En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The You In My Stories

I wish I could bury my insanity in me,
and myself in your embrace,
as the lost men did with the sea.
I wish the siren would sing for me,
as she did for those before,
before the two of us met, on each other's lips,
behind the sun, and the people.
I bought you my heart, from the Merchant of Venice
but it was only the illusion of it,
as it was a stone more than a heart.
In your stories, you are as people see you
but in my stories, the sun gives you his crown
and god worships you, more than you worship him.
I'm rambling again,
but it's true.

poem by Serban Raducu Bogdan
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Life Is Truly Like A Stage

If we filmed all our lives,
Would people watch us as we cry,
Would people listen to our lies,
Would people sorrow as we die?
If our stories were to be told,
Would people let the stories unfold,
Would people notice us be so bold,
Would people love us as we grow?
If our lives were to intertwine,
Would people drink it as a wine,
Would people lurk as we shine,
Would people sit as we dine?
If we had a song to sing,
Would people listen to everything,
Would people know our love is like a ring,
Would people know you are my queen?
If we all had an undying love,
Would people let it fly like a dove,
Would people turn to the gods above,
Would people know of our true love?
If I had one thing to give,
Would people know your love is why I live,
Would people know the joy, to me, you give,
Would people know for your love I'd jump a cliff?
If you had one thing to take,
It would be my soul so great,
Now that people know my fate,
It is that my love for you came too late.

poem by Matthew Jenkins
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Stories

when we were young stories were told
That I'd kiss you sweet like
People said there was a connection between us
Now that we're old stories are told
Of how I hold you tight
Whenever I see those people I tell them they were right

Stories will be told
From when our children are young
until they're old
About our endless love
We must have had a blessing from above

Stories will be told until we're old
Stories will be told until the end of time
Stories will be told until we're old
Stories will be told until the end of time

Until the sun won't rise
Oh

song performed by by Hanson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Heart That Worships

A heart that worships is so emptied
Of fears, of doubts and worrying
It speaks in joy for what God did
In praise and thanks it always sings.

A heart that worships only beats
For God Who handles it with care
In daily prayer it will meet
His Love and Faithfulness there.

A heart that worships is at rest
For God's assurance is His promise
His will for us is always best
Our earthly weariness will cease.

When we feel lost and oh so empty
Our hearts of worship will return
To our God Who is all worthy
With praise and love He'll make us yearn.





............................................. .................................
May 6,2009
Philippines

poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Most politicians - those people who live, eat and breathe politics - like to sit around and talk about politics and tell political war stories. Reagan didn't do that. His war stories were movie war stories and Hollywood war stories. He loved that.

quote by Lyn Nofziger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Well, religion has been passed down through the years by stories people tell around the campfire. Stories about God, stories about love. Stories about good spirits and evil spirits.

quote by Andrew Greeley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Some Stories

some stories
about ourselves
are also the stories of
themselves
and then we write
these stories and
pretend that these are
but some short stories
from our mind

now in different names
and places
we read them and then
we wish that some of
these short stories
are not true at all

sometimes for those
we want to be
we want to believe
them to be true

wishes and hopes and
regrets, what if? what if i
chose that rather than this?

we poets write about pain
and joys and we tell sometimes
that we only fake them

deep inside we are silent
we prefer just to be left alone

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You can take any one of our stories that we use right now, put western clothes on us, stick us out in the west and they'll work just as well - any single one of them - because they're stories about people, they're stories about things.

quote by Majel Barrett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stories

Through every window, we look out
what we see on the other side
holds many stories waiting to unfold.
Stories of great achievements
within someone’s life.
Stories of gathering love
found with in open arms.
Stories of perusing heartaches
where someone has gone away.
Stories a million fold
that surround every living thing.
Stories we are not aware of,
but happen before our eyes.
Stories to share with all
from those who can see them unfold.
The next time you look out a window
try and see what is really there,
the stories that are everywhere.

26 July 2009

poem by David Harris
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True stories, autobiographical stories, like some novels, begin long ago, before the acts in the account, before the birth of some of the people in the tale.

quote by Harold Brodkey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Little Ole Sentimental Me

Some people call me sentimental,
they might be right in saying that.
I am a big softie at heart.
I get choked when I hear sad stories,
and when someone has found someone
they lost touch with years ago.
Don’t ask me why it happens,
because I couldn’t honestly tell you why.
I am supposed to be a macho man,
but some things can melt this heart of stone.
Especially when it comes to animals,
they can wrap me around their tiny paw,
and there is nothing I can do.
They sit and stare at me,
with big sad looking eyes,
and I am putty in their paw.
They know it and play on it,
because I am a big softie,
little ole sentimental me.

poem by David Harris
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Some People Worship

Some people worship the fiery sun
And some the crescent moon
Some people worship the stars above
But God I worship you

Some people worship dragons
And some hand carved statues
Some people worship the devil
But God I worship you

You created the heavens above
The earth with color of every hue
Then in your image you made man
God I worship you

Some people worship their president
And some their nation too
Some people worship themselves
But God I worship You!

