The Past
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
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Related quotes
For Mel (villanelle)
The one who should have lived has gone so fast.
The old ones, in their dotage, linger on –
they, with no future, live only in the past.
And we who can but sit, dumb and aghast,
scarcely believe that while the sun still shone
the one who should have lived has gone so fast.
Six decades older, surviving to their last
few days or years, together but alone,
they, with no future, live only in the past.
At least she kept on living to the last,
but should have had a future. She has none.
The one who should have lived has gone so fast,
and they, for whom so many years have passed,
are unaware that one they loved is gone.
They, with no future, live only in the past,
mark time until the final trumpet blast,
and never know the respite they have won.
The one who should have lived has gone so fast.
They, with no future, live only in the past.
poem by Paul Hansford
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Can You Hear Them?
So sick and tired of living
And so afraid to die
I've lived so many lives
And still I wonder why
The way the world perceives me
Is not the way I am
The one half thinks I'm crazy
The other thinks I'm mad
I spent a long long time alone in my room
I need your help to get me out of this gloom
Can you hear them
All the voices in my head
They freak me out
Can you hear them
They won't be happy 'till I'm dead
They freak me out
Ten thousand million nightmares
Temptation by the score
I used to get so high
And still I wanted more
You think my time is wasted
In search of who I am
I tried to so hard to kill
The boy inside the man
I spent a thousand years one night in my room
I've lived so many lives and that is my doom
Can you hear them
All the voices in my head
They freak me out
Can you hear them
They won't be happy 'till I'm dead
They freak me out
Can you hear them
All the voices in my head
They freak me out
Can you hear them
They won't be happy 'till I'm dead
They freak me out
I never thought I'd smile again
Always thought I'd be here on my own
Sometimes when I'm down
You come and save me again
And again
And again
And again
I'll never understand it
It makes no sense at all
Just look at what I've done
It's time to count the score
I've spent a long long time alone in my room
I need your help to get me out of this gloom
Can you hear them
All the voices in my head
They freak me out
Can you hear them
They won't be happy 'till I'm dead
They freak me out
Can you hear them
All the voices in my head
They freak me out
Can you hear them
They won't be happy 'till I'm dead
They freak me out
song performed by by Ozzy Osbourne from Down To Earth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Casebook Of Oliver Cyriax - Case 1# The Burning Bush (Part 4)
(It is suggested that the reader reads Part 1,2 and 3 first)
I stepped back slightly in amazement,
and then I smiled to myself.
Originally, the mystery of the ghost fire
had poised several questions in my mind.
Question of how, why and by who.
Normal phenomena was generally erratic,
in that you could not predict
when it when it would happen again.
However, the ghost fires were the opposite.
The first three were attention grabbers for the Burning Bush,
which now could be timed
at what time it would start
and at what time it would finish.
It was a very clever illusion
thought out by a very clever person.
I knew now how it was done,
but the remaining questions
of why and by who still needed to be answered.
Like Martin and others
my first thought were
that is was something paranormal.
Having stumbled by accident the truth,
the remaining two questions
could possibly be answered by the local Constable.
Finally I retired to bed with the satisfaction
I had almost solved the mystery.
The morning awoke
with a slight dropp in the temperature
and dark clouds threatening rain.
After breakfast,
I made my first journey to see the Burning Bush.
It was quite an ordinary bush as bushes go.
I walked round it several times
and looked around at the surrounding area.
I then took several photographs
of the area and the bush.
When I had enough,
I went to the Police Station
to talk to the local Constable.
As he saw me approach, he smiled.
His first question was how my investigation was going.
I assured him that it was nearly completed.
There were just a few questions I need answers for,
and then I should be able to solve the mystery of the Burning Bush.
I need to know how many people
had moved into the area
in the last three years and where they lived.
The Constable stroked his chin
and answered that there were only five people
who had moved to the village during the past three years.
Miss Featherbone the schoolmistress
who lived at the Inn was the last person.
She had only moved to the village about three months ago.
