The Beds Too Big Without You
Beds too big without you
Cold wind blows right thru my open door
I cant sleep with your memory
Dreaming dreams of what used to be
When she left I was cold inside
That look on my face was just pride
No regrets no love no tears
Living on my own was the least of my fears
Beds too big without you
The beds too big without you
The beds too big
Without you
Since that day when youd gone
Just had to carry on
I get thru day but late at night
Made love to my pillow but it didnt feel right
Every day, just the same
Old rules for the same old game
All I gained was heartache
All I made was one mistake
Now the beds too big without you
The beds too big without you
The beds too big
Without you
song performed by by Police
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Stand By Your Beds
m gonna keep it in the family
Gotta straighten my face
Wanna keep it in the family
Savin? my disgrace
Like a tick-a time bomb inside ame
Been to the mount, seen the other side
Money back, number one, guaranteed
Sole-satisfied
Gimme, gimme, gimme it all
Gimme, gimme, gimme it all
Everybody celebrate, stand by your beds
By your beds
Easy access, easy led, stand by your beds
By your beds
Yknow its nothin? new Im telling you
Its always been around
Its the home made milkshake
Apple pies n? lemonade
Never turned down
Gimme, gimme, gimme it all
Gimme, gimme, gimme it all
Everybody celebrate, stand by your beds
By your beds
Easy access, easy led, stand by your beds
By your beds
Gimme, gimme, gimme it alll
Gimme, gimme, gimme it all
Everybody celebrate, stand by your beds
By your beds
Easy access, easy led, stand by your beds
By your beds
(rankin, agnew, hardwell......polygram/trinitron)
Published by nazareth (dunfermline) ltd.
Copyright 1994 polydor gmbh, hamburg
song performed by by Nazareth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Beds To The Front Of Them
'Beds to the front of them,
Beds to the right of them,
Beds to the left of them,
Nobody blundered.
Beamed at by hungry souls,
Screamed at with brimming bowls,
Steamed at by army rolls,
Buttered and sundered.
With coffee not cannon plied,
Each must be satisfied,
Whether they lived or died;
All the men wondered.'
poem by Louisa May Alcott
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A Metaphor For A Funeral
indeed it is wonderful to entertain
that constant idea that beds are made for
sex,
but i must be deluding myself for a long time
as time
swiftly corrects me
and so shortly,
that beds in fact are made more for the resting place
of the sick and the dying,
the anxious and the depressed,
the restless people engulfing one pill to another
to get the blessings of sleep
soon it will become
another metaphor for
a funeral
and euphemism
for death.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Whose are the little beds, I asked
142
Whose are the little beds, I asked
Which in the valleys lie?
Some shook their heads, and others smiled—
And no one made reply.
Perhaps they did not hear, I said,
I will inquire again—
Whose are the beds—the tiny beds
So thick upon the plain?
'Tis Daisy, in the shortest—
A little further on—
Nearest the door—to wake the Ist—
Little Leontoden.
'Tis Iris, Sir, and Aster—
Anemone, and Bell—
Bartsia, in the blanket red—
And chubby Daffodil.
Meanwhile, at many cradles
Her busy foot she plied—
Humming the quaintest lullaby
That ever rocked a child.
Hush! Epigea wakens!
The Crocus stirs her lids—
Rhodora's cheek is crimson,
She's dreaming of the woods!
Then turning from them reverent—
Their bedtime 'tis, she said—
The Bumble bees will wake them
When April woods are red.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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On Reading a Vast Anthology
Love, death, sleeping
with somebody else's husband
or wife-this
is what poetry is
about-Eskimo, Aztec,
or even Italian
Rinascimento,
or even the high falutin Greeks
or noble Roman-O's.
O the constant turmoil
of the human species-
beds, graves, Spring with its
familiar rosebuds, the wrong beds,
the wrong graves, wars
unremembered & boundaries gained
only to be lost & lost
again
& lost roses whose lost
petals
reminded poets to carpe, carpe
diem with whoever's wife
or husband happened to
be handiest!
O Turmoil & Confusion-
you are my Muses!
O longing for a world
without death, without beds
divided by walls between houses!
All the beds float out to sea!
All the dying lovers wave
to the other dying lovers!
One of them writes on his mistress's skin as he floats.
He is the poet.
