This Space Between the Gate, the Garden Lovely - Eternal Rounds of Determined Variations
.
...variations determined of rounds eternal -
lovely garden the gate
the between space
this...
All
this space between the gate and the garden lovely
within the hole of the ring in the breath flung in
the dirt's cool dank breath
the hand of the digger becomes the tree
shall hang
language surpasses itself breaks
upon its own weight like the empty shell of the beetle
little is the frame we live within the tiny world
the wave of the wind ripple in the mind and Mind
the barn side the vague window pane opening upon
the living the dead artifacts
All
All
is here everywhere in the ring in the hand in the dirt
and out the grave house underneath
thanks the air and pass the leaves
becomes the sign upon which all breathing things
upon its own weight like the empty shell of the beetle
walks upon Vast the space it partakes of making
turns to the dropp of rain the flaked paint of the
eternal scene of stones breathing becoming bread
All
All
the living the dead artifacts
the barn side the vague window pane opening upon
the wave of the wind ripple in the mind and Mind
little is the frame we live within the tiny world
shall hang language shall surpass itself break
the hand of the digger become the tree
the dirt's cool dank breath
within the hole of the ring in the breath flung in
this space between the gate and the garden lovely
All
All
eternal scene of stones breathing becoming bread
turns to the dropp of rain the flaked paint
walks upon Vast the space it partakes of making
upon its own weight the empty shell of the beetle
becomes the sign upon which all breathing things
thanks the air and pass the leaves
and out the grave house underneath
All
All
this space between the gate and the garden lovely
is here everywhere in the ring in the hand in the dirt
the living the dead artifacts
eternal scene of stones breathing becoming bread
eternal rounds of determined variations...
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The LoRuhamah Poems - Her Death Discordant
for Judy Asher, killed at age 21
These meditations/laments are set in
Appalachian mountains and towns of
North American Southern states, circa mid1960's
[The name, LoRuhamah, means 'not loved']
Hosea 1: 6 - 'And she conceived again, and bare a daughter.
And God said unto him, Call her name LoRuhamah' for I will
no more have mercy on the house of Israel, but will utterly take
them away.'
Part One
1
O rue rue LaRue among the ginkgoes
cloven leaves all fallen whose burnished berries
yellow late melon sweetness of Autumn days
O rue rue LaRue among the boxwoods
evergreen for no good phlox.
Blooded leaves settle upon golden flax of weeds
seeding the chilling ground receiving soundless
lips of grain enduring ice and ice again
O rue rue LaRue amidst the sortilege
Coo of pigeons in the distant spired village
low of legion cattle turning toward evening millet
mow of fringing grain chafing toward winter silos
O rue rue LaRue
Blue waters at a distance
blue the tails of otters
blue the eyelids of sleeping beasts
nested beneath the earth
Distant crows sound the morning field beyond pasture
Dew murmurs names upon passing grasses
Echoing wood gold where below the stream's gash
furthers along slowly murdering dimensions of
width and depth
Remembered gait of young ponies toward
the spring's sweet water
Remembered laughter of the frail daughter there
beside the fields sweet grasses
The daughter, as the water, passes into silence
Laughter remembered beside the old well of the woods
2
Unearthing the old dwelling
found glass bottles
rusted ancient tins of talcum
utensils grimed which once fed mouths
a comb sadly saving some long
uncaressed and beloved white hair
a rusty chain for what purpose used
then discarded
Overturning stones
reveals a child's gum
machine trinket ring
O the lovely hand of the long grown daughter
remembered in the plastic ring hole full of dirt
caked jewel of childhood, innocent, cool
in this finder's keeping
Rest o daughter
slumber in the dark palm of the grave
We are slave to suffering
but the little ring you lost
or bitterly tossed away
when its small circle's promise
outgrew you
is here
in the sunlight again
in a stranger's hand
standing where the gate allowed
entrance to the once beautiful yard
Brief the rediscovered
for all of us are soon
gone under the hill
The ring dear lost dead thing
once human and frail will endure
beyond our bones.
It's promise is safe
I wish I knew your name, dear one
O rue rue LaRue...
