High School Reunion Of A Sort
Perhaps it was the approach of Mother's death
OR that I had missed the group's grand gathering for its twenty fifth
For a hot date in Saudi Arabia
OR Donna the great object of my adolescent desires
Though still buxom had added a matronly air
OR she had outgrown the arrogance of letter wearing sweater days
When passing in vacant halls she would always acknowledge
Anyone but me long before the term 'geek' was invented
But her glee over the coming of ice cream for dessert
Made me realize the vast gulf that had grown
Between my early lust and knowing
The quality of public rest rooms in Paris and in Fez.
poem by Bill Grace
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Related quotes
Some have said it is the easiest group at the World Cup, but we realize it won't be like that. Germany are a tremendous side, but to be honest I don't know much about Cameroon and Saudi Arabia.
quote by Robbie Keane
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I think the real target of al-Qaeda is Saudi Arabia by the way. They hate us and we're a vehicle to get at Saudi Arabia. I think Osama bin Laden really wants to topple that regime and have his people move in, but that's a whole other story.
quote by Frank Carlucci
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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So, I think even in Saudi Arabia there is movement. And we have to remember that over the years they've stabilized the oil price and that is tremendously important for the economies of the world. I think we have no choice but to work with the government of Saudi Arabia.
quote by Frank Carlucci
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'll Be Back
Messages come, and make us suffer
A letter comes, and keeps on asking…
When are you coming?
When are you coming?
Write me when you're coming home
Without you this house is empty
The one's I trust
A form of rose
Has written me this letter
And has asked me
Someone's breaths, Someone's heartbeat
Someone's desires, Someone's smile
Someone's dull mornings, sleepy evenings
Lonely nights, unsaid words
Longing arms
And have asked her
Longing eyes
That...
When are you coming?
When are you coming?
Write me when you're coming home
Without you this house is empty
The ones with love
My best friends
Have wrote and asked me
My village, my people
Old trees, White clouds
Green grass, my soil
My celebrations, my religion
My farms, my land
My parents and
My wife has asked
When are you coming?
When are you coming?
Write me when you're coming home
Without you this country is lonely and empty
Sometimes a motherly river's letter comes by
And brings along
My childhood days, my games in the backyard
My mother's support, being protected
My mother's lullaby, the softness of her hands
The desire in the eyes, the worries in her words
Hard on the outside, Lovely from the inside
Acts my mom
And asks me in each letter
When are you coming?
When are you coming?
Write me when you're coming home
Without you my lap is empty
Hey the passing wind tell me
Will u please do a little favor for me?
Go to my state and salute to my friends
In that state there's a road
Where my wife and kids live
Just tell them that I love them
Just tell them that I love them
Further down that road
Is my old mother
Just touch her feet and
Say my name in her ear
Hey the passing wind
Just to my friends
My wife and kids,
And my old mother
Send them this message
And tell them that…
I will come home
I will come home
The promise I made to…
My soil
To its colorful nature
To my mother lap
To my blossomed flowers
And to someone's heart…
I will fulfill it
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
poem by Kiara Davar
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The bulk of extra supplies that could be put into the market come from two places. One, they come from other Persian Gulf suppliers, of which Saudi Arabia is at the top of the list.
quote by Daniel Yergin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0012 The House of Metaphor
After you’ve negotiated that artfully-conceived
sharp elbow bend in the long, grand drive
through the fields of its estate,
and it hoves into view,
you always gasp – this palace
- no, more like a temple with living quarters –
set deep in the countryside, yet as sure
as one in Athens or in Rome;
yet that too is artfully contrived -
the slight mound it’s built on,
the cunning proportion that magnifies,
disguises, with its public face
the aptness of a family home;
its public rooms so grand, just echoing enough
to magnify a public speech; its family rooms
smallish, cosy; love and friendliness
live here. It says to the world,
stability; tradition re-affirmed; yet
this is our familiar family home.