Not for this
will his life be spared.
poem by Erica Jong
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Up-Hill
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti (1858)
Submitted by anonym
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The Wander-Light
And they heard the tent-poles clatter,
And the fly in twain was torn –
'Tis the soiled rag of a tatter
Of the tent where I was born.
And what matters it, I wonder?
Brick or stone or calico? –
Or a bush you were born under,
When it happened long ago?
And my beds were camp beds and tramp beds and damp beds,
And my beds were dry beds on drought-stricken ground,
Hard beds and soft beds, and wide beds and narrow –
For my beds were strange beds the wide world round.
And the old hag seemed to ponder
('Twas my mother told me so),
And she said that I would wander
Where but few would think to go.
"He will fly the haunts of tailors,
He will cross the ocean wide,
For his fathers, they were sailors
All on his good father's side."
Behind me, before me, Oh! my roads are stormy
The thunder of skies and the sea's sullen sound,
The coaster or liner, the English or foreign,
The state-room or steerage the wide world round.
And the old hag she seemed troubled
As she bent above the bed,
"He will dream things and he'll see things
To come true when he is dead.
He will see things all too plainly,
And his fellows will deride,
For his mothers they were gipsies
All on his good mother's side."
And my dreams are strange dreams, are day dreams, are grey dreams,
And my dreams are wild dreams, and old dreams and new;
They haunt me and daunt me with fears of the morrow –
My brothers they doubt me – but my dreams come true.
And so I was born of fathers
From where ice-bound harbours are
Men whose strong limbs never rested
And whose blue eyes saw afar.
Till, for gold, one left the ocean,
Seeking over plain and hill;
And so I was born of mothers
Whose deep minds were never still.
I rest not, 'tis best not, the world is a wide one
And, caged for an hour, I pace to and fro;
I see things and dree things and plan while I'm sleeping,
I wander for ever and dream as I go.
I have stood by Table Mountain
On the Lion at Capetown,
And I watched the sunset fading
From the roads that I marked down,
And I looked out with my brothers
From the heights behind Bombay,
Gazing north and west and eastward,
Over roads I'll tread some day.
For my ways are strange ways and new ways and old ways,
And deep ways and steep ways and high ways and low;
I'm at home and at ease on a track that I know not,
And restless and lost on a road that I know.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Beds of Fleur-de-Lys
HIGH-LYING, sea-blown stretches of green turf,
Wind-bitten close, salt-colored by the sea,
Low curve on curve spread far to the cool sky,
And, curving over them as long they lie,
Beds of wild fleur-de-lys.
Wide-flowing, self-sown, stealing near and far,
Breaking the green like islands in the sea;
Great stretches at your feet, and spots that bend
Dwindling over the horizon’s end,—
Wild beds of fleur-de-lys.
The light keen wind streams on across the lifts,
Their wind of western springtime by the sea;
The close turf smiles unmoved, but over her
Is the far-flying rustle and sweet stir
In beds of fleur-de-lys.
And here and there across the smooth, low grass
Tall maidens wander, thinking of the sea;
And bend, and bend, with light robes blown aside,
For the blue lily-flowers that bloom so wide,—
The beds of fleur-de-lys.
poem by Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman
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Uphill
DOES the road wind uphill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you waiting at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Em 3
about you
what shall i say about you?
ah, i prefer my
silence
this is my cure about
you
yes, my silence
it shall speak about
you my silence
my very own silence
to speak about your
long silence
now we are at peace
in our silence
both shall speak about
us yes our silence
our marital silence in
the silence of our bed
the root of all our
troubles freud say is in
the silence of our beds
two beds now
four meters apart
speaking in silence
the silence of the house
and the chairs
and the staircases
and the carpets and
the ticks and the
empty glasses or those
cold coffee and
frozen butter.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Case 795
Tony jones stabbed alice jones
On their first anniversary
Down in dallas, texas
In a small apartment
With nobody present
He pulled out a knife
And he stuck it to her
He left her bleeding
On the floor in the kitchen
With cake on her fingers
And her wedding ring holding
In her hand was a note
That said the wicked must suffer
And he drove off quickly
To his girlfriend's apartment
But who really suffers in the end?
It's easy enough for us to pretend that
Chorus:
Everything's all right with the family
Everything is safe here at home
Everything's all right with the family
The beds are made but there's no sheets on
From the courtroom stand
Tony said he was sorry
That he was sad and mixed up
And he didn't know what he was doing
That he'd always loved alice
And he begged for forgiveness
So he threw himself
On the mercy of the jury
And he told how his father
Had beat and abused him
Back in grade school
In the basement den
And that maybe prison
Was the best thing for him
And he said, "oh god, can you forgive me?" yeah
But who really suffers in the end?
