A Dream Of Death
I DREAMED that one had died in a strange place
Near no accustomed hand,
And they had nailed the boards above her face,
The peasants of that land,
Wondering to lay her in that solitude,
And raised above her mound
A cross they had made out of two bits of wood,
And planted cypress round;
And left her to the indifferent stars above
Until I carved these words:
i{She was more beautiful than thy first love,}
i{But now lies under boards.}
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Oh Sailor
I'm undecided about you again
I can be right that you're not here
It's double sided 'cause I ruined it all
But also saved myself
by never believing you dear
Everything good I deem too good to be true
Everything else is just a bore
Everything I have to look forward to
Has a pretty painful and very imposing before
Oh sailor why'd you do it
What'd you do that for
Saying there's nothing to it
Then lettin' it go by the boards*
Oh sailor why'd you do it
What'd you do that for
Saying there's nothing to it
Then lettin' it go by the boards
I have too been playing with fifty-two cards
Just 'cause I play so far from my vest
Whatever I've got, I've got no reason to guard
What could I do but spend my best
Oh sailor why'd you do it
What'd you do that for
Saying there's nothing to it
Then lettin' it go by the boards
Oh sailor why'd you do it
What'd you do that for
Saying there's nothing to it
Then lettin' it go by the boards
And after waiting, fighting patiently on my knees
All the other stuff tired itself out first, not me
And in it's way your pierce of touch** and call of the different breed
One of the steps is getting me wired and got me there and then got me
And what a thing to know what could be instead
Oh what a blessed curse to see
Took the agenda from the place in my bed
Made a merry paramour of me
Oh sailor why'd you do it
What'd you do that for
Saying there's nothing to it
Then lettin' it go by the boards
Oh sailor why'd you do it
What'd you do that for
Saying there's nothing to it
Then lettin' it go by the boards
song performed by by Fiona Apple
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Could We Cancel Parole Boards Jul 1st,2012
COULD WE CANCEL PAROLE BOARDS? Jul 1st,2012
BY
JAMES BREDIN
Sixteen US states have abolished their parole boards with reason,
Because actions that freed vicious prisoners amounted to treason,
And accountability to the public should be their prime concern,
Not their soft hidden left-wing agenda that they should burn.
They claim prison overcrowding has caused their strange decisions,
And public safety is not questioned or up for revisions,
Murders committed by those released are never mentioned,
The high and mighty parole boards can never be questioned.
Why have you never read about this issue till you saw it here?
Does our mostly left-wing-soft media fly low and shed a tear?
Our MPs are busy on their own little issues and this is not one,
But it's way past time that getting rid of parole boards was begun.
Jul 1st,2012
James Bredin
poem by James Bredin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Beyond
It seemeth such a little way to me
Across to that strange country – the Beyond;
And yet, not strange, for it has grown to be
The home of those whom I am so fond,
They make it seem familiar and most dear,
As journeying friends bring distant regions near.
So close it lies, that when my sight is clear
I think I almost see the gleaming strand.
I know I feel those who have gone from here
Come near enough sometimes, to touch my hand.
I often think, but for our veiled eyes,
We should find heaven right round about us lies.
I cannot make it seem a day to dread,
When from this dear earth I shall journey out
To that still dear country of the dead,
And join the lost ones, so long dreamed about.
I love this world, yet shall I love to go
And meet the friends who wait for me, I know.
I never stand above a bier and see
The seal of death set on some well-loved face
But that I think ‘One more to welcome me,
When I shall cross the intervening space
Between this land and that one “over there”;
One more to make the strange Beyond seem fair.’
And so for me there is no sting to death,
And so the grave has lost its victory.
It is but crossing – with a bated breath,
And white, set face – a little strip of sea,
To find the loved ones waiting on the shore,
More beautiful, more precious than before.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Could We Cancel Parole Boards?
Sixteen US states have abolished their parole boards with reason,
Because actions that freed vicious prisoners amounted to treason,
And accountability to the public should be their prime concern,
Not their soft hidden left-wing agenda that they should burn.
They claim prison overcrowding has caused their strange decisions,
And public safety is not questioned or up for revisions,
Murders committed by those released are never mentioned,
The high and mighty parole boards can never be questioned.