Before her there was Mr and Mrs Palfrey
who had purchased Lansdowne Farm
about two miles away.
Mr Gains a widower who bought Rose Cottage
just near the Inn
and Mr Harwood who lived at Beech Cottage
at the end of the high street.
He asked if I thought any of them were involved.
They might be unknowingly.
In addition, explained that some phenomena
follow certain people from place to place.
You mean like a family ghost. He asked.
Yes, I replied, like a family ghost.
I thanked him for his help, then left.
I decided to leave Miss Featherbone out
as the ghost fires had started long before
she came to the village.
I went along to see Mr Gains at Rose Cottage.
Gains was well into his seventies.
He viewed the Burning Bush as a nuisance.
He had come to the village for peace and quiet
and was most annoyed by what was happening.
I then went to see the Palfreys.
Unfortunately, they could not help me neither.
It was mid afternoon when I arrived at Beech Cottage.
I knocked the door and recognised Harwood
as soon as he answered.
He recognised me as well
and ushered me into the living room,
then made us both some tea.
You know who I am Oliver, he said.
I nodded, yes, the creator of the ghost fires.
It was very clever illusion, James.
The use of holographic images of fire.
I would never have guessed
until I accidentally found this little box
wedged between some loose bark on the tree
where the tramp had slept.
I said placing it on the table.
It was only when I accidentally activated it
before going to bed last night
that I realised the truth.
You have fooled a lot of people, but why?
If the visitors left the village,
it would become,
as the Americans would say a Ghost town.
The village needed an attraction,
hence the Burning Bush.
I hope you will not say that it is all a hoax Oliver.
I smiled and said I wouldn’t
I would let it remain a mystery to all.
Therefore Mr Rogers
that is the story behind The Burning Bush,
the true story,
not the ones that many books will come out with.
You see James Harwood used to be called
The Amazing Santini,
the man who could light his whole body
with fire without being burnt.
Of course, it was an illusion.
It wasn’t until the Burning Bush episode
that I found out how he did it.
Oliver rose from his chair,
moved across to his desk,
and shuffled some papers until he found several photographs.
These are photographs of The Burning Bush,
now I am getting rather tired.
I rose and bid him a goodnight
until we would meet again.
28 November 2007
poem by David Harris
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What If?
What if we lived in a world with no lies?
What if we lived in a world where no one dies?
Dies over a gun or a knife?
What if all mental illness was erased,
no one was crazy or two-faced?
What if there was no gossip about people anywhere?
What we lived in a world where everyone cared?
What if you never had to see child abuse,
no murder mysteries to solve with clues.
What if we lived in a world with no poverty?
Everyone had plenty with no adversity?
What if is in other dimensions,
maybe not ours for we might have no comprehension.
poem by Christina Sunrise
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I was born in Texas and I lived there 'till I was 8. Then I moved to the Dominican Republic with my mom, lived there for two years and forgot every word of English I knew.
quote by Michelle Rodriguez
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If I Lived One More LIfe... I Would
If I lived one more life
I would melt by the gentle sight of you
I would believe that your love is true
I would erase my fake intention
I would hold back all my foolish emotion
If I lived one more life
I would read all yr colorful envelopes
I would never burn your words of hopes
I would cherish your banner on the wall
I would make sure it will never fall
If I lived one more life
I would pick up your call night & days
I would guarantee your mind not decays
I would let my door open at all time
I would safe your sanity to prevent any crime
If I lived one more life
I would stand before you on my knee
I would beg your family to forgive me
I would plead to share your torture
I would fight to bring back your future
If I lived one more life
I would endure all your hate
I would accept you as my fate
I would strive to give you the best of me
I would die in your arms and be happy
If I lived one more life … I would
Dedicated to D.N.R – It’s been 14 years… This is my apology, I mean every word.
poem by Niken Kusuma Wardani
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Wherever your life ends, it is all there. The advantage of living is not measured by length, but by use; some men have lived long, and lived little; attend to it while you are in it. It lies in your will, not in the number of years, for you to have lived enough.