3
Spittle on the chin
stubble upon the cheek
she met her love beside the creek
Turned in her sleep
the calling heat gathered
the steep bank in the wood
then fell
as water will
forgetting the blood's
first stain on the long discarded sheet
A woman now she fled toward love
and fed there but
famished still
died there...
4
...there that little greensward swath of green grass
and leaf and limb and tree in that little crook nook
of vale dark there and sky gimleted on each blade
and leaf hover myriad in air...
Part Two
'Her death discordant...'
'Birds must sing to keep from asphyxiating.' - Mircea Eliade
1
Then died there the rose beside the house of tin.
The track bore no train for years.
Weeds traveled tendriled and
yellow rooted between trestles.
Broken vessels whistled through
shattered teeth of glass.
Only wind and no rusted train passed.
Though the scene bears dislocation,
though the brain remembers station and motion
of steam engine and iron wheel rotation
the places of old gone passing
bear no malice toward stillness.
All around mute remains remind the
occasional passer of former days;
an old snuff tin crumbled in a reverent hand
longs for the woman grasping then,
holds sweet dust beneath her tongue
as the land must hold her now where is
no whisper but sleep beyond sleep.
Weeds to the eye are sad between rails
but listening to their green and yellow belles
the rightness of their swaying displaces all sorrow.
Their distance is a distance one cannot know
but only borrow in imagination by extension
of miles, their reach is ours then, translated
green and longing, their leaves throng the
evening air, in silent clamor fling down seed
to summer's blundering prayer.
2
Discovering a small print of Degas' painting,
'The Singer In Green', on the day of her death,
sending it to her best friend, saying:
This reminds me of her,
her features, the beauty of implied song,
a tenderness, and sadness,
head tilted back in order to lift her voice,
crooked hand above breasts gesturing
in physical song, green light bathing
the mortal scene.
Was this not her
green with life,
woman prime,
taken into the vast green
of the earth during Spring?
She sings still.
In memory we hear the literal voice,
see her gesture, catch her fading laughter.
2
Go out into some silent space
of green world then. Sit. Listen.
Muted voices and motion are greater there
than any little pocket of earth that our
body or grave can hold.
She dies into the world which
is always alive
and Mystery.
So the singer has become the green light
which bathes her, her life signaling toward it,
her death become it which is greater music still.
Be sad, as we will, but know
she is now where the Green is -
in woods,
in the world,
in memory in
hearts and minds
we but borrow it while alive and return
to the Green source with our passing.
3
O rue rue LaRue it's here
this space between the gate and the lovely garden
is here everywhere in the ring in the hand in the dirt
within the hole of the ring in the breath flung in
and out the grave house underneath
the dirt's coolth and dank breath
thank the air and pass the leaves
the hand of the digger becomes the tree
becomes the sign upon which all breathing things
shall hang language surpasses itself breaks
upon its own weight like the empty shell of the beetle
little is the frame we live within this tiny world
the walk upon Vast the space it partakes of making
the wave of the wind ripple in the mind and Mind
turns to the dropp of rain the flaked paint of the
barn side the vague window pane opening upon
the eternal scene of stones breathing becoming bread
the living the dead artifacts
All
4
That green has grown.
Leaves have darkened
deepening shadow and hue of green
and so, imagining, walking through,
has her death.
I walk through that, too,
wonder how she fares,
silent lady of dirt
having lost at last
the hurting care of the world,
and we, green and growing,
curl above her dark place,
sure sometime of our grave
as sure as we are now of hers.
5
Scattering wind over bending blades,
I grieve still her leaving,
feel its weight as I see scattered ones
on benches in the park, asleep,
one wretched man huddling where
a band of young musicians tune
their instruments for song.
Disparate images entwine -
gone man,
gone band,
and her death discordant -
the living die
the dead somehow live
singing in the sometime green.
As green returns
so she will in silent memory,
in waves of wind
which is only wind.
We will change but not as she
so changed to every possibility of song.
6
It appears to be ended
but as grass shows there is
a forming wisdom and the same,
Desire.
The fire in our house of living rages
and we cannot come out of our own accord.