Why have you never read about this issue till you saw it here?
Does our mostly left wing soft media fly low and shed a tear?
Our MPs are busy on their own little issues and this is not one,
But it's way past time that getting rid of parole boards was begun.
Dec 5th,2010
poem by James Bredin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Slipping of Meet Notes
Accustomed to lies.
What does the truth really mean?
Accustomed to lies laying low on the scene!
Accustomed to tell them...
And protect when told.
Accustomed to lies,
Whether fresh released or old held on hold!
Accustomed to lies...
Without a bat of an eyelash moving!
Accustomed to lies.
Dishonesty is accepted and shown.
At the work place
Where the slipping of meet notes,
Does not provoke disdain.
Accustomed to lies...
And that's how our lives remain!
In heated sex away from home!
Regardless of who spies on another,
Both buffer their suffering by what's condoned.
Accustomed to lies...
And what is taught is always known!
Accustomed to lies.
Accustomed to holding on to them,
Until time flys!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Suicide (Distance)
the long slow breath
of your indifferent stare...
miles away, across the room.
your words ring hollow,
and your face disappears
in the gloved hand
that dares not touch...
i planted flowers by your grave,
but i fear the birds
have eaten the last seeds...
i die on your cross
in a land you dare not go to...
behind a door
you choose not to open!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Morningside
Written by: neil diamond
Morningside
The old man died
And no one cried
They simply turned away
And when he died
He left a table made of nails and pride
And with his hands he carved these words inside
For my children
Morning light
Morning bright
I spent the night
With dreams that make you weep
Morning time
Wash away the sadness from these eyes of mine
For I recall the words the old man signed
For my children
And the legs were shaped with his hands
And the top made of oaken wood
And the children sat around this table
Touched with their laughter
Ah, and that was good
Morningside
An old man died
And no one cried
He surely died alone
And truth is sad
For not a child would claim the gift he had
The words he carved became his epitath
For my children
song performed by by Neil Diamond
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Atlantic City
She walks the boards in Atlantic City
Oblivious to the looks of pity.
She sleeps under the boards in Atlantic City
with a cat she found. She calls it Kitty.
And across the way the casinos boom
where the high-rollin' gamblers have a room
with beds so plush, a rich man's tomb.
It's cleaned and swept with a servant's broom.
She awakens and finds a bench in Atlantic City.
She brushes away the sand from her eyes so gritty.
Once long ago she was young and pretty.
That was way before Atlantic City.
She remembers bits and pieces of way back then,
but can't put them together of how or when.
Her mind has snapped over and again
and she's become a forgotten denizen.
All that she owns are in two small bags.
All that she wears are worn out rags.
She picksup cigarette butts and takes a few drags
and walks the boards of Atlantic City.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I suffer too from pain
Was it fun,
One by one
Why did they come?
Some tucked,
Some taped
Some took away sap,
Some slashed,
Other scratched,
Another cut,
Made love sign,
Boards were nailed,
Flowers plucked,
Branches fell
Leaves ate up
Hundreds of fracture,
Under brutal torture,
All for without any fault
All for without any cause
I want a stop
I appeal to men
I suffer too from pain.
poem by Abdul Wahab
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Monument
Now can you see the monument? It is of wood
built somewhat like a box. No. Built
like several boxes in descending sizes
one above the other.
Each is turned half-way round so that
its corners point toward the sides
of the one below and the angles alternate.
Then on the topmost cube is set
a sort of fleur-de-lys of weathered wood,
long petals of board, pierced with odd holes,
four-sided, stiff, ecclesiastical.
From it four thin, warped poles spring out,
(slanted like fishing-poles or flag-poles)
and from them jig-saw work hangs down,
four lines of vaguely whittled ornament
over the edges of the boxes
to the ground.
The monument is one-third set against
a sea; two-thirds against a sky.
The view is geared
(that is, the view's perspective)
so low there is no "far away,"
and we are far away within the view.
A sea of narrow, horizontal boards
lies out behind our lonely monument,
its long grains alternating right and left
like floor-boards--spotted, swarming-still,
and motionless. A sky runs parallel,
and it is palings, coarser than the sea's:
splintery sunlight and long-fibred clouds.
