Related quotes: Palm Sunday (Easter Sunday) End...

Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday (Easter Sunday)
End of time splashes through yellow plastic tubes to meet eternity that ends
in a sand box. Shriek! Let us do it again. And we awoke as bible words and
slogans rained from an amused sky. I saw the four horse men on mules,
ride slowly through an abject cityscape to where air was clear and grass for
the animals. The weather is always good when not punctuated by TV weather
forecast entertainment. We have fortressed our home to avoid receiving or
hear other voices. But strange men in black, came and showed me a house in
lane, where Barbara Streisand lived in a tent at the back, did her exercises
seven o’clock sharp, every day. Twenty eight people circled my house, two
of them came said they were termite inspectors, but they were more
interested in the kennel where my poodle Hamas lived. Next day the twenty
eight had disappeared and my dog lies dead on the steps of the shed I use,
when sending secret messages to people who believe in everything just to
be on the safe side. Barbara Streisand joined us, dressed in a Salvation Army
uniform, urged me to buy the house, she promised me a new dog, I declined,
jumped on a passing bus. The driver wore a laundry starched, burnoose and
past us flew twinkling, vibrant bushes; green tutus looking for Margot Fonteyn.
It was Palm Sunday and not a good day to talk about defensive Jihad.

poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Vote! | Copy!

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

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
Vote! | Copy!

Nutbush City Limit

A CHURCH HOUSE GIN HOUSE
A SCHOOL HOUSE OUT HOUSE
ON HIGHWAY NUMBER NINETEEN
THE PEOPLE KEEP THE CITY CLEAN
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
TWENTY-FIVE WAS THE SPEED LIMIT
MOTORCYCLE NOT ALLOWED IN IT
YOU GO TO THE STORE ON FRIDAY
YOU GO TO CHURCH ON SUNDAY
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
YOU GO TO THE FIELDS ON WEEKDAYS
AND HAVE A PICNIC ON LABOR DAY
YOU GO TO TOWN ON SATURDAY
BUT GO TO THE CHURCH EV'RY SUNDAY
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
NO WHISKEY FOR SALE
YOU CAN'T COP NO BAIL
SALT PORK AND MOLASSES
IS ALL YOU GET IN JAIL
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
LITTLE OLD TOWN IN TENNESSEE
THAT'S CALLED A QUIET LITTLE OLD
COMMUNITY
A ONE-HORSE TOWN YOU HAVE TO
WATCH
WHAT YOU'RE PUTTIN' DOWN IN OLD
NUTBUSH
THEY CALL IT
NUTBUSH OH NUTBUSH
CALL IT NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS

song performed by by Tina Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Those winter sundays

a single's sunday
bachelor's sunday
lonely as the sun
bright, warm
yet cold as ever
echoes of deserted morn park
reverberated
in lonely hearts
winter's sunday
a bachelor's sunday
the lonely walk
between the skyscrapers
that hid the sun
making the day drowsier
more melancholy
the heart, slayed
bobs up and down
in an ocean of wish
too big for this little frame
the mind tries cheering itself up
with verses shuttled between
different corners of the world
the muse's only Sunday warmth
that cup of coffee in hand
and pen in hand
painting the world
in his own colours, fashion
in his attempt to rise
above the waves of Sunday's blue
mozart, bach, beethoven,
trail the bright Sunday rays
sending a wave of joy
in this self sustaining survival

inspired by:

Those Winter Sundays

Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

Robert Hayden

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sunday Papers

Mother doesnt go out any more
Just sits at home and rolls her spastic eyes
But every weekend through the door
Come words of wisdom from the world outside
If you want to know about the bishop and the actress
If you want to know how to be a star
If you want to know about the stains on the mattress
You can read it in the sunday papers, sunday papers
Mothers wheelchair stays out in the hall
Why should she go out when the tvs on
Whatever moves beyond these walls
Shell know the facts when sunday comes along
If you want to know about the man gone bonkers
If you want to know how to play guitar
If you want to know about the other suckers
You can read it in the sunday papers, read it in the sunday papers
Sunday papers dont ask no questions
Sunday papers dont get no lies
Sunday papers dont raise objection
Sunday papers dont got no eyes
Brothers heading that way now I guess
He just read something made his face turn blue
Well I got nothing against the press
They wouldnt print it if it wasnt true
If you want to know about the gay politician
If you want to know how to drive your car
If you want to know about the new sex position
You can read it in the sunday papers, read it in the sunday papers
Sunday papers dont ask no questions
Sunday papers dont get no lies
Sunday papers dont raise objection
Sunday papers dont got no eyes
Sunday papers dont ask no questions
Sunday papers dont get no lies
Sunday papers dont raise objection
Sunday papers dont got no eyes
Read all about it, sunday papers

song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

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
Vote! | Copy!