It's easy enough for us all to pretend that
Chorus:
Everything's all right with the family
Everything is safe here at home
Everything's all right with the family
The beds are made but there's no sheets on
How many days does it take to make us weak?
And how many hours do people spend lonely?
In the heart of the heart the family lay dying
The ruin of a nation lies at our feet, yeah
Chorus:
Everything's all right with the family
Everything is safe here at home
Everything's all right with the family
The beds are made but there's no sheets on
Everything's all right with the family
Everything is safe here at home
Everything's all right with the family
The beds are made but there's no sheets on
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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~Let’s Help Africa~
Don’t offer me,
Luxury suites with
Queenly beds to lay my head,
‘Else I will show you mud huts
In Africa with bamboo beds.
Don’t tell me,
‘Bout the latest fashion,
You think are pretty sweet,
I care more, for children in Africa,
With no shoes on their little feet.
Don’t show me
Breaking news on Television,
And make me cry,
Just give your hand,
Let’s help Africa,
Then you can watch me smile.
poem by Sita Madu Wynn
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Wake To Peace A Beautiful Sacred New Day
Multiple realities adults children
lie asleep safe in their beds?
All life is beautified sacrament
sacred holy precious to God.
Monsters kill slaughter prey upon men
women children asleep in their beds?
When will such rabid killers murders
wake to realize murder serves not
the omnipotent omnipresent
omniscient will of their loving God?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Salmon Are Swimming Upriver
The salmon are swimming upriver in the cold gray damp of the dawn
To the gravel beds of the rapids to dig out their spawning beds to spawn
November is their breeding season in the cold and wet Northern Fall
When yesterday's flood is subsiding they are answering to Nature's call.
The salmon are swimming upriver by Nature they are duty bound
They jump waterfalls on their journey to get to their high breeding ground
Their urge for to breed is upon them their numbers they must multiply
To insure the survival of their species their natural urges they cannot deny.
The salmon are swimming against the current a hundred kilometres or more
To the high gravel beds of the river that journey to the Atlantic shore
They risk the gaff and spear of the poacher so that their species will survive
And the main reason for their survival is their natural sexual drive.
The salmon upriver are swimming with the chill of late Fall in the air
Through old fields and along by hedgerows by cold winds of their foliage stripped bare
They swim on against the strong currents without even one thought of fear
Of the fate that might even await them death by the poacher's gaff or spear
poem by Francis Duggan
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Case 795 (The Family)
Tony Jones stabbed Alice Jones
On their first anniversary
Down in Dallas, Texas
In a small apartment
With nobody present.
He pulled out a knife
And he stuck it to her.
He left her bleeding
On the floor in the kitchen
With cake on her fingers
And her wedding ring holding.
In her hand was a note
That said the wicked must suffer
And he drove off quickly
To his girlfriend's apartment.
But who really suffers in the end?
It's easy enough for us to pretend that
Everything's all right with the family.
Everything is safe here at home.
Everything's all right with the family.
The beds are made but there's no sheets on.
From the courtroom stand
Tony said he was sorry.
That he was sad and mixed up,
And he didn't know what he was doing,
That he'd always loved Alice
And he begged for forgiveness.
So he threw himself
On the mercy of the jury
And he told how his father
Had beat and abused him
Back in grade school
In the basement den,
And that maybe prison
Was the best thing for him.
And he said, "Oh God, can you forgive me?" yeah
But who really suffers in the end?
It's easy enough for us all to pretend that
Everything's all right with the family.
Everything is safe here at home.
Everything's all right with the family.
The beds are made but there's no sheets on.
How many days does it take to make us weak?
And how many hours do people spend lonely?
In the heart of the heart the family lay dying
The ruin of a nation lies at our feet, yeah.
Everything's all right with the family.
Everything is safe here at home.
Everything's all right with the family.
The beds are made but there's no sheets on.
(Repeat chorus.)