"Why does the strange sea make no sound?
Is it because we're far away?
Where are we? Are we in Asia Minor,
or in Mongolia?"
An ancient promontory,
an ancient principality whose artist-prince
might have wanted to build a monument
to mark a tomb or boundary, or make
a melancholy or romantic scene of it...
"But that queer sea looks made of wood,
half-shining, like a driftwood, sea.
And the sky looks wooden, grained with cloud.
It's like a stage-set; it is all so flat!
Those clouds are full of glistening splinters!
What is that?"
It is the monument.
"It's piled-up boxes,
outlined with shoddy fret-work, half-fallen off,
cracked and unpainted. It looks old."
--The strong sunlight, the wind from the sea,
all the conditions of its existence,
may have flaked off the paint, if ever it was painted,
and made it homelier than it was.
"Why did you bring me here to see it?
A temple of crates in cramped and crated scenery,
what can it prove?
I am tired of breathing this eroded air,
this dryness in which the monument is cracking."
It is an artifact
of wood. Wood holds together better
than sea or cloud or and could by itself,
much better than real sea or sand or cloud.
It chose that way to grow and not to move.
The monument's an object, yet those decorations,
carelessly nailed, looking like nothing at all,
give it away as having life, and wishing;
wanting to be a monument, to cherish something.
The crudest scroll-work says "commemorate,"
while once each day the light goes around it
like a prowling animal,
or the rain falls on it, or the wind blows into it.
It may be solid, may be hollow.
The bones of the artist-prince may be inside
or far away on even drier soil.
But roughly but adequately it can shelter
what is within (which after all
cannot have been intended to be seen).
It is the beginning of a painting,
a piece of sculpture, or poem, or monument,
and all of wood. Watch it closely.
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Lenexa Baptist Church = Jesus
There once was a traveler who was driven out of town
On His shoulders was a burden that pushed Him to the ground.
On His head was a crown made of thorns from a bush
And the street was so crowded the guards had to push.
They beat Him with nine tails each step of the way
Where Christ found the strength, only God could say.
They stopped at some sandstone at the top of a hill
There was a round hole the cross would soon fill.
They made Him lie down upon that wood cross
There they nailed Him to prove who was boss.
The beam was up-ended by the muscles of men
As it plunged down the hole it was carved to fit in.
Then Jesus looked up at the lightning that flew
And cried, God, My Father, they know not what they do.
They crucified our Lord as His blood flowed to earth
If inside you believe, you feel what love is worth.
They wrapped Him in loincloth when He was taken down
Then carefully removed His scarlet stained crown.
They placed Him in a cave with a large, round, stone door
Before sealing forever, they lay lilies on the floor.
Though it wasn't very long, and the stone was rolled away
For Jesus resurrected, to rise on Easter Day!
GET RID OF PAROLE BOARDS Apr 14th,2011
What can we do about soft Parole Boards, please tell me now,
How do we shut them all down; please tell me or write me how,
Who are these political appointees with no known names?
Who said we needed them or are they all playing some games?
No capital punishment ‘cause it’s not politically correct,
And these soft Parole Boards have an even worse effect,
And convicts can get free by appealing to these Parole Boards,
As if they had done something good and needed an award.
Do we have to obey these appointed aristocrats?
Could our system of government be called democrat?
Has anyone ever complained about killers being set free?
Are our politicians and trustees forever absentees?
Apr 14th,2011
poem by James Bredin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Wattle & Daub
She lived right next to the forest
In a cottage of wattle and daub,
A roof of bark and a floor of dirt
With a whisk of milk, absorbed,
Her man had died of a heart attack
For over a year, he'd gone,
Had left her to fend for herself out there
In the shade of a ghostly gum.
He lay right under a stringy bark,
She'd dug the grave herself,
Had made a cross with her loving hands
Deep planted at his head,
On lonely nights she would sit out there
And whisper him under the stars,
'Oh Jim, where now are your strong, brown hands,
Where now are your loving arms? '
She didn't cry, for she couldn't cry
For her heart had turned to stone,
Her love was buried and six feet down
With crumbling flesh and bone,
Her eyes were hard as the hardest flint,
Her lips a fine white line,
And when the stars came out at night
She would look for the slightest sign.