The event of her going is a beckoning
to see the flame leaping so let's creep
toward the Green and be silent
but if we cannot be then let us be as she,
frail and tender, lifting voices up
in the greening shadow
7.
Dear one.
Dear one.
They've mown the hill.
The grass remains.
Modern scythe and sickle
felled the frailer blades but
stained their metals
green with your name.
The sun shines,
burns that hewn spot where I first
learned to love your passing,
where I watched your leaving
grow wild and lovely,
untamed beside the street,
learned to hear the quiet there
where now a cycle is begun.
A new season of your death
is running rampant again to know
the blades of time and men.
8
Among oaks the fallen do not speak.
The dirt upon which they lay is hard.
Hard earth.
Cold earth.
Need us here
spoken for nothing.
We scratch our mouths
across the scar of land,
wait in the black sun,
pray to break apart.
A bird with injured wing
sits among the yellow leaves.
It's wild hurt flays the sky.
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Truly Great
My walls outside must have some flowers,
My walls within must have some books;
A house that's small; a garden large,
And in it leafy nooks.
A little gold that's sure each week;
That comes not from my living kind,
But from a dead man in his grave,
Who cannot change his mind.
A lovely wife, and gentle too;
Contented that no eyes but mine
Can see her many charms, nor voice
To call her beauty fine.
Where she would in that stone cage live,
A self-made prisoner, with me;
While many a wild bird sang around,
On gate, on bush, on tree.
And she sometimes to answer them,
In her far sweeter voice than all;
Till birds, that loved to look on leaves,
Will doat on a stone wall.
With this small house, this garden large,
This little gold, this lovely mate,
With health in body, peace in heart--
Show me a man more great.
poem by William Henry Davies
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Astronauts
couples on the verge of divorce
have become astronauts because they always say they need
space.
it matters, and matter is that
which occupies space and has weight.
i need space. i am gaining weight.
i am standing on a cliff, on the verge of an abyss
i am not afraid
i want to fall, because i am an astronaut too needing
space.
i miss the fun at the opening of your beehive.
sort of your art boutique
i did not forget it.
i need space.
i need space.you badly need more space.
tomorrow morning you will ask me
why did you write a sad poem last night?
and i too, now, needed more space
to lie,
i will ask you,
which one?
did i?
i cannot remember.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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One World (Not Three)
Everyone I know is lonely
And God is so far away,
And my heart belongs to no one,
So now sometimes I pray
Please take the space between us
And fill it up some way.
Take the space between us
And fill it up some way.
Oh my God you take the biscuit
Treating me this way
Expecting me to treat you well
No matter what you say.
How can I turn the other cheek
It's black and bruised and torn
I've been waiting
Since the day that I was born.
Take the space between us
And fill it up some way.
Take the space between us
And fill it up some way.
The fat man in his garden
The thin man at his gate
My God you must be sleeping
Wake up, it's much too late.
Take the space between us
And fill it up some way.
Take the space between us
And fill it up some way.
Do I have to tell the story
Of a thousand rainy days?
Since we first met,
It's a big enough umbrella
But it's always me that ends up getting wet.