Twenty Years Ago

It's been a long time since I walked
Through this old town
But oh how the memories start to flow
And there's the old movie house
They finally closed it down
You could find me there every Friday night
Twenty years ago.
I worked the counter at the drugstore down the street
But nobody's left there I would know
On Saturday mornings that's where
All my friends would meet
You'd be surprised to know what a dime would buy
Twenty years ago.
All my memories from those days come gather round me
What I'd give if they could take me back in time
It almost seems like yesterday
Where do the good times go?
Life was so much easier twenty years ago.
I guess I should stop by Mr. Johnson's hardware store
His only son was my friend Joe
But he joined the army back in 1964
How could we know he would never come back
Twenty years ago...

song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Chicken Every Sunday

Just because all my dresses are just cotton hand-me-downs
This family calls me the lower class
Cause we're only poor folks on the other side of town
They won't let him walk up my path
But my mama says don't worry when they say those things about ye
You remember you're just as good as him
Just because they got that big house settin' way upon the hill
Why you don't have to look up to them
We've got chicken every Sunday and the preacher comes around
And every Saturday morning daddy takes us all to town
And we'd go to the picture show or picnics on the ground
Oh that's the lower class and I'm glad that's what I am
[ guitar ]
Cause my mama don't belong to the ladies social set
My daddy can't afford the country club
His folks look down on me and they don't let us date
Cause they think that I'm not good enough
But my mama says forgive him honey he ain't worthy of
And in anything you're too good for him
Just because they've got money and a big fine house
Well we won't take no self off of them
We've got chicken every Sunday...
We've got chicken every Sunday...

song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Family House

The house is many-storeyed,
Its flavour is tasty, like the snow.
May you live in this building
For all eternity, just to be unique
And loving towards the family.
The house abated after a while
Due to cold and bad weather.
The weather of a soul is unique
Since the house is a gap in its wake.
My house is your house,
And your house is mine.
This eternal abode reigns high!

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Our House

Father wears his sunday best
Mothers tired she needs a rest
The kids are playing up downstairs
Sisters sighing in her sleep
Brothers got a date to keep
He cant hang around
Our house, in the middle of our street
Our house, in the middle of our ...
Our house it has a crowd
Theres always something happening
And its usually quite loud
Our mum shes so house-proud
Nothing ever slows her down
And a mess is not allowed
Our house, in the middle of our street
Our house, in the middle of our ...
Our house, in the middle of our street
Our house, in the middle of our ...
Something tells you that youve got to get away from it
Father gets up late for work
Mother has to iron his shirt
Then she sends the kids to school
Sees them off with a small kiss
Shes the one theyre going to miss
In lots of ways
Our house, in the middle of our street
Our house, in the middle of our ...
I remember way back then when everything was true and when
We would have such a very good time such a fine time
Such a happy time
And I remember how wed play simply waste the day away
Then wed say nothing would come between us two dreamers
Father wears his sunday best
Mothers tired she needs a rest
The kids are playing up downstairs
Sisters sighing in her sleep
Brothers got a date to keep
He cant hang around
Our house, in the middle of our street
Our house, in the middle of our street
Our house, in the middle of our street
Our house, in the middle of our ...
Our house, was our castle and our keep
Our house, in the middle of our street
Our house, that was where we used to sleep
Our house, in the middle of our street
Our house, in the middle of our street

song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

M4

this is a bright day for us
the sun is mild, the air is 26 degrees,
the grass carry the morning dews
the flowers are fully dressed with their
bright colored petals to please the hours

inside the house the leather furniture
glosses over an event
the walls are painted white the beams
and trusses all yellow green
the garage is finally porcelain tiled
expensive tastes dominate here
time is short, the weather gives in
for something that won't last
and then the dirge marches in
a Sunday dress, beloved mourners
the prayers are sung, the candles lighted
another important shit is gone
in this far away town.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Past