quote by Michel de Montaigne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The House On Centerville Road
We stopped beside the highway
And gazed at the old house
I told my wife, “That’s where I lived”
When I was just a little sprout
It looked smaller than it once did
Back so many years ago
Even then it was old and creaky
But, as a kid, I didn’t know
Weathered boards were loose and falling
Saplings grew up through the porch
The old tin roof was rusted orange
And the yard looked like a forest
Here dwells my oldest memories
From so many years ago
When our young family lived here
In the house on Centerville road
Those walls once rang with laughter
And the energy of two young lads
Riding stick horses all around the place
Trying to “herd” our collie, Pat
But, Pat knew more than we did
When she’d hear Mama shout
She’d turn us back from the road
And herd two boys toward the house
Dad got a job and we moved to town
Well before I started school
So, my memories are short and sketchy
But, I’ve found there are quite a few
My wife retrieved her camera
And as I turned the key to go
Snapped a picture from her window
Of the house on Centerville road
10/07/07
poem by C.R. Clark
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If These Times Lived Did Not Exist
May these times lived,
Be those times we now live in...
With the acknowledgement,
That if these times lived did not exist...
There would be no other times like these,
Experienced to say...
They have come to us to be witnessed,
Like this.
To enjoy to disagree in argument.
Or observe the necessity of conflict.
If these times for us lived did not exist...
How many can honestly say,
They awaken each day prepared to resist...
Such a majestic blessing many do not appreciate.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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To Die In Vain
When they lie me in my grave
Will I had done a lot of living
Or will the people just look and say
That I had done a lot of grieving.
And on my tomb what will be wrote
Will it just be a name,
With words that many had spoke
Saying that I had died in vain.
Through a graveyard as I stroll
I read many a lonesome name
That's all I see that's all that is wrote
I guess too, they died in vain.
No living for them had they done
No feats of greatness have they achieved
So now they are hid beneath the sun
As though they never had lived.
A name on marble a heart with no soul
It equals to about the same
For one does die, the other survives
And they both just lived in vain.
A tarnished tomb I do see
Forgotten by the years gone by
So beside it I will kneel and pray
For is that how I will die.
Then the graveyard I do leave
Mournful, bitter and shamed
Now no longer will I sit and grieve
For I WILL NOT! , die in vain.
So when they lay me in the ground
I now know what the people will say
They all will make a joyful sound
While saying, I lived and enjoyed everyday.
poem by Randy McClave
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call-Encounter - walking with
The light
Came closer
Lived right
Next to me
I walked with it
Sometimes,
Sometimes it
Walked with me
When I walked not
With it
And made me be
When I was not.
Living In
The light it entered in
And lived inside of me
I lived in it,
Sometimes,
Sometimes it lived in me
When I lived not in it
And made me be
When I was not
Abiding In
I hold the light sometimes,
Sometimes the light holds me.
Until I reach the light
I live in mystery
poem by Mary Mc Creath
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The People of the West Wind
Suisunes once lived
beneath the Twin Sisters.
Ascending beyond the vineyards and twisted oaks,
they still drift through morning mist,
and walk the sacred paths
of their fathers.
Guardian oaks still embrace the People.
Meandering branches lean low,
give their clambering children
an easy climb
up high to where acorns
fall in the western wind
to feed
their hungry
souls.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The Suisunes people, called The People of the West Wind, lived for over 10,000 years in the area where I now live... but they nearly died out within a generation of exposure to European missionaries seeking to save their souls. They would have eluded the attention of the Spanish longer had they not given refuge to escaped mission Indians. In 1810 several dozen of these gentle people committed suicide rather than submit to the Spanish.
If you listen carefully in the morning breeze you can still hear their laughter.
poem by Steven Federle
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a village in Iberia
A Village in Iberia
Drove to the village where I was born, hadn’t been there
for forty years, the lane was muddy and houses deserted;
this village had been abandoned long time ago; what was
I thinking of coming here? A tree had grown right through
our cottage, roof smashed now walls were tumbling down.