song performed by by Police
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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O My God
Everyone I know is lonely
And gods so far away
And my heart belongs to no one
So now sometimes I pray
Please take this space between us
And fill it up some way
Take this space between us
And fill it up some way
O my God you take the biscuit
Treating me this way
Expecting me to treat you well
No matter what they say
How can I turn the other cheek
Its black and bruised and torn
Ive been waiting
Since the day that I was born
Take this space between us
And fill it up some way
Take this space between us
And fill it up some way
The fat man in his garden
The thin man at his gate
My God you must be sleeping
Wake up, its much too late
Take this space between us
And fill it up some way
Take this space between us
And fill it up some way
Do I have to tell the story
Of a thousand rainy days
Since we first met
Its a big enough umbrella
But its always me that ends up getting wet
song performed by by Police
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When The Leaves Come Falling Down
I saw you standing with the wind and the rain in your face
And you were thinking bout the wisdom of the leaves and their grace
When the leaves come falling down
In september when the leaves, come falling down
And at night the moon is shining on a clear, cloudless sky
And when the evening shadows fall Ill be there by your side
When the leaves come falling down
In september when the leaves, come falling down
Follow me down, follow me down, follow me down
To the place beside the garden and the wall
Follow me down, follow me down
To the space before the twilight and the dawn
Oh, the last time I saw paris in the streets, in the rain
And as I walk along the boulevards with you, once again
And the leaves come falling down
In september, when the leaves come falling down
Follow me down, follow me down, follow me down
To the place between the garden and the wall
Follow me down, follow me down
To the space between the twilight and the dawn
And as Im looking at the colour of the leaves, in your hand
As were listening to chet baker on the beach, in the sand
When the leaves come falling down,
Woe in september, when the leaves come falling down
Oh when the leaves come falling down
Yeah in september when the leaves come falling down
When the leaves come falling down
In september, when the leaves come falling down
When the leaves come falling down in september, in the rain
When the leaves come falling down
When the leaves come falting down in september, in the rain
When the leaves come falling down
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Freedoms
you see it is not the gate of the house
that sets you free
it is not the stairs
not the hole in the roof that gives you
some needles of light
actually it is the breath that you take
it is air that is free
it is the space of green spreading in your
garden
those tall grasses you decide to mow
it is the pebbles that you collect and begin to recall
the story of each fragment
and cracks
it is the clouds that you see when you lay your head
upon the arm of an old sofa
where you father once rested from
too much exhaustion
it is the memory of someone that you remember
you love and who loves you in return
and who was stripped off away from you
like a sticker on the wall
mind you, it is your wise invention
with wings that give you flight when everything gets too bitter
mind you, it is the mind
it is the spirit, never these sets of fingers
these smooth skins
this open mouth...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fat Cat
Another song of woe
Woe sounds like this
You say nothings changed, where were you when my world
Was spinning into masquerade
You claim its just a question of mathematics
I shut the door on your amateur dramatics
Then you think too much
And you talk too much, vicariously
Yeah you think too much
And you talk too much
Every word is substance free
Youre the dirt on my collar
Youre the hole in my favourite shoe
Youre the last dying breath of love
Youre the weight that I need to lose
And you hurt yourself
You say Im deranged, Ill admit to being strange
But I just cant stop loving you
If the light in your eyes
Addiction came as a surprise
Didnt think Id be so into you
Then you think too much
And you talk too much, so carelessly
Yeah you think too much
And you talk too much
Every word is substance free
Youre the dirt on my collar
Youre the hole in my favourite shoe
Youre the last dying breath of love
Youre the weight that I need to lose
Youre the dirt on my collar
Youre the hole in my favourite shoe
Youre the last, last dying breath of love
Youre the weight that I need to lose
Youre the dirt on my collar
Youre the hole in my favourite shoe
Youre the last dying breath of love
Youre the weight that I need to lose
song performed by by Culture Club
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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By The Ocean (For Dislocated Heart)
I stand by the ocean,
Breathing in the crisp air of night fall,
Watching the moon slipping away,
As the sky melts into the sea;
An endless darkness.
I can feel my mind falling into its depths,
Thinking about every breath I take,
About the world above,
And the world below.
Questions fill my mind,
Questions of life, living, and existence,
Yet still I stand,
Silent and still.
The gentle breeze in the palm trees,
Brushing my hair across my face.
The wind pushes my dress against my legs,
The feeling almost mimicking that of the water.
I can feel the cool spray of the ocean with each wave,
A giant lung breathing the same air as I.
It is a calm entity existing to exist.
A world so unknown and full of wonder,
Yet so simple from above…
I breath a sigh and close my eyes,
The sight of the waves imprinted on my eyelids,
The scent filling my nose and mouth,
The water touching my skin,
The taste of the salt on my tongue,
The repetitive sound of the water endlessly fill my mind.
My feet buried in sand as if to be innocent sand crabs.
A moment so calm and simple,
Yet so meaningful,
If you take the time to experience it,
A moment in which nothing else matters,
Nothing but the water, the sand, and living.
Everything else, like the sky,
Melts away into the sea,
Into the endless dark abyss.