I live in a cottage that is 350 years old, wish I could have seen a ghost,
because I believe they exist. When I moved in here part of it had been
a stable and on warm nights I can still smell hey and the mule that lived
in what is now my living room. When I first came here ancient voices
emitted from the walls, people who had lived her before had toiled
the soil and lived in poverty. One cannot erase the history of past
generations where people had lived, even if their physical bodies are
no longer here but their souls remain and speak to us if we care to listen.
The cottage seemed content that someone had moved in, no house likes
to be abandoned. New roof, plastered wall voices subsided and waned
altogether, yet on this hot night I do hear sighs, smell the mules sweat.
Is it my imagination only if I see the contour of the animal and see a man
stroking its head? And talking softly.

poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Equine Laureate

What if horses had the pulpit on Sunday morn
Would there be as many people staying home
Or would our Churches be filled to the rafters
To meditate with a horse that is free to roam

What messages would an old horse say to us
Maybe of much love and sayings that forewarn
Maybe just some rules that we could all live by
What if horses had the pulpit on Sunday morn

poem by John McCornack
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Green, Green Grass Of Home

(words & music by claude putman, jr.)
The old home town looks the same,
As I step down from the train,
And there to meet me is my mama and papa
Down the road I look and there runs mary
Hair of gold and lips like cherries
Its good to touch the green, green grass of home
Yes, theyll all be there to meet me,
All creatures smiling sweetly
Its good to touch the green, green grass of home
The old house is still standing,
Though the paint is cracked and dry
And theres an old oak tree that I used to play on
Down the lane Ill walk with my sweet mary
Hair of gold and lips like cherries
Its good to touch the green, green grass of home
Then I awake and look around me
Cold gray walls surround me
And I realize that I was only dreamin
Theres a guard and theres a sad old padre
Arm and arm well walk at daybreak
Again Ill touch the green, green grass of home
Yes, theyll all be there to meet me
In the shadow of that old oak tree
As they lay me beneath the green, green grass of home

song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Mayor Giuliani at Eastertime

Easter Sunday 2005,
Rudy Giuliani was with his former wife.
His children were also there,
smell of turkey lingered in the air.
For it was Easter Sunday,
everyone was thankful with words of praise.
Posing for the camera’s with all smiles,
dressed in Easter clothes with lots of style.
Also photographing Donald and his wife,
she was carrying a new precious life.
Mya and Ron would stand by Donald’s side,
all posed for a photo to remember Eastertime.
Only a small print run would show this affair,
paper not distributed everywhere.
That’s o.k. the Shiny Sheet was there.

(May 23, 2011)

poem by Christina Sunrise
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Blackjack Davey

1. black jack davey come a-riden on back,
A-whistlin loud and merry.
Made the woods around him ring,
And he charmed the heart of a lady,
Charmed the heart of a lady.
2. how old are you, my pretty little miss,
How old are you, my honey
She answered to him with a lovin smile
Ill be sixteen come sunday,
Be sixteen come sunday.
3. come and go with me, my pretty little miss,
Come and go with me, my honey,
Take you where the grass grows green,
You never will want for money
You never will want for money
4. pull off, pull off them high-heeled shoes
All made of spanish leather.
Get behind me on my horse
And well ride off together,
Well both go off together.
5. well, she pulled off them high-heeled shoes
Made of spanish leather.
Got behind him on his horse
And they rode off together.
They rode off together.
6. at night the boss came home
Inquiring about this lady.
The servant spoke before she thought,
Shes been with black jack dave,
Rode off with black jack davey.
7. well, saddle for me my coal black stud,
Hes speedier than the gray.
I rode all day and Ill ride all night,
And Ill overtake my lady.
Ill bring back my lady.
8. well, he rode all night till the broad daylight,
Till he came to a river ragin,
And there he spied his darlin bride
In the arms of black jack davey.
Wrapped up with black jack davey.
9. pull off, pull off them long blue gloves
All made of the finest leather.
Give to me your lily-white hand
And well both go home together.
Well both go home together.
10. well, she pulled off them long blue gloves
All made of the finest leather.
Gave to him her lily-white hand
And said good-bye forever.
Bid farewell forever.
11. would you forsake your house and home,
Would you forsake your baby?
Would you forsake your husband, too,
To go with black jack davey.
Rode off with black jack davey?
12. well, Ill forsake my house and home,
And Ill forsake my baby.
Ill forsake my husband, too,
For the love of black jack davey.
Ride off with black jack davey.
13. last night I slept in a feather bed
Between my husband and baby.
Tonight I lay on the river banks
In the arms of black jack davey,
Love my black jack davey.

