Autumn
He told his life story to Mrs. Courtly
Who was a widow. 'Let us get married shortly',
He said. 'I am no longer passionate,
But we can have some conversation before it is too late.'
poem by Stevie Smith
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Related quotes
Peggy Sue Got Married
(holly)
Please dont tell, no, no, no.
Please dont tell I told you so.
I just heard a rumor from a friend.
I dont say that its true.
Ill just leave that up to you.
If you dont believe, Ill understand.
Do you recall a girl thats been in nearly every song?
This is what I heard. of course, the story could be wrong.
Shes the one, Ive been told,
cos shes wearing that band of gold.
Peggy sue got married not long ago.
Verse 3
Verse 4
Peggy sue got married not long ago.
Peggy sue got married not long ago.
Peggy sue got married not long ago.
Peggy sue, she got married not long ago.
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Vice Versa
Down in the state of Maine, the story goes,
A woman, to secure a lapsing pension,
Married a soldier-though the good Lord knows
That very common act scarce calls for mention.
What makes it worthy to be writ and read
The man she married had been nine hours dead!
Now, marrying a corpse is not an act
Familiar to our daily observation,
And so I crave her pardon if the fact
Suggests this interesting speculation:
Should some mischance restore the man to life
Would she be then a widow, or a wife?
Let casuists contest the point; I'm not
Disposed to grapple with so great a matter.
'T would tie my thinker in a double knot
And drive me staring mad as any hatter
Though I submit that hatters are, in fact,
Sane, and all other human beings cracked.
Small thought have I of Destiny or Chance;
Luck seems to me the same thing as Intention;
In metaphysics I could ne'er advance,
And think it of the Devil's own invention.
Enough of joy to know though when I wed
I _must_ be married, yet I _may_ be dead.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Fast Forward
one thing then another
one story then another conversation
always interrupted by another conversation
I want the words to barely glaze the page
gone the moment of their utterance
as we are
I want
in back of this a story a man with his face with his name
exile emigrant refugee displaced person outsider offcomerdon stranger suspect
the terms interchangeable politically undesireable
a story of a man who leaves his country
and the woman he loves
and the story of why
and her story
they never meet again
that’s it that’s all of it
far away she hears in the night street
footsteps footsteps stop
when she stops go on when she goes on
from the dark in back of her she hears
I can see you I can see you
Sammy Sammy Sammy Sammy I can see you
far away she must go on
far away he must go on
The Lost Vessel
What do you do
with the empty vessels
that sail no longer
that are anchored
with no purpose
What is their story?
We should listen
because they definitely
need something else
to do...
They are shouting
are chaotic
and grueling
to swallow over
and over again...
They are lost
fishing and fishing
with no hope of
any life
or course to take...
They may need help!
Let's try to
to heal them
and bring them
to a positive,
helpful, more
passionate
approach
to
life...
Healing
takes place
where God
is...
poem by Jeanne Fiedler
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Well Run Away
We know theyre right when they say were not ready
But all we care is how we feel right now
Well go ahead just the same
Prepare to take the blame
Well run away and get married anyhow
They warned us that we cant live on love forever
But we just tell them well get by somehow
Our problems will be greater
Well worry bout them later
Well run away and get married anyhow
If other kids went through it
Then I know we can do it
If our love is that much stronger
It will last that much longer
It wasnt too long ago when our folks were
Were going through the same thing we are now
But one thing theyre forgetting
A thing theyre not regretting
They ran away and got married anyhow
(ran away and got married)
Anyhow
(ran away and got married)
They ran away and got married anyhow
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Just To Hear Your Story Being Told
Stay up all night,
If you are the type...
That can not seem to sleep right.
And bear on shoulders,
Those burdens you can't control.
The ones you hold in overload.
Fight with clinched teeth and be uptight...
About common situations that incite,
And corrode that need you have to be bold.
Just to hear your story being told.
Just to hear your story!
Go fly a kite!
If that is the attitude you choose and like.
But put some movement to it.
And don't criticize...