And so I stand,
By the water,
Living and breathing.
If only the world would stop for a moment,
A moment to live and breathe too;
So relaxing and yet so eye opening.
The silence of the night wrapping around me,
The ocean rocking me into sweet oblivion.
Until I have to open my eyes and walk inside,
Back to reality,
But until then,
I'll just stand here,
By the ocean.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Sweet Home
My home is calling
And my heart; responding
The abode of pleasures and exhilaration
Where my mind prepares for some missions
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep
Am not among those who cry
Seeking for hope, but it's dry
Am a free man
Facing difficulties which is so hard
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep
Do i look like a convict?
The one who cries in the prison
Or like the bee that flies
And returns with joy to it hive
No! But no! I am not
I don't crave for the monastery, I'm not a monk
All i want is to return back home
To stay with folks but not alone
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep
I traveled abroad
I had much fun
I visited the queen
She offered me a tea
With all these pleasures
Without doubt cos am so sure
The home holds lot in hand
Treasures, happiness, so much to count
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep
I went to Brazil
I saw their windmills
I ate their food
Which made me cool
Delicious was it their fried fish
The one i ate which made me wishing
Then i remember the panla which we eat at home
So delicious and irresistible for the hungry throat
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep
I journeyed to Kenya
I saw a tiger
Its eyes scared me
Its claws; waiting for a meal
I rode on an elephant
So huge; so large
I saw lot of things
The zoo, the views
But still i craved
For my home; for my space
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep
I traveled all around the world
And everything seemed so bored
My eyes craved only for my beautiful home
My hands, my mouth and my little nose
They are all wishing to see
My house, my room, my folks in the street
All i have to do is go back home
To stay with folks and sleep on their foams
For wherever you are meant to be
Your home provides a beautiful space to sleep
My home, my home
My sweet, lovely home
I call on thee
Give me a space to sleep.
poem by Yahaya Habeeb Jprof Kayode
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Waiting
Magdalen’s grounds
are full of life,
full of space.
Space, which is mown
and cleared,
tended and enclosed,
its waterways unchoked,
brown and sparkling clear.
It is home to ducks
and coots,
to dragonflies and deer.
Grass and paths and gates
and streams
and yesterday’s undergraduates
are waiting.
Not for the return of the past
nor the coming of an awaited future.
The past once gone
is a steadily fading photograph.
The future, once conceived,
is never as imagined.
No. They wait
for someone
with an empty heart
to play his part
without reluctance
or reserve;
to acknowledge
all this labour
of hand and eye
and the genius of the green and living.
To see
and bless
it all
and say, “Yes! ”
Then it can all begin,
the breathing out of being,
the eternal sigh,
the letting go at last
and surrender
to the sleep
of not being planned,
of not having to remember,
of not having to hold apart
future and past.
Of being at peace again.
poem by Brian Taylor
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The old man and his stone
an old man
seated alone
on his stone bench
invited me
almost invisible
gesticulating with his hand
sit down beside me
we did not say a word
together we just heard
nothing but our silence
he invited me
to take a look in his garden
he took me by my hand
guiding me
through the open gate
he gave me a grand tour
in his Japanese paradise
and wanted to know
if I would be able
to show him
that spot
he was searching for
all his life
so he could also see
all the larger stones
at once
I'll wait
and watch you
I stood
I sat down
I climbed a tree
while being up there
I could see
a smile on his face
expressing understanding grace
I walked around
accompanied
by the sound
of crackling shelves
I can count endlessly
maybe even further
In that serene garden
I could not find the spot
that place where I could see
all his stones
although I learned
during that search
there were fifteen different larger stones
that unknown space
where I see and count
the old man's 15th stone
there I was on my own
still searching
it was late
at last I returned
sat down beside the old man
on the other stone bench
he offered me his silence
and told me with his eyes
that a man or a woman
is wise
when admitting
accepting
a simple fact
you can see
you can count
all the stones
not at once
not on your own
©Ellie Daphne van Stralen 2012
poem by Ellie Daphne van Stralen
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Condensing Space
the universe is a garden
of gems, stars and planets
and a mental wonderland
if you love arithematics, theories
of compression and relativity
every place in space is just a few minutes away
as close as your own bedroom and the garden
there is space and they are meant for fun
and should be the least of any body's problem
they are pleasure to the space condenser
the three trillion trillion miles
well, they can be condensed into two three miles
remember the six inch of your mind
well it has in it all the space you would ever traverse
just cflose your eyes and see
the energies all over space can be harnessed
or deharnessed? ? ? to condense space,
so that you need just one minute to go to the
furthest reach of space
just close your eyes and there you would see
all the distance of the universes
condensed in a little box on your top
one day it will be as simple as that
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Five A.M.
