Ramblings On A Sunday Morning
the white poodle keeps wagging
its tail
looking for my preferential attention
the motorcycles on the road
are noisy again
some children keep on tapping
their feet
imitating the dance of the
penguins
on the other hand the old woman
slowly ekes his tired feet
on the way to the church
the church bell keeps on its clanging
saying today is Sunday
i got no weekend
on a crisis of the pages of the books
some poems to justify
my contempt for rites and rituals and boring sermons
do not judge the cover of the book
until you dropp dead on the floor
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
You Cant Judge A Book
You cant judge a book by looking at the cover
No, you cant judge a man by looking at the cover
And you cant judge a book by looking at the cover
When I was young and went to school
My mama taught me the magic rule
And what she said I tried my best to follow
She said
You cant judge a book by looking at the cover
No, you cant judge a man by looking at the cover
And you cant judge a book by looking at the cover
Then I left school and moved around
And what I saw and what I found
Made me remember what she said to follow
She said
You cant judge a book by looking at the cover
No, you cant judge a man by looking at the cover
And you cant judge a book by looking at the cover
And now I think, by now Id know, that what appears is not always so
And I remember what she said to follow
She said
You cant judge a book by looking at the cover
No, you cant judge a man by looking at the cover
And you cant judge a book by looking at the cover
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Little Church Round the Corner
'Bring him not here, where our sainted feet
Are treading the path to glory;
Bring him not here, where our Saviour sweet
Repeats for
us
his story.
Go, take him where such things are done
(For he sat in the seat of the scorner),
To where they have room, for we have none,--
To the little church down the corner.'
So spake the holy man of God,
Of another man, his brother,
Whose cold remains, ere they sought the sod,
Had only asked that a Christian rite
Might be read above them by one whose light
Was, 'Brethren, love one another:'
Had only asked that a prayer be read
Ere his flesh went down to join the dead,
While his spirit looked with suppliant eyes,
Searching for God throughout the skies.
But the priest frowned 'No,' and his brow was bare
Of love in the sight of the mourner,
And they looked for Christ and found him--where?
In that little church round the corner.
Ah! well, God grant when, with aching feet,
We tread life's last few paces,
That we may hear some accents sweet,
And kiss, to the end, fond faces.
God grant that this tired flesh may rest
('Mid many a musing mourner),
While the sermon is preached and the rites are read
In no church where the heart of love is dead,
And the pastor's a pious prig at best,
But in some small nook where God's confessed,--
Some little church round the corner.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Books
The universe (which others call the library). . .
-Jorge Luis Borges
Books which are stitched up the center with coarse white thread
Books on the beach with sunglass-colored pages
Books about food with pictures of weeping grapefruits
Books about baking bread with browned corners
Books about long-haired Frenchmen with uncut pages
Books of erotic engravings with pages that stick
Books about inns whose stars have sputtered out
Books of illuminations surrounded by darkness
Books with blank pages & printed margins
Books with fanatical footnotes in no-point type
Books with book lice
Books with rice-paper pastings
Books with book fungus blooming over their pages
Books with pages of skin with flesh-colored bindings
Books by men in love with the letter O
Books which smell of earth whose pages turn
poem by Erica Jong
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Sex & The Church
Though the idea of compassion
Is said to be
The union of christ
And his bride, the christian
Its all very puzzling
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
All the great mystic religions
Put strong emphasis, on
Redeame this spiritual qualities
Of sex of sex
Chrstianity
Has been pretty modern
About sex
Of sex of sex of sex of sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
I think there is a union
Between the flesh and the spirit
Its sex and the church
Sex and the church
All religions mother
Give me youre freedom of spirit
And the joys of the flesh
Of sex sex sex and the church
Give me youre freedom of spirit
And the joys of the flesh
Of sex sex sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
And the church
And the church
Sex sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
Sex
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex and the church
Sex sex
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When the bell tolls
At times when I hear
a church bell that tolls,
I know that there
is more to life
than just living.
On a Sunday
the bell tolls almost endlessly,
(like a alarm clock)
before the service begins.
At times when I hear
a church bell that tolls,
it rings for a funeral
and I am glad
that I’m alive.