Those you know who recommend,
You should get a life.
Don't close off to sit inside.
To peep out from a keyhole...
Just to hear your story being told.
Go fly a kite!
Just to hear your story being told!
Stay up all night.
Fight with clinched teeth and be uptight
But...
Don't sit inside.
Just to hear your story being told.
Just to hear your story...
Stay up all night,
If you are the type...
That can not seem to sleep right.
And bear on shoulders,
Those burdens you can't control.
The ones you hold in overload.
To peep on the outside,
From a keyhole...
Just to hear your story being told.
Go fly a kite...
If you need your story to be told.
Just to hear your story.
And,
Go fly a kite...
If you need your story to be told.
Just to hear your story.
And...
Go fly a kite!
Just to hear your story being told!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Its Too Late
Its too late now for you to say your sorry
Its too late now for you to make amends
Youre gonna pay for all the lies you told me
Well dont apologize cause its too late
Its too late
Much too late
You said those words
You said them much too late
Its too late
Much too late
You said those words
You said them much too late
Its too late now for you to sympathize, dear
The wheel of time is grinding gainst your dreams
I really wouldnt want to cause no pain now
You said those words, you said them much too late
Its too late
Much too late
You said those words
You said them much too late
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Let them
Let them follow
With their imagination and grow
You fear up with intention
With all that you to mention
You are window
And not a widow
People still address you as sacred mother
A position will not be filled by others
Now position has been changed
With good education it has been well managed
Not all ladies suffer cruel fate
Even if that change has come very late
Females have crossed threshold
More competent and appreciatively bold
Previously it was unknown and never told
Now they have means and can seek secured fold
People may tend to see widow in distrust
As if she was not wanted and remained as object of lust
Always subjected to bad use of words
No roads open to move ahead and look forward
I seek support of all like minded people
To rush in for help and bring them out of troubles
It is not only inhuman approach
But totally useless to think as such
Widows have stood ground well
They have different story to tell
A well neat and concerted effort
For all ships to anchor at safe port
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Guilt is not so to the guilty
The one who married as second or second time,
The one having a concubine or is cuckolding.
An eloper, a paramour, an incest sinner,
A widow in love, a widow to wed, or a love
Across the cast and creed, all I abhorred.
The concept would have been different
Had I been involved in any of them.
Guilt is the guilt to one till one commits it.
15.09.2000, Paklm
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Too Late
I say, no way
Youve gone and stepped across that fine line
I cried, you lied
I tried, maybe a thousand times before
I cant take no more
{chorus}
Too late
You let the sun go down
Too late
You changed direction
Too late
For you to turn around
We tried everything
Move on, so long
Two side to every story
You told, good nights
Bad days, time to go out separate ways
I cant say no more
{chorus x2}
song performed by by Asia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Needlewoman
I see the fading light of my neighboring Seamstress's room.
The poor widow does embroidery of the mysterious life pattern.
I too have some darn work of my patchy clothes
And I want to borrow a needle and a thread from you.
Is it too late if I knock at your door in the midnight?
And I am sure the evildoers definitely chatter a gossip
When a bachelor meets a widow.
* I dedicate this poem to all the widows of this oblique world.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Its Not Too Late
Gently rolling father time
Is calling to him now,
And though he hears him
He looks out to sea.
Somewhere out there lie his dreams
A story with no ending
And till he finds his answers
He wont be going nowhere
For him, its not too late
Its not too late
For some its never too late
Quietly knocking on her door.
He patiently stands waiting,
And though she hears him
She sits steadfast in her chair.
Somewhere out there never seen
Her hopes and dreams lie waiting,
And till she finds an answer
She wont be going nowhere
For her, its not too late
Its not too late
For some its never too late
For everything we know thats certain
There is much we cannot see,
So we choose to close the curtain,
Never knowing what could have been
Its not too late, its not too late, never too late
Slowly rocking the babys bed
He strokes its head and whispers
And though it hears him,
It keeps smiling and kicks its feet
Somewhere out there is a life,
A lifetime made for living
So it holds on fast, it aint going nowhere
For some its not too late,
Its not too late
For some its never too late
For some its not too late
Its not too late
For some its never too late
song performed by by Phil Collins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paddy Murphy's Wake
The priest had been here earlier and the rosary was said
and relatives and friends in single file were offering condolences.