It has its rooms, as rooms should be,
devoted to each family pursuit:
here’s the grand library
but here, with books so evidently, lovingly well read;
you almost missed the little girl, her hair and knees
curled round a book, deep in that leather green armchair;
the study, where your breathing seems to change,
there’s such a still and living silence here;
the nursery that emanates a lifetime’s care;
the children’s bedrooms set around it,
through which you ran and laughed and ran again; the window seats
from which you looked so wistfully
as childhood’s assurance faded into teenage questioning;
a house to leave,
a house to come back to;
a metaphor
as living, haunting, as the poetry it is.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Saudi government's denial of basic rights to women is not only wrong, it hurts Saudi Arabia's economic development, modernization and prosperity.
quote by Barbara Boxer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One Of These Days
One of these days,
Im gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends Ive known
And Im gonna try
And thank them all for the good times together.
Though so apart weve grown.
One of these days,
Im gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends Ive known
One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it wont be long, it wont be long.
And Im gonna thank,
That old country fiddler
And all those rough boys
Who play that rock n roll
I never tried to burn any bridges
Though I know I let some good things go.
One of these days,
Im gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends Ive known
One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it wont be long, it wont be long.
From down in l.a.
All the way to nashville,
From new york city
To my canadian prairie home
My friends are scattered
Like leaves from an old maple.
Some are weak, some are strong.
One of these days,
Im gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends Ive known
One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it wont be long, it wont be long.
One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it wont be long, it wont be long.
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Our relations with brothers in Gulf Cooperation council are good and developing, either bilateral relations or with the G.C.C itself, also we have good brotherly and solid ties with Saudi Arabia.
quote by Ali A. Saleh
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poem of Pure Autobiography
Mother was Presbyterian and Dad Roman Catholic
It took them a silver anniversary to truly bridge the gulf
And I about as long to find my way
With help from Quakers and Unitarians and other
Strange creatures of the light.
Princeton all but bluntly told me that my type was not welcome
And Chicago was offended at chapbook publishing that spoofed at Shelly
But Berkeley welcomed me
And much to Mother's dismay I said 'yes'
Not knowing what yes could mean
But desperate for heavier credentials.
Harvard even dimly figures in
For all my friends were going not to Harvard
But to its antitheses established in the great fight
That split New England congregationalism
And gave the word - Unitarian - to us as a term of derision.
Even Andover-Newton was not right
I tried it for three full days
Knowing by instinct's pain it was not the place.
Despite Dean Peck's powerful preaching.
Berkeley was for me correct and in its great freedom
A strange thing emerged, a love to learn would come and stay
Following this strange thing called truth
To an old rugged cross
Quite acceptable to Presbyterians but not to those Unitarians
Who are too busy to stop and learn.
poem by Bill Grace
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Early Bought
Early bought sweater
Pink wool, she has just bought her sweater
Sitting in the waiting room, I can't help but notice
The tag hanging out,
Most probably tickeling her neck
How does she not notice?
Not remember to gently cut it off
Careful not to rip the very fibers that cover her body,
How does she forget that in public, she ignorently shows
The store at which she shops?
This early bought, pink wool, sweater
Now keeps her warm in the waiting room.
poem by Daisymilk Riverflower
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Why this date each year
The dawn of this date
The eighteenth March
Drowns me in sadness
As on this day in the year nineteen sixty
My mother, in her early thirties
Left us for heavenly abode
Making me and my sister
Suffer all these years
The lack of mother's love
I did not know that day
How much I missed her
But, as I became a parent
And as I started observing
The demonstration of love
By my wife to our children
I realised that
This day marks the heaviest loss
I could suffer
How I wish that every one
Here on earth
Is fortunate and lucky
To enjoy mother's love
As long as possible
And how I wish that every mother
On this earth
Stays alive and keeps showering
Her love on to her children
As long as possible
You understand as to why I question
Why this date each year
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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The Pilgrim
I FASTED for some forty days on bread and buttermilk,
For passing round the bottle with girls in rags or silk,
In country shawl or Paris cloak, had put my wits astray,
And what's the good of women, for all that they can say
Is fol de rol de rolly O.