At a wedding
the bell sings a joyful song
and everyone smiles at each other
and wait for the bride to appear.
In the dead of night
the bell tolls lonely
no one cares about
the time that it keeps,
as sleep creeps deeper
into everybody’s soul.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Old Woman On The Road
why does the old woman
walk on the road
in her hand
a cane or a baton
softly and gently
tapping on the stone
as caressing
slowly and slowly
prone to her destiny
where are her children
where are her grand children
does she sees
enough to look
noone knows
lonely
as a desolate tree
when did they leave her
may be she is goı ng
to the desolate house she used to haunt
she lived with her husband
goı n g to water the flowers
in their garden
but her husband is dead
though she she quarrelled regularly
when he was alı ve
she misses him desperate
why did they leave her
alone
on the road
roads are dangerous
traffı ccı ng the cars
why does this old woman walk
with a cane or a baton
in handslowly..softly...gently
tapping on stone
her looks are even hopeful
never bored of lı fe
on this hour
on this time
why does the old woman
walk on the road
has she escaped from an asylum
or booted from it
ı t is evident
she does not see clearly
she looks like my poor auntie
how old women
look like each other
where are her children
where are her grand children
where are her beloved neighbours
a crow crows in the distant
in a desolate tree
does loneliness walks wth so diffı culty
and so bitter
how soon we have forgotten our elder
may god bewaring everyhing ever
hope god forget them never......
poem by Metin Sahin
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A Contradiction
They go to church with their prayer books on sunday and praise the lord and sing their hymns and pray
And when their political leaders talk of war they support them for war to them one might say seems okay
They are what one might call a contradiction their love for god and war go hand in hand
These people who love god and talk of bloodshed are people that are hard to understand.
They go to church to pray to the almighty though with their next door neighbour they're at war
But they kid themselves by their self delusion for they take self delusion that bit far
They say they love god though their god from them seem distant and they don't seem to have their god within
And if their god exist then their god will disown them for god's approval they could not hope to win.
These people truly are a contradiction they go to church and praise their god in song
Yet some of them belittle their next door neighbour and some of them will tell you war's not wrong
And some of them back their political leaders to dropp bombs on people they don't even know
And they think they are decent church going people yet for others compassion they do not show.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Only Wave My Hand To My Neighbor
i only wave my hand
to my neighbor
not wanting to go beyond
that intimacy or
that familiarity which i have always
thought of
(as others do too)
as a breeder of
contempt
& i do not want that
to happen,
sometimes, we choose the luxury of
our own privacy
the dignity of our own hideaway
inside the pages of a book
in the busy world
of our minds
we dance there
alone with our own hands
to the sounds of the patting of our
own feet.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A revival does two things. First, it returns the Church from her backsliding and second, it causes the conversion of men and women; and it always includes the conviction of sin on the part of the Church. What a spell the devil seems to cast over the Church today!
quote by Billy Sunday
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The White Poodle
the white poodle rushes inside
the living room
this early morning when i
first open the door
for the air and light
to come in
as i stand by the window
to see the world again
it wags its tail
asking for a little attention
which i so willingly give
and then
with all affection it sits
near my feet
i put my hand on its head
and it rubs its head
warmly on my palm
as usual
we mark this day
with friendship
and then another day unfolds
like a bud blooming for happiness
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Two Little Orphans
Two little children a boy and a girl
Sat by and old church door
The little girls feet were as brown as the curl
That fell on the dress that she wore
The little boys clothes were all tattered and torn
They shone beneath his blue eyes
Why dont you go home to your mommy I said
And this was the maidens reply
Mommys is heaven angels took her away
Left jim and I all alone
Weve no one to love us daddy is dead
And our darling mother is gone
Mommy got sick angels took her away
To dwell in those matins so bright
She said she would come for her children someday
And I guess shes coming tonight
The sexton came early to ring the church bell
And found them beneath the snow white
The angels made room for the orphans to dwell
Up in heaven with their mommy that night
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Give Me Dancing Music(Song) :
I've been tempted.
And it's not so good.
I'm gonna pick up the pieces.
Then mend my ways.