song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Lovely White Flowers

He went inside the cafe where they used to sit together.
It was here, three months ago, that his friend told him:
'We're completely broke -so hard up, the two of us,
that we're stuck with the cheapest places.
I can't go around with you any more -it's no use hiding the fact.
I've got to tell you, somebody else is after me.'
The 'somebody else' had promised him two suits, some silk handkerchiefs.
He himself, to get his friend back,
went through hell rounding up twenty pounds.
His friend came back to him for the twenty pounds-
but along with that, for their old intimacy,
their old love, for the deep feeling between them.
The 'somebody else' was a liar, a real bum:
he'd ordered only one suit for his friend,
and that under pressure, after much begging.
But now he doesn't want the suits any longer,
he doesn't want the silk handkerchiefs at all,
or twenty pounds, or twenty piastres even.
Sunday they buried him, at ten in the morning.
Sunday they buried him, almost a week ago.
He laid flowers on his cheap coffin,
lovely white flowers, very much in keeping
with his beauty, his twenty-two years.
When he went to the cafe that evening
he happened to have some vital business there
to that same cafe where they used to go together,
it was a knife in his heart,
that dead cafe where they used to go together.

poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

On Sunday It Rained

Right now, I keep telling myself that I will have hope
It will bloom and grow
I will keep it up, I will raise it yet again
Then on Sunday it will shine
But I never learn to stop taking risks
Even without luck
So I have hope
It blooms and grows
I keep it up, I raise it yet again
But then on Sunday it rains, doesn't shine
Like I always thought it would
But I never learn
So I still have hope
After all these years
I keep it up, I raise it yet again
But then on Sunday it rains, no sign of shining
Anytime soon
I still haven't learned, so I used to have hope
It bloomed and grew
I kept it up, I raised it yet again
But then
On Sunday it rained…
It can be good that I never learn
Because
One Sunday it shined

poem by Mye3
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Nutbush City Limits

(t. turner)
Producer (73): ike turner
Album: nutbush city limits(73),the collected recordings(94)
Producers (91): c. j. mackintosh and dave dorrell
Album: simply the best (91)
Producers(93): chris lord-alge,roger davies and tina turner
Album: whats love got to do with it (93)
A church house gin house
A school house outhouse
On highway number nineteen
The people keep the city clean
They call it nutbush, oh nutbush
They call it nutbush city limits
Twenty-five for speed limit
Motorcicle not allowed in it
You go to store on friday
You go to church on sunday
They call it nutbush, oh nutbush
They call it nutbush city limits
You go to the fields on weekdays
And have a picnic on labor day
You go to town on saturday
And go to church every sunday
They call it nutbush, oh nutbush
They call it nutbush city limits
No whiskey for sale
If you get drunk no bail
Salt pork and molasses
Is all you get in jail
They call it nutbush, oh nutbush
They call it nutbush city limits
A little old town in tennessee
A quiet little community
A one-horse town
You have to watch what youre putting down
In old nutbush, oh nutbush

song performed by by Tina Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

En.Citatepedia®.ro

Palm Sunday

Related quotes

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Sunday Morning

Nutbush City Limit

Those winter sundays

Sunday Papers

Sunday Bloody Sunday

Twenty Years Ago

Chicken Every Sunday

Family House

Our House

M4

The Past

Equine Laureate

Green, Green Grass Of Home

Mayor Giuliani at Eastertime

Blackjack Davey

Lovely White Flowers

On Sunday It Rained

Nutbush City Limits

En.Citatepedia^®.ro