'Sorry for your troubles, ' one by one they said,
bending over Maggie Murphy, silent in her rocker,
a foot or so from Paddy, resplendent in his casket,
the two of them much closer now than they had ever been.
A silent guest of honor, Paddy now had nothing more to say,
waked in aspic, if you will, in front of his gothic fireplace.
But the hour was getting late and still the widow hadn't wept.
Her eyes were swept Saharas and the mourners wanted tears.
They had fields to plow come morning and they needed sleep
but the custom in County Kerry was
no one leaves a wake until the widow weeps.
Fair Maggie could have married any man in Kerry,
according to her mother, who almost every day reminded her of that.
'Maggie, ' she would say, 'you should have married Mickey.
His limp was not that bad, ' but Maggie wouldn't listen.
Instead, she married Paddy, 'that pestilence out walking'
as her mother often called him
even on a Sunday but only after Mass.
Maggie married Paddy the day he scored the only goal
the year that Kerry took the trophy back from Galway.
That goal was no small thing, Paddy would remind us all forever
until one of us would gag and buy him another drink.
That goal, he'd shout, was something historians would one day note,
even if they hadn't yet, and every time he'd mention it,
which was almost daily, Maggie's mother would remind her daughter
that she should have married Mickey and had a better life.
The final time her mother praised poor Mickey,
a screaming match ensued, so loud it woke the rooster
the day before her mother, feverish in bed,
gurgled like a frog and died.
This evening, though, as the wake wore on,
the mourners grew more weary
waiting for the tears the widow hadn't shed.
Restless in his folding chair, Mickey put his bottle down
and rose to give the eulogy it had taken days to memorize.
'Folks, ' he said, 'if all of us would holler down to Paddy now,
he'd holler back, I'm sure, and tell us,
despite the flames and all that smoke, that Kerry
winning over Galway is all that ever mattered, even now.
We'll always have cold Paddy over there to thank for that.'
The Widow Murphy hadn't moved all evening,
but after hearing Mickey speak, she began to rock with fury
as she raised a purple fist, shook it to the heavens
and then began to hum her favorite dirge.
The mourners all joined in and hummed along until
midnight pealed on the mantel clock and then,
as if released by God Himself, the mourners one by one
rose from folding chairs and left in single file, freed
by a hurricane of the Widow Murphy's tears.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Booby Prize Or a Fine Romance? 1
Every once in awhile,
you hear a funny story,
and sometimes you wonder
if what is written there
is fiction or true.
Normally you will not question,
in case it embarrasses or offends.
Well I what I am about to tell you
is it a fib or is it true?
Some thirty-eight years ago,
I went to a funeral of a friend
and ended up with the widow
as a booby prize.
So if I told you that
is exactly how I met my wife,
would you believe me
or would you think I am having you on?
You would be wrong
to think I was having you on.
Because it was at her first husband’s funeral that we met.
It was a few weeks later
a bunch of his friend met, in a coffee bar.
Someone suggested
one of us should take the widow out,
and I drew the short straw
and I got the booby prize
all those years ago,
or was it a fine romance.
I will leave it up to you to decide.
2 July 2007
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nellie Clark
I was only eight years old;
And before I grew up and knew what it meant
I had no words for it, except
That I was frightened and told my Mother;
And that my Father got a pistol
And would have killed Charlie, who was a big boy,
Fifteen years old, except for his Mother.
Nevertheless the story clung to me.
But the man who married me, a widower of thirty-five,
Was a newcomer and never heard it
Till two years after we were married.
Then he considered himself cheated,
And the village agreed that I was not really a virgin.