© by Patricia Bankhead

poem by Patricia Bankhead
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So Many Like You

You tell everyone of your greatness of how wonderful you think you are
And they wink behind your back when you tell them of your recent big buy your brand new car
They look on you as rather boastful since your own praises you only sing
In self esteem you are not lacking and that in itself is a good thing,
Those you tell your success stories to their own success stories only like to tell
They are not sincere in their praises when they tell you that you have done well
You do not understand that many others are like you their own success stories they like to relate
And though out of politeness they say you have done well
they do not really think you are great
Many like to tell of their own successes and of the successes of others would rather not hear
For many into self promotion or at least that's how it does appear
So many like you have big egos and for to promote themselves are not shy
And why they sing their own praises to others is not hard to understand why
Since we live in the age of the aspirational so many to greatness aspire
And only those who are seen to be successful are people that others admire.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Stories

Every year has its own stories in this life,
Every month has its own stories in this life,
Every week has its own stories in this life,
Every day has its own stories in this life,
Every hour has its own stories in this life,
Every minute has its own stories in this life,
And like the muse of the mind as we grow up;
So, we are all with stories to tell in this world.

As white as snow,
As red as blood,
As balck as charcoal,
As green as the grass,
As blue as the sky;
But everybody has stories to tell in this world!
And like the muse o love in the land of beauty,
For each year has its own story.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Into the Blue Memory

This is a poem not a song...
I wrote it like that on purpose,
that's because I wanted this poem to
sing to you like if it was being sung
like an opera, I wanted this to fill
your heart with poetry and song...
This was inspired by the song
'Ghost Love Score' by Nightwish

Into the Blue Memory
By: Adam M. Snow

A child will find the way,
in a night, and in a day,
with the moment still,
waking the dreams,
glorious and free,
into the blue memory.

Redeeming childhood,
upon advent dream,
A journey worth telling,
of this soon destiny.

Angels singing broken song,
can't help but sing along.
Open eyes of blinded sorrow,
looking towards the endless morrow.

Who is she, lost and cold,
with tales of truth to be told?
Stories of journey in the blue memory,
of a destined child of light and poverty.

A siren from the deep approached him,
spoke his dreams, his memory,
mend his broken heart,
pressed out like a key,
to reign with love and all victoriously.

Will he find true love,
shining down from above?
Lighting his way,
into the ever darkening day.

Nevermore does he ache,
when he sleep, he's still awake,
longing for true love,
cold and alone he waits,
waiting for that day,
that only love could portray.

Who is he, lost and cold,
with tales of truth to be told?
Stories of journey in the blue memory,
of a destined child of light and poverty.

A siren from the sea approached her,
spoke her dreams, her memory,
mend her broken heart,
free her from her curse,
to reign with love and all victoriously.

Will she find true love,
shining down from above?
Lighting her way,
into the ever darkening day.

The world she forsake,
when she sleep, she's still awake,
longing for her love,
on this dreary night,
waiting for that day,
that only love could portray.

Together they seek,
not self-effacing nor meek,
but the touch of pure love,
to mend their broken heart.

Together they search,
for themselves once lost,
with their vowing dreams the cost,
to find, there is only one,
riding throughout the wind,
being together passed the end,
falling into the arms,
of an angel's joyous charms,
to the sight of lovers birth,
reigning down all over the Earth.

poem by Adam M. Snow
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Just is

We watch people and it makes us sad
and we hear stories and they make us sad
and we become stories and that makes us sadder
and we pity ourselves for being inconsolable and non-comprehendable
The world watches us with a sympathetic eye and it makes them sad
A bunch of sad people making sad people
Where did it begin, and when will it end?

poem by Camille Briski
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Stories About Home

I lived once in the North
And for a while, way in the South
I have some stories... that'll
Tear a man's heart out

These are the one's
I numbered ten... eleven...and twelve...
They moved so fast...
I ended living... in living Hell

But those that I numbered one thru nine...
They let the world see...why... my eyes..
My heart...
Will never again shine

I know It's hard sometimes to live
Where you can't see the sun...
Because of all that... endless rain...
I look to see.. how too... help others
Because I have lived...every kind of pain

So I write the stories...
Some are good
But often... some are very bad
They often leave hearts torn....
Spilling eyes... so sad...
And sometimes... I'll talk about the incredibly bad

But can you see the purpose...of writing
These stories... these poems...
Through the tears.... the weeping... and crying...
It's just my heart....
Trying to find a way...to move back home...