Elan that lifts me above the clouds
into pure space, timeless, yea eternal
Breath transmuted into words
Transmuted back to breath
in one hundred two hundred years
nearly Immortal, Sappho's 26 centuries
of cadenced breathing -- beyond time, clocks, empires, bodies, cars,
chariots, rocket ships skyscrapers, Nation empires
brass walls, polished marble, Inca Artwork
of the mind -- but where's it come from?
Inspiration? The muses drawing breath for you? God?
Nah, don't believe it, you'll get entangled in Heaven or Hell --
Guilt power, that makes the heart beat wake all night
flooding mind with space, echoing through future cities, Megalopolis or
Cretan village, Zeus' birth cave Lassithi Plains -- Otsego County
farmhouse, Kansas front porch?
Buddha's a help, promises ordinary mind no nirvana --
coffee, alcohol, cocaine, mushrooms, marijuana, laughing gas?
Nope, too heavy for this lightness lifts the brain into blue sky
at May dawn when birds start singing on East 12th street --
Where does it come from, where does it go forever?
poem by Allen Ginsberg
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A futile search
What do I search in my fertile mind?
What it actually probes and what it finds?
Is it material gain or natural thrust?
All should be answered and it is must
I wonder at nature’s magical show
I find mountains clad with snow
I simply think and gaze through window
I feel cool breeze in air and words grow
I wave my hand in the air
When find nothing, scratch the hair
Mind simply wonder and try to collect
I grab them hastily and recollect
This is how I have come into being
I have kingdom and act as king
I may act and unveil the forgotten gate
They may eventually flow at any rate
I feel gentle touch when thoughts invade
Do they say bye or offer me a shade
I sit underneath the tree and feel its flow
Face shine beautifully with fine glow
Reddishness rush and I hear something
It is musical note in the ears to ring
What is this little whispering to suggest?
It is difficult to understand and digest
I may try to prove as nature’s child
Prefer to be hard but always mild
Go as usual without being wild
Words to be smooth and very kind
It is me and no one else
No one dares and openly tells
I am the only one to decide the destiny
It is the way I rule the kingdom tiny
I may sit idly and think seriously of the past
How quickly it has ended in succession very last
I find nothing new in the morning
What else can be there in the evening?
If need be I can end seclusion
It may be good to find lovely inclusion
Why don’t I share my treasured philosophy?
Will it reward me with any of the trophy?
Well, this has haunted me quite a lot
Heart and mind many times fought
Still it prevails with lot of confusion
I must see it with new concept and vision
I must reach at the end of the road
It has to be done without bearing any load
I am sure it will deliver very good result
I need not ask anybody or consult
It may open new gate and air may rush in
Cool mind to open and shun the ideas of any sin
It may invite scores of many things to usher
Joy and happiness all over when some one may whisper
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To the Queen
The Door of Death is made of Gold,
That Mortal Eyes cannot behold;
But, when the Mortal Eyes are clos'd,
And cold and pale the Limbs repos'd,
The Soul awakes; and, wond'ring, sees
In her mild Hand the golden Keys:
The Grave is Heaven's golden Gate,
And rich and poor around it wait;
O Shepherdess of England's Fold,
Behold this Gate of Pearl and Gold!