Round Lough Derg's holy island I went upon the stones,
I prayed at all the Stations upon my matrow-bones,
And there I found an old man, and though, I prayed all day
And that old man beside me, nothing would he say
But fol de rol de rolly O.
All know that all the dead in the world about that place are stuck,
And that should mother seek her son she'd have but little luck
Because the fires of purgatory have ate their shapes away;
I swear to God I questioned them, and all they had to say
Was fol de rol de rolly O.
A great black ragged bird appeared when I was in the boat;
Some twenty feet from tip to tip had it stretched rightly out,
With flopping and with flapping it made a great display,
But I never stopped to question, what could the boatman say
But fol de rol de rolly O.
Now I am in the public-house and lean upon the wall,
So come in rags or come in silk, in cloak or country shawl,
And come with learned lovers or with what men you may,
For I can put the whole lot down, and all I have to say
Is fol de rol de rolly O.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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When I speak of the fear, intimidation, arrests and public shaming of intellectuals and religious leaders who dare to speak their minds, and then I tell you that I’m from Saudi Arabia, are you surprised?
quote by Jamal Khashoggi
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Go Back To Sleep Mar 9th,2011
Sometimes I can see trouble in the distance coming down the road,
Usually some foreign despot dictator screaming in code,
Like one of our politicians in a parliamentary debate,
Making an officious announcement that things are always great.
Though he knows that less than half Canadians bother to vote,
And nothing can change so we can stay on electoral remote,
Where proportional representation is strictly forbidden,
And anomalies in first-past-the-post are always hidden.
Where mid term and propositions and set-date elections are unknown,
And Trudeau’s Charter was written for “EVERYONE” in all zones,
Where death with dignity is a serious criminal offence,
According to our appointed Supreme Court arrogance.
Mar 9th,2011
poem by James Bredin
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But the key thing is that Iraq, while it's got very large oil reserves, has marginalized itself as an oil exporter and these days its exports are only about one tenth that of neighboring Saudi Arabia.
quote by Daniel Yergin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Not In The Next Few Chapters
I remember how 'old' people seemed,
When they were in their twenties.
And I was then a child...
With a wish to be a teenager.
And I remember walking on my toes,
Wanting to be taller than I was.
Or at least keep up with my father,
Whenever he walked to the neighborhood store.
And I'd walk behind him,
Thinking he was a giant.
And when I then became thirteen,
And my sister Mimmie was still eleven...
I got very bossy.
We were both 'latchkey' kids and...
Well,
I was grown...
I thought.
And I made sure she did things around our apartment,
I just was too 'grown' to do.
Like sweep the floors while I looked at TV.
She hated me.
I didn't care.
I remember being eighteen and being called a 'rainbow',
As the rest of the enlisted boy/men stood at attention...
After arriving at Lackland Air Force Base,
In San Antonio, Texas.
We were called 'rainbow'
Because we were still in our 'civilian' clothes...
And instantly demeaned.
That was their way of making sure we understood,
We were in the military and mom and daddy weren't around.
We were guaranteed to be made full fledged men.
Thirty came in a hurry.
And I had already been divorced and remarried.
And that was in 1977.
I don't know 'why' I didn't like my 40's!
Maybe because they came and went too quickly.
And I was 'still' passing for the age of twenty-five.
That didn't last too long.
In 1987 I got a phone call from my mother,
Telling me my dad was ill and she was concerned.
So as the eldest and only son,
I thought I would leave San Antonio, Texas...
Where I made my home then,
And make a quick weekend trip back to Hartford, Connecticut.
Well...
One very long weekend later,
It is now close to 2011.