So give me dancing music.
Let me dance all day.
Let me lift my feet up.
Then dance across the floor.
Dit-dit-dit-dance across, dance across.
Dance across the floor.
Let me dance across, dance across.
Dance across the floor.
I've been waiting.
For you to arrive.
And I was wondering.
If you were mine.
I can go on forever.
Or take my time.
Go on forever.
Or dance till nine.
So give me dancing music.
Let me dance all day.
Let me lift my feet up.
Then dance across the floor.
Dit-dit-dit-dance across, dance across.
Dance across the floor.
Let me dance across, dance across.
Let me dance across the floor..
Dance Across The Floor-Song-By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 1987,2009..
All rights reserved..
poem by Kim Robin Edwards
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Bredon Hill
In summertime on Bredon
The bells they sound so clear;
Round both the shires they ring them
In steeples far and near,
A happy noise to hear.
Here of a Sunday morning
My love and I would lie,
And see the coloured counties,
And hear the larks so high
About us in the sky.
The bells would ring to call her
In valleys miles away:
'Come all to church, good people;
Good people, come and pray.
But here my love would stay.
And I would turn and answer
Among the springing thyme,
'Oh, peal upon our wedding,
And we will hear the chime,
And come to church in time.
But when the snows at Christmas
On Bredon top were strewn,
My love rose up so early
And stole out unbeknown
And went to church alone.
They tolled the one bell only,
Groom there was none to see,
The mourners followed after,
And so to church went she,
And would not wait for me.
The bells they sound on Bredon,
And still the steeples hum.
'Come all to church, good people,' -
Oh, noisy bells, be dumb;
I hear you, I will come.
poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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You Cant Judge A Book By Looking At The Cover
1: you cant judge a apple by lookin at the tree.
Cant judge a honey by lookin at the bee.
Cant judge a daughter by lookin at the mother.
You cant judge a book by lookin at the cover.
Chorus: oh-oh, cant you see? you misjudged me, baby!
I look like a farmer but--Im a lover!
Cant judge a book by lookin at the cover.
2: you cant judge sugar by lookin at the pan.
Cant judge a woman by lookin at her man.
Cant judge one by lookin at the other.
You cant judge a book by lookin at the cover.
Chorus: oh-oh, cant you see? you misjudged me!
I look like a farmer but--Im a lover!
Cant judge a book by lookin at the cover.
3: you cant judge a fish by lookin in the pond.
Cant judge right by lookin at the wrong,
Cant judge a-one by lookin at the other.
You cant judge a book by lookin at the cover.
Chorus: oh-oh, cant you see? you misjudged me!
I look like a farmer but--Im a lover!
Cant judge a book by lookin at the cover.
4: cant judge a apple by lookin at the tree, baby.
Cant judge honey by lookin at the bee.
Cant judge a daughter by lookin at the mother.
You cant a book by lookin at the cover.
Chorus: oh-oh, cant you see? you misjudged me!
I look like a farmer but--Im a lover!
Cant judge a book a-by lookin at the cover.
Source: mark atkins (by ear), 4/30/00
song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Church-Bell
As I was lying in my bed
I heard the church-bell ring;
Before one solemn word was said
A bird began to sing.
I heard a dog begin to bark
And a bold crowing cock;
The bell, between the cold and dark,
Tolled. It was five o'clock.
The church-bell tolled, and the bird sang,
A clear true voice he had;
The cock crew, and the church-bell rang,
I knew it had gone mad.
A hand reached down from the dark skies,
It took the bell-rope thong,
The bell cried "Look! Lift up your eyes!"
The clapper shook to song.
The iron clapper laughed aloud,
Like clashing wind and wave;
The bell cried out "Be strong and proud!"
Then, with a shout, "Be brave!"
The rumbling of the market-carts,
The pounding of men's feet
Were drowned in song; "Lift up your hearts!"
The song was loud and sweet.
Slow and slow the great bell swung,
It hung in the steeple mute;
And people tore its living tongue
Out by the very root.
poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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The Manor Farm
THE rock-like mud unfroze a little, and rills
Ran and sparkled down each side of the road
Under the catkins wagging in the hedge.