To dedicate to England's Queen
The Visions that my Soul has seen,
And, by Her kind permission, bring
What I have borne on solemn Wing,
From the vast regions of the Grave,
Before Her Throne my Wings I wave;
Bowing before my Sov'reign's Feet,
“The Grave produc'd these Blossoms sweet
“In mild repose from Earthly strife;
“The Blossoms of Eternal Life!”
poem by William Blake from Songs and Ballads (1794)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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’Tis So Lovely To …
’Tis so lovely to be born a Christian;
’Tis so lovely to be a Roman Catholic;
’Tis so lovely to follow Jesus Christ;
’Tis so lovely to know the one, living God;
’Tis so lovely to read the Holy Bible;
’Tis so lovely to have Christian parents
’Tis so lovely to walk in the shadow of the Holy cross;
’Tis so lovely to spread the Gospel;
’Tis so lovely to obey God’s Ten Commandments;
’Tis so lovely to abide by the precepts of the holy Catholic Church;
’Tis so lovely to receive the Holy Sacraments;
’Tis so lovely to confess sins and gain forgiveness from God;
’Tis so lovely to receive the Holy Eucharist;
’Tis so lovely to be an example of Christ unto others;
’Tis so lovely to be a “Fisher of Souls”;
’Tis so lovely to do miracles like Christ;
’Tis so lovely to heal the sick by prayers;
’Tis so lovely to console the sick and the dying;
’Tis so lovely to live a life like that of Christ;
’Tis so lovely to keep the soul pure;
’Tis so lovely to be filled by the Holy Spirit;
’Tis so lovely to take the road to heaven;
’Tis so lovely to die a holy Christian death;
’Tis so lovely to resurrect after death;
’Tis so lovely to be spared of eternal damnation;
’Tis so lovely to have eternal life;
’Tis so lovely to live in commune with God
Forever in Heaven thereafter!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 12-16-2006
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Face
She's got an iron will
She's gonna do what she thinks is right
I know she will
And as for me I'm not that silent
It's hard to live in a world this quiet
And if you want me to let you go
Well I think you should know
That I tried hard to live without you
But it doesn't work for me
And I tried not to think about you
But your in all my dreams
I can't stand living on my own
I can't stand staring into space
I hate that everything I see turns into your face
She left an empty house
Without a word, without a sound
Without a shout
And as for me I'm not that silent
It's hard to live in a world this quiet
And if you want me to let you go
Well I think you should know
That I tried hard to live without you
But it doesn't work for me
And I tried not to think about you
But your in all my dreams
I can't stand living on my own
I can't stand staring into space
I hate that everything I see turns into your face
My teary eyes have seen all I wanna see
Of the world
I tried hard to live without you
But it doesn't work for me
And I tried not to think about you
But your in all my dreams
I can't stand living on my own
I can't stand staring into space
I hate that everything I see turns into your face
Turns into your face
song performed by by Warrant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song from the Waters
Act I, scene iv, lines 259-72
The swallow leaves her nest,
The soul my weary breast;
But therefore let the rain
On my grave
Fall pure; for why complain
Since both will come again
O'er the wave.
The wind dead leaves and snow
Doth hurry to and fro;
And, once, a day shall break
O'er the wave,
When a storm of ghosts shall shake
The dead, until they wake
In the grave.
poem by Thomas Lovell Beddoes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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She Walks With Me
Michael w. smith/ beth nielsen chapman
Whitney, I hope you know how much I love you. this songs for you. dad.
From the first breath of her life
She flew straight into my arms
I used to catch her from the swings
When she was five...
And now she dances on the wind
In a world as hard as stone
Shes so anxious to begin
And ready to fly...
And she walks with me
And she talks with me
And I hold her hand in mine
I know shell find her way
Like the light of day
Cause its love that makes her strong
Though I cannot stop the rain
And I cannot turn the tide
And I am sure there will be things
That break her heart
I can only let her know
I am always on her side
And even as I let her go
Ill never be far
And she walks with me
And she talks with me
In her eyes I see her truth
Born of her fire and grace
As she finds her place
Cause its love that makes her strong
And she walks with me
And she talks with me
In my eyes shell see my prayer
As she turns each page
Through this tender age
It is love that makes her strong
Its her love that makes her strong
song performed by by Michael W. Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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