My 40's and 50's were a blur.
And today at 63...
With both my parents deceased,
I am just NOW able to say,
I can enjoy every moment of my life consciously.
And feeling a whole lot younger than I look.
I know this may sound crazy, but...
I've got to relive something that I've missed,
Between my 40's and 50's I can remember...
Other than my parents passing away,
And my getting a divorce.
That was number two.
And...
With God's blessing,
I 'hope' not to do a number three.
Not in the next 'few' chapters I hope to write!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Broken Hearted
You make me nervous when you're flying around
The secret service couldn't track you down
You tell me no then you kiss me
You say hello then you ditch me
You try to run when you see me
I never knew what this dream was about
You say let's go then you're lost in the crowd
I don't know where you're going
You won't show then you're showing
I don't know then I'm knowing
You're always busy when I call on the phone
(Stop stop)
I'm broken hearted are you made out of stone
(Stop stop)
Snakes alive why you grievin'
It's six to five and I'm leavin'
I can't stand no more teasin'
I wrote a letter (letter) I couldn't get her (get her)
Some other fella (fella) was going to tell her (tell her)
This kind of weather (weather) you need a sweater (sweater)
It's geting wetter (wetter) drink Amaretto (retto)
Light as a feather (feather)
Ain't no one better (better))
You wearing leather (leather)
Ain't nothing better (better)
I'm going to renta a (renta a))
Spiffy Lambretta (bretta)
I want to wed her (wed her)
The day I met her
Love me hug me shove me you blow me away
You bug me snub me club me you fill me with with praise
You tell me this way or that way
But take it thin way or fat way
I say it's my way or highway
You're always busy when I call on the phone
(Stop stop)
I'm broken hearted are you made out of stone
(Stop stop)
Snakes alive why you grievin'
It's six to five and I'm leavin'
I can't stand no more teasin'
song performed by by Supertramp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gone but never forgotten
Twenty plus years have gone by
since the day you passed away
and even though life goes on
I think about you nearly every day.
They say time is a great healer
but I'm not sure that is really true
because I looked at your picture
and my mood suddenly turned blue.
I wanted you to live a long time
but alas it wasn't meant to be
still I've got all of those memories
and nobody can take them from me.
So rest in peace my lovely Mother
until the day I see you again
then we all can be happy once more
when there will no more sadness or pain.
poem by Kevin Halls
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Brotherly Love
How could you say such a hurtful thing to your younger brother,
and that I received more love than you from our dearest mother?
What on Earth made you say such a thing to me
and what did you think my response would be?
I think you said it to be spiteful and to cause me hurt and pain.
Are you trying to make me feel guilty? Man, you're really insane.
You've got some sort of problem and I think it's jealousy,
but why should you feel this way especially about me?
Is it because I'm creative and see my projects through,
where is thinking about something is too much for you.
Maybe it's because you're a man who's naturally ham fisted,
is this the reason you're so bitter and emotionally twisted?
Your problem must go back to the time when I was born,
when you had everything your way and never suffered scorn.
My arrival must have made you feel an uncomfortable second best,
with me getting all the attention and you with much less.
No longer were you our mother's only pride and joy,
you had to share her with another little boy.
You were also given an added responsibility,
and watching over me took away your liberty.
At the age of five you wasn't supposed to leave me alone
not in a dark cinema, or a long way from home.
Why did you run off and leave me in the centre of the park,
for a stranger to find and take me home in the dark?
From those early childhood days that you resented me,
all I wanted was your love and company.
As I grew older you became ever more distant,
but you were still a bully and most persistent.
And when I was twenty and you were twenty-six
I'd had enough of your childish tricks.
I no longer tolerated your humiliating ways,
the worm turned to end your bullying days.
Carrying that jealousy must have eaten you away
if you can still make such remarks today.
Why don't you try to think of me as your loving brother?
Believe it or not I love you as no other.
poem by Orlando Belo
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