Puny human dwellings, here today and gone in less than
Ten decades, the tree seemed to say. What a nostalgic fool
I’m, this idea of returning, rebuild the old house and live
here in happy retirement.
This was no longer a village but a graveyard, houses were
tombstones of a past that had nothing to offer but poverty,
glassless window resembled crosses of a defunct faith.
I sat on a stone smoking a cigarette the aroma of wafted
through the drab silence, from behind a broken wall a dog
came, young, and it looked eerily like Stella the dog I loved
all those years ago, don’t tell me she has waited for five
dog generations, to return from the wasteland of eternity
just for me?
“I’ll call you Stella”, I said and stroked the dog’s head.
She knitted her brows together as to say, “What else? ”
I opened the right hand car door, Stella jumped in like she
had done this a thousand time before, drove off and didn’t
look back once, the only memory I need of my childhood,
was alive and snoozing in the seat beside me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Village
A Village in Iberia
Drove to the village where I was born, hadn’t been there
for forty years, the lane was muddy and houses deserted;
this village had been abandoned long time ago; what was
I thinking of coming here? A tree had grown right through
our cottage, roof smashed now walls were tumbling down.
Puny human dwellings, here today and gone in less than
Ten decades, the tree seemed to say. What a nostalgic fool
I’m, this idea of returning, rebuild the old house and live
here in happy retirement.
This was no longer a village but a graveyard, houses were
tombstones of a past that had nothing to offer but poverty,
glassless window resembled crosses of a defunct faith.
I sat on a stone smoking a cigarette the aroma of wafted
through the drab silence, from behind a broken wall a dog
came, young, and it looked eerily like Stella the dog I loved
all those years ago, don’t tell me she has waited for five
dog generations, to return from the wasteland of eternity
just for me?
“I’ll call you Stella”, I said and stroked the dog’s head.
She knitted her brows together as to say, “What else? ”
I opened the right hand car door, Stella jumped in like she
had done this a thousand time before, drove off and didn’t
look back once, the only memory I needed of my childhood,
was alive and snoozing in the seat beside me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Million Man March Poem
The night has been long,
The wound has been deep,
The pit has been dark,
And the walls have been steep.
Under a dead blue sky on a distant beach,
I was dragged by my braids just beyond your reach.
Your hands were tied, your mouth was bound,
You couldn't even call out my name.
You were helpless and so was I,
But unfortunately throughout history
You've worn a badge of shame.
I say, the night has been long,
The wound has been deep,
The pit has been dark
And the walls have been steep.
But today, voices of old spirit sound
Speak to us in words profound,
Across the years, across the centuries,
Across the oceans, and across the seas.
They say, draw near to one another,
Save your race.
You have been paid for in a distant place,
The old ones remind us that slavery's chains
Have paid for our freedom again and again.
The night has been long,
The pit has been deep,
The night has been dark,
And the walls have been steep.
The hells we have lived through and live through still,
Have sharpened our senses and toughened our will.
The night has been long.
This morning I look through your anguish
Right down to your soul.
I know that with each other we can make ourselves whole.
I look through the posture and past your disguise,
And see your love for family in your big brown eyes.
I say, clap hands and let's come together in this meeting ground,
I say, clap hands and let's deal with each other with love,
I say, clap hands and let us get from the low road of indifference,
Clap hands, let us come together and reveal our hearts,
Let us come together and revise our spirits,
Let us come together and cleanse our souls,
Clap hands, let's leave the preening
And stop impostering our own history.
Clap hands, call the spirits back from the ledge,
Clap hands, let us invite joy into our conversation,
Courtesy into our bedrooms,
Gentleness into our kitchen,
Care into our nursery.
The ancestors remind us, despite the history of pain
We are a going-on people who will rise again.
And still we rise.
poem by Maya Angelou
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Nora Sullivan
In their cottage in Claraghatlea she lived with her only brother Dan
And she was way beyond mid life when i was a young man
Her name was Nora Sullivan one who was good and kind
And people of her type are rare and always hard to find.