But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun;
Nor did I value that thin gliding beam
More than a pretty February thing
Till I came down to the old manor farm,
And church and yew-tree opposite, in age
Its equals and in size. The church and yew
And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness.
The air raised not a straw. The steep farm roof,
With tiles duskily glowing, entertained
The mid-day sun; and up and down the roof
White pigeons nestled. There was no sound but one.
Three cart horses were looking over a gate
Drowsily through their forelocks, swishing their tails
Against a fly, a solitary fly.
The winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained
Spring, summer, and autumn at a draught
And smiled quietly. But 'twas not winter--
Rather a season of bliss unchangeable,
Awakened from farm and church where it had lain
Safe under tile and latch for ages since
This England, Old already, was called Merry.
poem by Edward Thomas
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Sunday 4: 44 A.m.
the church bell sounds.
you wake up.
you wash your face.
comb your hair and
wear the best dress
on sunday.
you look again
in the mirror to check
if all about you is well
and presentable.
you take the rosary
and the prayer book.
you read the gospel.
you mumble your prayers,
you thank your husband.
you take the puppy.
you smile again in the
mirror. you thank God.
now you open the gate
and head for the nearby
church and hear mass
and the usual sermon
of the parish priest.
90% of your life
is devoted to religion.
10% is devoted
to anything else.
you have aged.
you still mumble.
i still wonder whether
it is you who misunderstands me
or i misunderstanding you.
everything seems to be
mangled and mingled.
when you come back
breakfast is ready and
everyone in the house
pretends that there is nothing
wrong with the table, or the
cover, or the broken pieces
of the glass.The maid is
quick in sweeping them
away from the door into
that thick grass beside
the window of this house.
sunday morning is still
our morning. A nice one.
the sun has come and
we are planning for another
picnic in the nearby beach.
there will be no questions.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Books up on books
Color in Black, color in white
And also in different colors
Colors were brushed in minds
Respectively be hard
Printed embossed letters
In books of epigraphy
Color in black
On Space of white
Told that is black
Black white and colors
Books up on books
Being closed near by
Dialogues having intercourse
Get soaked colors of minds
Smudged
Scabrous words
Boorish colors
In a content of
In a book
Wearing a strange cover
Not get closed
And be separated
Having filed up afar
At the library of old
On a table
Books up on books
Turn pages
Marking and conflicting
And also comparing
An empty paper
A pen
A hand with five fingers
An artist
poem by Udaya R. Tennakoon
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Fruit And Nutter
I know some of my poems can be a bit absurd.
All you have to do is look at who writes them
he is a bit absurd too.
Anyone who plays Cowboys and Indians
at the age of sixty something
has to be a bit of a fruit and nutter.
However, saying all that
I really play Preachers and Indians
with a couple of sermons
thrown in for good measure.
They gave me the tag of Dodgy Dave,
the wife says it is because I dodge the Hoover,
but it’s because everyone thinks
I’m a bit of a fruit and nutter.
I stumble over my own sermons
and get locked up in jail for that
especially when I cannot read
what I’ve just written.
I have weird sense of humour
and all you have to do is ask my friends about that.
I have a saying
if you don’t come to my church,
my church will come to you
when you’re not looking.
When friends see me with a wicked grin
they know there’s a gag a foot
so they run and hide
and I wonder why.
What do I care
I’m just a fruit and nutter
and having a lot of fun with that.
11 September 2009
poem by David Harris
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In A Poem
in a poem
or even in a pseudo
poem
i like to be as articulate as a
winding river
as happy as a gazelle
jumping on a hill
as secretive as a cave
keeping my stalagmites
and stalactites
as social as a fish
talking to a fly
as loud as a frog croaking
with the rain
as blue as the cloud
as green as the grass
(pardon these cliches)
i like to be as true as
a barking dog to the wrong
tree wagging its tail
even to the wrong master
in any poem be it a true poem
or a pseudo poem
i like to sing with the cicadas
on lonely nights like this
and when my soliloquy is over
in all poems
and pseudo poems
i like to dropp
in my much needed
sleep in my couch
or on the solid wooden floor
dead.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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