worry bout what pastor says
My momma told him don't worry bout what nobody says
If that was your diary, that's gunna be your diary
Thats what my mamma said
He said he gonna turn it into an album, And I believe him too
I'm just waiting (One day) one day we gunna turn that radio on ....
[Music fades
song performed by by Petey Pablo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lover, Brother
Are you my brother or lover, brother?
don´t be my mother lover!
kiss you my brother lover
can´t be your mother, brother
never found you in the arms of another
Are you my lover, brother?
don´t touch my mother lover!
kiss you and not another
find out the love to your mother, brother
don´t even mistreat my brother, mother
Are you like my brother, lover?
don´t hate my mother lover!
kiss me instead of my mother, brother
not even be afraid of my brother, mother
we are the same but another
Are you my friend sweet brother?
please get in touch with my lover!
but do not kiss each other, brother
´cause he´s my lover, brother
treat him as your brother, my lover
Why aren´t lovers like brothers?
why mothers not like lovers!
kissing my man and not another, brother
but love you too my mother, never another
together we can treat us like brothers, brother.
@floydfloydson
(c) uni-verse.de 12.20.2011
poem by Floyd Floydson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I remember when
some Sundays were spent in bed,
getting to know each
other's bodies, to please,
now, Sundays, we go to church
tanka by Abigail Greene from Fire Pearls: Short Masterpieces of the Human Heart (2006)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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I Want To Say Thanks For My Mother
I want to say Thanks for my Mother,
To me she taught how to Love one another;
With only one hand, to do the work she had to do,
But; she worked as if it was more hands than two.
She took us each Sunday to church and Sunday school,
And really cared to teach us children, the golden Rule;
That we need to Love God, and obey and Trust Him too,
Yes, if only she were here right now, I'd say to her thankyou.
My Mother taught us girls to learn, how to be truthful, also,
And how to read and also to Pray, and to others love to show;
She also taught us how to cook, to sew and knit as well,
These things is a lot for one hand lady, is what I can tell.
She was a foster Mother to many a child and baby, it's true,
Some with health problems, and that couldn't say thankyou;
Some had other difficulties, some were very bad as well,
But Mum certainly showed she loved them, oh yes! We could tell.
So Mum if you could have been here today, and read this now,
It tells you thanks for everything, I love you any how;
Sometimes we were naughty, played up when you were tired too,
So! Mum, I'm sorry for those times, and Mum I say Thankyou.
poem by Margaret Haig
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Little Vagabond
Dear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold;
But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm.
Besides, I can tell where I am used well;
Such usage in heaven will never do well.
But, if at the Church they would give us some ale,
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,
We’d sing and we’d pray all the livelong day,
Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.
Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and sing,
And we’d be as happy as birds in the spring;
And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church,
Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.
And God, like a father, rejoicing to see
His children as pleasant and happy as He,
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,
But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.
poem by William Blake from Songs of Experience (1794)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Earn money
Gran father money
Father money
Mother money
Brother money
Sister money
Friends money
All moneyees are
Others only others...
Don't loves other moneys
On the way of life
Love your money...
Enjoy your money
Earn your won money...
Each every day you and others...!
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Henry Phipps
I was the Sunday school superintendent,
The dummy president of the wagon works
And the canning factory,
Acting for Thomas Rhodes and the banking clique;
My son the cashier of the bank,
Wedded to Rhodes' daughter,
My week day spent in making money,
My Sundays at church and in prayer.
In everything a cog in the wheel of things-as-they-are:
Of money, master and man, made white
With the paint of the Christian creed.
And then:
The bank collapsed. I stood and looked at the wrecked machine --
The wheels with blow-holes stopped with putty and painted;
The rotten bolts, the broken rods;
And only the hopper for souls fit to be used again
In a new devourer of life, when newspapers, judges and money-magicians
Build over again.
I was stripped to the bone, but I lay in the Rock of Ages,
Seeing now through the game, no longer a dupe,
And knowing "the upright shall dwell in the land
But the years of the wicked shall be shortened."
Then suddenly, Dr. Meyers discovered
A cancer in my liver.
I was not, after all, the particular care of God!
Why, even thus standing on a peak
Above the mists through which I had climbed,
And ready for larger life in the world,
Eternal forces
Moved me on with a push.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Money world love
My dear father...
Hoe r you...?
I am hear is not fine...!
So...
I want money
send me for money
Don't tell about mother...
ok...
My kisses with you...!
Your dear son...(ramesh)
This is letter for my father
My brother was wrote
At student time...
My father send the money
For my brother
That time
My father understand
Love is making money...
My brother thinking
Money is my lovely father...
How is money world love...!
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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