Well, he deserted me, and I died
The following winter.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Try Again
Later that evening, only a feeling
But it was there in the air that we share in the twilight
Humming a sad song, where was our day gone
But in the dark was a spark, a remark I remember
"Try again", she replied to some story I told
"Try again", yes I will if I can
Oh, all I need is somebody to hold
Learning a feeling, seeking a meaning
Finding a way, should she stay, how to say let's imagine
Maybe I'll go wrong, an evening that last long
But in the night all the light must be right for this moment
"Try again", she replied to some story I told
"Try again", yes I will if I can
Oh, all I need is somebody to hold
"Try again", she replied to some story I told
"Try again", yes I will if I can
Oh, all I need is somebody to hold
"Try again", she replied to some story I told
"Try again", yes I will if I can
Oh, all I need is somebody to hold
Submitted by Michael Hack
song performed by by Supertramp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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How The West Was Won And Where It Got Us
Blood from a stone, water from wine.
Born under earplay design.
A stroke of bad luck, wrong place, wrong time.
Let's fly up out of the lime.
The story is a sad one, told many times.
The story of my life in trying times.
Just add water, stir in lime.
How the west was won and where it got us.
Canary got trapped, the uranium mine.
A stroke of bad luck, now the bird has died.
A marker to mark where my tears run dry.
I cross it, bless it, alkali.
The story is a sad one, told many times.
The story of my life in trying times.
Just add water, stir in lime.
How the west was won and where it got us.
I didn't wear glasses cause I thought it might rain.
Now I can't see anything.
I made a mistake, chalked it up to design.
I cracked through time, space, Godless and dry.
I point my nose to the northern star,
Watch her decline from a hazy distance.
The story is a sad one, told many times.
The story of my life in trying times.
Just add water, stir in lime.
How the west was won and where it got us
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sealed With A Kiss
A pile of old letters
lay forgotten in an attic,
letters written long ago
in the bloom of someone’s youth.
They were tied with a pink ribbon
and kept preciously
by someone I do not know.
Each letter spoke of love,
the yearning of being apart,
and how good it would feel
to be home once again.
How wonderful it would be
back in loves arms again
away from a terrible war
that had to part them too quickly
shortly after their wedding day.
They spoke of plans for their future
and how their love would grow.
They would start afresh
at the beginnings of the first snow.
Each letter was sealed with a kiss
that was there for all to see.
It told the story of unbroken love
that would live on through every tragedy
and sealed with a kiss.
The last letter in the pile
was tear stained and edged in black.
It told the story
that her lover never came back.
26 March 2009
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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How The West Was Won & Where It Got Us
Blood from a stone
Water from wine.
Born under earplay design.
A stroke of bad luck,
Wrong place, wrong time.
Lets fly up out of the lime.
The story is a sad one, told many times.
The story of my life in trying times.
Just add water, stir in lime.
How the west was won and where it got us.
Canary got trapped, the uranium mine.
A stroke of bad luck, now the bird has died.
A marker to mark where my tears run dry.
I cross it, bless it, alkali.
The story is a sad one, told many times.
The story of my life in trying times.
Just add water, stir in lime.
How the west was won and where it got us.
I didnt wear glasses cause I thought it might rain.
Now I cant see anything.
I made a mistake, chalked it up to design.
I cracked through time, space, godless and dry.
I point my nose to the northern star,
Watch the decline from a hazy distance.
The story is a sad one, told many times.
The story of my life in trying times.
Just add water, stir in lime.
How the west was won and where it got us.
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Danny's Option
Her flowered dress and fresh smile
Belied drugged, pained nights
Under the Jamaica Avenue El
We sat at a sidewalk café
On a sunny Florida morning.
'How lucky I am
to be married to Danny, '
she said.
He left her shortly afterward.
Anne left town without saying goodbye.
Danny's business thrived
And he began therapy.
Then things slowed down.
He dated
But didn't click with anyone.
He never married again.
Two men were resting from
A round of golf
'Did you ever have
a great love in your life? '
One asked.
'No. She was a bitch, ' Danny replied.
poem by Liilia Talts Morrison
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