She looked for a heaven beyond the stars,
She looked for the eyes of God,
She knew that he watched her as she slept,
He watched where her steps had trod,
She prayed for her days to end in peace
And soon, for she was alone,
She carved a notch in the mantelpiece
Each day, since her love had flown.
She bucketed water from the creek
That trickled on past her door,
It once was a raging river bed
But that had been back, before...
Before a neighboring farmer dammed,
And quelled the flowing stream,
Had turned her husband's protests down
With a sneer, and words obscene.
Her Jim had worked then twice as hard
To irrigate his feed,
The cattle had died in the summer months
On the parched ground of their need,
He worked from the time the sun came up
To the time that the stars came out,
And in the end, collapsed and died
From the toil of a man-made drought.
The farmer up by the dam had said
That he'd take her land for free,
She'd never be able to stay out there
Alone, she would turn and flee,
Then he would double his pasture
And would open the dam to flood,
And let his cattle to roam abroad
By the cottage of wattle and daub.
Now during the long drawn evenings
And deep in the forest's shade,
She could hear strange noises, threatening,
As they howled across the glade,
She loaded the shotgun Jim had left,
And kept it inside the door,
She'd not be driven from off the land
Where her husband lay, forlorn.
One night a shadowy figure came
Strode out of the darkening wood,
Crossed the creek in the evening mist
In a cape with a long black hood,
It howled and jittered like one possessed
She opened the cottage door,
Then blanched as she saw it light a torch
And the flames begin to roar.
She went to reach for the shotgun then
But a hand caught fast her wrist,
Lifted the gun and pointed it,
She stood with her hand on her breast,
Her heart was pounding, her legs were weak
As she watched the phantom stand,
He shrieked in fear as he saw the gun
In a strong, brown pair of hands.
The blast took one of his legs clean off,
The phantom fell with a scream,
The shotgun dropped to the earthen porch
She thought it a crazy dream,
She turned to look for the strong brown hands
That she knew as well as her own,
But the porch was clear, and she felt no fear
For her husband had come home.
The dam was breached in a minute or so,
The torrent then flooded down,
Washed the remains of the farmer to
The lowlands, where he drowned,
She went out back and buried the gun
With a smile in her eyes, like stars
Looked up to the skies, and saw God's eyes
And round her, two loving arms!
4 June 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In the first place, God made idiots. That was for practice. Then he made school boards.
quote by Mark Twain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Soft Canadian Justice System
Eligible for parole in three weeks though he got twenty years,
Pre sentence time and enough paper work to bring you to tears,
Between soft appointed judges and the Parole Board; it’s a laugh,
Then add Trudeau’s Charter of Rights and it’s all on his behalf.
Decisions made by the Parole Board and what do you expect?
And the media says very little because it was politically correct,
But there’s something far wrong with this justice system left-wing fling,
And politicians are reluctant to touch it or change a thing.
And most of this goes on, hidden behind locked-tight closed doors,
Only sanctimonious left wing parole boards might know the scores,
No one ever questions or asks, why do we need parole boards?
Is their stuff published or kept secret or do they keep records?
Jan 16th,2011
poem by James Bredin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Circle Dream
[ buck/drew/gustafson/augustyniak/merchant ]
[ percussion: paulinho da costa ]
I dreamed of a circle, I dreamed of a circle round.
And in that circle I had made were all the worlds unformed and unborn yet.
A volume, a sphere that was the earth, that was the moon, that did revolve around my room.
I dreamed of a circle, I dreamed of a circle round.
And in that circle was a maze, a terrible spiral to be lost in.
Blind in my fear, I was escaping just by feel.
But at every turn my way was sealed.
I dreamed of a circle, I dreamed of a circle round.
And in that circle was a face.
Her eyes looked upon me with fondness.
Her warmth coming near, calling me sweetness, calling me dear.
But I whispered, no, I cant rest here.
I dreamed of a circle, I dreamed of a circle round.
song performed by by 10000 Maniacs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
To Pfrimmer
(Lines on reading 'Driftwood.')
Driftwood gathered here and there
Along the beach of time;
Now and then a chip of truth
'Mid boards and boughs of rhyme;
Driftwood gathered day by day,--
The cypress and the oak,--
Twigs that in some former time
From sturdy home trees broke.