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Vermillion Stone
The sinuousness of sand dunes
Wind abraded stone
The sun pinwheels
Cross the sky
One feels so all alone
Pictographs on canyon walls
Pottery shards and bone
Distant dancing dust devils
Muted howls and muttered moans
Ancient beds of dry lakes deep
Vermillion cliffs, wind hone
Canyon keeps, spirits sleep
In beds of petrified stone
Time locked tight in grains of sand
In manic tint and tone
Hourglass sifting centuries, and
Mesas flat, wind mown
One feels time locked
In vermillion rock
One feels the ageless sky
The stars, the wind
Without, within
Alone…as you and I
poem by David Whalen
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A Child's Even-Song
The sun is weary, for he ran
So far and fast to-day;
The birds are weary, for who sang
So many songs as they?
The bees and butterflies at last
Are tired out, for just think too
How many gardens through the day
Their little wings have fluttered through.
And so, as all tired people do,
They've gone to lay their sleepy heads
Deep deep in warm and happy beds.
The sun has shut his golden eye
And gone to sleep beneath the sky,
The birds and butterflies and bees
Have all crept into flowers and trees,
And all lie quiet, still as mice,
Till morning comes-like father's voice.
So Geoffrey, Owen, Phyllis, you
Must sleep away till morning too.
Close little eyes, down little heads,
And sleep-sleep-sleep in happy beds.
poem by Richard Le Gallienne
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A Christmas Miracle
A long time ago
in a land far away,
snowflakes fluttered down from the sky
like falling stars
on houses and garden walls.
A young boy was dreaming
of a wonderful Christmas day.
He dreamed of things
that he would like to happen.
The gifts around the Christmas tree.
Gifts for his parents,
his brother and his sisters.
It was just a dream though,
a dream on Christmas Eve.
His family were poor,
barely had enough money
to keep them all fed.
As Christmas loomed
there was no money
for any special treats.
Just enough to be thankful
they all had something to eat.
The snowflakes kept falling
laying its white blanket
on the ground.
The north wind bit everything
as it yelled its mournful sound.
The cold ate into everyone,
as the family fire grew dim.
Soon everyone retired
to their beds for the night.
The little boy dreamed
what his wonderful
Christmas would be;
knowing all the while,
it was just futility.
The wind rattled
the windows and the doors
as in theirs beds they slept.
Nothing stirred within the house;
every one had gone to sleep.
In the morning, the wind had passed,
but the cold still held its chill
over every living thing.
Slowly sleepy heads awoke
as if it was a normal day.
They crept slowly from their beds
for their breakfast.
They entered the living room
they stopped in the doorway,
their mouths open in shock.
The bare room when they went to bed
was now decorated with a tree.
Beneath it were presents for everyone.
Their names were on the tags,
but from whom was blank.
Who had done this in the night,
had entered and left
without making a sound?
The children on seeing everything,
their faces beamed
from ear to ear at the sight they saw.
The little boy rubbed his sleepy eyes,
looked and looked again.
His dream had come true.
This Christmas was going to be
the best year in their lives.
The children opened their presents.
Everything they had wished for
was there except for one,
and it was for their father.
For so long he had been without a job.
The one thing they wanted for him
was to be able to work again,
but there was no job
underneath the tree.
They hadn’t noticed a letter
standing on the fireplace.
It was after all the excitement
had to begun to die down
and the fire was about to be lit
that someone noticed it.
As the letter was opened,
the Christmas miracle
began to fall into place.
The letter was an offer of a job.
The smiles on everyone’s faces
told the whole story now
and the Christmas miracle
was now complete.
No one ever discovered
what happened that day
or who it was
who performed the Christmas Miracle.
17- 18 July 2008
poem by David Harris
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Advice To Newlyweds
Love roosts better, while beds are warm,
and dreams are short,
the blood still curdles with the charm,
of young rapport;
Late in the night, when embers die,
then ceased its flaunts,
if not rekindled, love may fly,
to stranger haunts.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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Dreams, where do they come from?
dreams, where do they come from?
a colourful buddha smiling in his
shapely flowing robes so friendly
on a bed and disappearing into no trace
as i come to have a closer look of him
an antique i had thought a porcelain wonder
is he the harbinger of the dream?
and bed bed bed so many antique beds
in so many styles and shapes
they look so inviting with their ample space
and the name Mizuko, yes
that's the name of the shop
and as i am about to leave
a woman in err flowing bridal garb
i wonder i remember the dream rightly
dreams are always such that you cannot
remember all
and oh yes she comes walking into the shop
and as she looks, i awake in another world
the buddha, the beds, the bride
the myriad questions that pop out
of my head now are a million lotuses
that beg for an answer from the heavens
with their colourful lustrious wide opened hands
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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