She lived to a fairly good age and though her I'm never more to see
The mental pictures of her are etched in my memory
A mentor of my childhood years and a privilege to know
I spoke to her for the last time some twenty years ago.
She was a devout lady and religious in a good way
And of any other person she never had bad to say
When I return to Millstreet I will not see her again
But good and fond memories of her till my own end I'll retain.
I always will remember her for her warm smile and kind eyes
And she was an honest person so honourable and wise
The pathway to a moral life she always did pursue
And to her God and her higher self she always was so true.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Seeing Things Not There
Our voices are sometimes muted
on seeing things that are not there.
Witnessing events relived from the past
by people no longer here,
hearing voices we cannot explain.
At first, they frighten us,
as we know not what they are
or where they come from.
However, they hold our fascination
at what only we can see and hear.
Millions of moments from the past
cross our path throughout our life.
Some remain invisible except to our ears
and others re-enact a history
in which they were involved.
The less we talk about them,
the less we will understand
why they pay a visit to only us
when millions of others
walk along the same path.
21 November 2009
poem by David Harris
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I Walked Last Night In A District I Lived In For Almost Twenty Years
I WALKED LAST NIGHT IN A DISTRICT I LIVED IN FOR ALMOST TWENTY YEARS
I walked last night in a district I lived in for almost twenty years
I came back after being away for a time
To visit an old and ailing friend
The streets were empty and lonely as they often were then-
I thought for the first time I understood how lonely the district itself is-
‘A lonely district’
I wondered how I managed to live there all those years
And how anyone still manages to live there-
I looked up at the sky and wrote in my mind a small poem of a kind I wrote many of in my years there
I remembered teachers and friends who had lived there
No longer of this district or any district on earth
I wondered how life goes and how from so many years so much life has been lived without having any place in my memory
I felt as empty inside as the district without
I did not have to wait long for the bus
And relieved inside it I put my heart to home
So many years had been lived there
I remembered taking my small children to the playground there
Now they thank G-d have children of their own
Oh the years go by and the life we have lived in them largely dies
Forever to be unknown again-
I put my heart and mind in a different direction
And began to do what I always do – not think of the district again
Life is this mystery and question we live through and never wholly possess even as we are experiencing it
How long before all will be gone for me
Including the district I live in now?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Before Your Love
I wonder how I ever made it through a day
How did I settle for a world with shades of gray?
When you go in circles all the scenery looks the same
And you don't know why
Then I looked into your eyes
And the road stretched out in front of me
And I realized
Chorus:
I never lived
Before your love
I never felt
Before your touch
I never needed anyone to make me feel alive
But then again
I wasn't really living
I never lived
Before your love
I wanted more than just an ordinary life
All of my dreams seemed like castles in the sky
I stand before you and my heart is in your hands
And I don't know how
I survived without your kiss
Cause you've given me a reason to exist
Chorus
I never lived before your love
And I don't know why
Why the sun decides to shine
But you breathed your love into just in time
I never lived
Before your love
I never felt
Before your touch
I never needed anyone to make me feel alive
But then again
I wasn't really living
I never lived
I never lived
Before your love
song performed by by Kelly Clarkson from American Idol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rich Poor Man
We pitied him because
He lived alone;
His tiny cottage was
His only own.
His little garden had
A wall around;
Yet never was so glad
A bit of ground.
It seemed to fair rejoice
With flowers and fruit;
With blooms it found a voice
When ours was muts.
It smiled without a pause
In gracious glow:
I think it was because
He loved it so.
He had no news to read,
No rent to pay;
His vegetable need
He plucked each day.
His grateful garden gave
Him ample fare;
He lived without a crave,
Without a care.
His bread and milk and tea
Were all he bought;
To us he seemed to be
A sorry lot . . .
But when we're dead and gone,
With all our fuss,
I guess he'll carry on,
And laugh at us.
poem by Robert William Service
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