Did this wood come floating thick
All along down 'Injin Crik?'
Or did kind tides bring it thee
From the past's receding sea
Down the stream of memory?
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Shut Down The Canadian Parole Board
SHUT DOWN THE CANADIAN PAROLE BOARD JUNE 23RD,2012
BY
JAMES BREDIN
Why do we have to listen and obey the Parole Board pantomime?
And why can't these prisoners be required to serve all of their time?
And the Parole Board should be shut down for at least twenty years,
They are the problem that allow killers free without tears.
Killers back on the street is a reason why parole boards should be shut down,
If we had binding referendums, we could bring this around,
We don't even have set-date elections as released killers walk free,
As they all claim Trudeau's Charter Rights and the Parole Boards agree.
Parole Boards justify their existence by setting prisoners free,
And no one questions this or any of the high-up appointees,
It's a form of social cancer that should be changed and cut out,
Just eliminate the Parole Boards and the accompanying doubt.
June 23rd,2012
poem by James Bredin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Good Friday...
Behold the wood that went to make the cross
That bore the Saviour Lord, King Jesus Christ:
The holy cross at Calvary on which
Was hung, the Redeemer of mankind race!
That man was only Son of God in flesh,
Who suffered, shed His precious blood as price
For every sin of everyone on earth,
Of Adam and of Eve in lineage!
It wasn’t about the cross that Jesus bore;
It was about the One who hung on it!
He came to earth as Mary’s baby boy,
And gave to men the Good News, peace and joy!
The cross of wood assumed significance
When Jesus died upon it for our sins;
The sacrifice supreme was love of God
For creature man of clay whom He had made!
When Christ resurrected upon third day,
And won o’er death and satan for all times,
The holy cross became the weapon sole
That scares away the devils back to hell!
The cross became the symbol of Christians,
Reminding man of Salvation for all,
As Christ had paid the price on our behalf,
And turned to be the Truth, Light, Way to God!
The holy cross beckons each one of us
To take up each one’s cross and follow Christ;
It is the only hope for all mankind
As life on earth becomes so meaningful!
God’s Love was born on Christmas day as Christ!
Man’s sins nailed Him to death upon the cross!
Christ’s obeisance to Father freed mankind
If repentant, from Fiery Pit of hell!
Reflect on passions Christ had undergone,
Before He died upon the holy cross;
Follow His teachings and precepts for man;
Heaven is nigh for sinners penitent!
(22-04-11)
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
After Death
THE FOUR boards of the coffin lid
Heard all the dead man did.
The first curse was in his mouth,
Made of grave’s mould and deadly drouth.
The next curse was in his head,
Made of God’s work discomfited.
The next curse was in his hands,
Made out of two grave-bands.
The next curse was in his feet,
Made out of a grave-sheet.
“I had fair coins red and white,
And my name was as great light;
I had fair clothes green and red,
And strong gold bound round my head.
But no meat comes in my mouth,
Now I fare as the worm doth;
And no gold binds in my hair,
Now I fare as the blind fare.
My live thews were of great strength,
Now am I waxen a span’s length;
My live sides were full of lust,
Now are they dried with dust.”
The first board spake and said:
“Is it best eating flesh or bread?”
The second answered it:
“Is wine or honey the more sweet?”
The third board spake and said:
“Is red gold worth a girl’s gold head?”
The fourth made answer thus:
“All these things are as one with us.”
The dead man asked of them:
“Is the green land stained brown with flame?
Have they hewn my son for beasts to eat,
And my wife’s body for beasts’ meat?
Have they boiled my maid in a brass pan,
And built a gallows to hang my man?”
The boards said to him:
“This is a lewd thing that ye deem.
Your wife has gotten a golden bed,
All the sheets are sewn with red.
Your son has gotten a coat of silk,
The sleeves are soft as curded milk.
Your maid has gotten a kirtle new,
All the skirt has braids of blue.
Your man has gotten both ring and glove,
Wrought well for eyes to love.”
The dead man answered thus:
“What good gift shall God give us?”
The boards answered him anon:
“Flesh to feed hell’s worm upon.”
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!