So to anyone whom read these stories. They're what I write.
They're the words of what I feel. They're the stories about wounds,
about that life, my family, about souls that never seem to heal.
They're the words of truth, they help with what I feel. For these stories
are the cause of tears...that just wont end...they're the stories that are
impossibe to bear.
They are the stoires of my family, abuse, of damage
and how love was not spared....
So many stories that'll never disappear
A soul covered with scars
Of sadness that fills a heart
That burns each time those hate words...
And abuse that breaks it apart

Clyde Grant Bryson

poem by Clyde Bryson
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Bury My Soul

if i died today
it would take my pain away
no more in the way
with no more to say

so bury my soul
losing control
losing my hold
bury my soul
lost control
lost a hold
so bury my soul

take my mind away from the misery
take my heart away from the mystery

so bury my soul
losing control
losing my hold
bury my soul
lost control
lost a hold
so bury my soul

i looked into your eyes
and i saw all the lies
my hate is now my fate
the more i try
the more i die
the more i die inside

so bury my soul
losing control
losing my hold
bury my soul
lost control
lost a hold
so bury my soul

i left to rest my soul
i buried my heart in the dark hole
turn the page
begin the new chapter
i surrender
i surrender my soul

so bury my soul
losing control
losing my hold
bury my soul
lost control
lost a hold
so bury my soul
bury my soul
bury my soul

poem by Bobby Butterfield
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The merchant

Who could play Portia, but you?
The quick-witted woman
who really loved
and came to the rescue.

The merchant - just me. And it
was that way, with our life together
and the way that life went
and how quickly
my meagre savings was spent.

Inhuman Shylock could probably be
each and every employer
that misused me
and only offered a contract
of which the time ran out
as quick as the job was done
and no sure permanent job
could appear.

My ships sailing against the storm
would probably be my stories and poems
and when the script overtook us
I had to find other lodgings
as quick as magician
pulls a rabbit from a hat.

And then I wondered sweet Portia,
who’s hand held the knife
to slice into the inmost core
of the heart,
was it Shylock’s or yours?

But now you love me still
and sometimes your sweet voice
thrills me intensely
and your touch makes my hairs rise
and still I am in love
and not really wise.

[Reference: The merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Sing Austrailia

I come to Australia as many people do, to see the old koala, hitch a ride on a kangaroo.
To hear somebody call me "Mate" and call somebody "Blue,"
to hear an Aborigine play a didgeridoo.
Some of you came as prisoners two centuries ago,
some of you come as kings and queens your blessing to bestow.
Some of you stand all swelled with pride, some with shattered wings,
but all of us come with open hearts to hear Australia sing.
In the desert, in the city, in the mountains and in the sea.
In the stories and in the people I can hear Australia sing.
Waltzing Matilda, the men of Gallipoli, Clancy of the Overflow and Crocodile Dundee.
The myth of all creation, the teaching of Baiame, the legends of the Dreamtime for all eternity.
And in this celebration, a brief two hundred years,
the cost to build a nation in blood and sweat and tears.
And if we stand divided, divided we shall fall. But if we stand together, we shall conquer all.
In the desert, in the city, in the mountains and in the sea.
In the stories and in the people I can hear Australia sing..
Sing Australia, sing Australia, sing Australia, sing Australia.
In the sails on Sydney Harbour I can hear Australia sing.

song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Are A Stone Hearted

You are a stone hearted
that so my heart is bleeding
with your one hit

What my fragile heart will understand
harshness of your heart and
what your heart will understand
delicacy of my heart

My heart is more placid
than petal of any flower

Your heart is stone
that can overcome high tides of oceans

No fire can burn your heart
because you are a stone hearted

My heart can fuse with your little love
that so I hug without any care
or dare for life and death

My heart is a flower
Your heart is a stone

As a stone I worship your heart
offer my flower heart
Either you love or kick off

But my heart is made to adore you only.

poem by Ramesh Rai
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