Citatepedia^®.com

I was trained to be an actor, not a star. I was trained to play roles, not to deal with fame and agents and lawyers and the press.

quote by Gene Hackman
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Increased Crescendo

The 'ifs' have passed...
As some from the 'old school'
Hold memory contests in bravado!

Remaining stifled, unproductive
And bonding into stupors of delusion...
They are in harmony and greet themselves,
As pioneers of some lost mission they survived.
Neighborhood jive, small talk and booze
Can do that!

I chose to take a nose dive...
And plunged myself right into the unknown.
With my faith in tow!
I discovered how to do that...
After riding along with my grandmother,
Who had recently gotten her driver's license
AND a new car!
I was stunned by both revelations.

Buckled in and scared for my life!
She sang hymns and loved to speed!

My grandmother taught me many lessons,
In a unique and adventurous ways!
She taught me how to deal with challenges...
And the myths of 'ifs'!

Once I was determined...
Not to bury myself
With each heartbreak.
Each emotional slam dunk.
Each stumble into and away from
A failed attempt I made...
Receiving rejection and disapproving looks!
My grandmama taught me,
With prayer there is fast action!

'As long as you keep your foot to the pedal,
You can do whatever you want!
With faith and prayer...
You will learn how to pass obstacles!
Honk your horn...
If anybody dares to get in you way.
And keep it clean and legal!
Just don't get hit by oncoming traffic! '

Of course I knew what grandma meant!
And I was glad she never had one accident,
OR a ticket!

And the 'ifs' have long passed.
That has been validated for me!
On several of grandma's trips!
And as I look out the window on some days...
Reviewing my journeys on grandma's drives,
I can still see the blurring country side
Whiz by
As grandma drove...
And I was frozen to the car door,
Listening to her sing in increased crescendo!
Knowing I was safe,
Whatever the decision I chose.
Whenever I chose to do it!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Garden Of Allah

It was pretty big year for fashion
A lousy year for rock and roll
The people gave their blessing to crimes of passion
It was a dark, dark night of the collective soul
And I was somewhere out on riverside by the el royale hotel
When a stranger appeared in a cloud of smoke
I thought I knew him all too well
He said now that I have your attention
I got something I wanna say
You may not wanna hear it, Im gonna tell it to you anyway
You know Ive always like you boy
Cause you were not afraid of me
Things are gonna get mighty rough here in gomorrah-by-the-sea
Ya said its just like home
Its so damn hot I cant stand it
My fine seersucker suit is all soaking wet
And the hills are burning
And the wind is raging
And the clock strikes midnight in the garden of allah
In the garden of allah
Nice car
Ah, I love those bavarians
So meticulous
Yknow I remember when things were a lot more fun around here
When good was good and evil was evil
Before things got so fuzzy
I was once a golden boy like you
And I was summoned to the halls of power in the heavenly courts
And I dined with the deities who looked upon me with favor,
For my talents, my creativity
And we sat beneath the palms
In the warm afternoons and drank the wine
With fitzgerald and huxley
And they pawned the biting phrase from the tongues hot with blood
And drained their pins of bitter ink
Vainly reaching for the bottle full of empty edens
Branded especially for the ones who had come with great expectations
To the perfumed halls of allah, for their time in the sun
And we were stokin the fires and oilin up the machinery
Until the gods found out we had ideas of our own
And war was coming and the earth was shaking
And there was no more ruin in the garden of allah
Today I made an appearance downtown
I am an expert witness because I say I am
And I said gentlemen, and I use that world loosely
I will testify for you, Im a gun for hire,Im a saint, Im a liar
Because there are no facts, there is no truth
Just data to be manipulated
I can get you any result you like
Whats it worth to you?
Because there is no wrong, there is no right
And I sleep very well at night
No shame, no solution, no remorse, no retribution
Just people selling t-shirts
Just opportunity to participate in the pathetic little circus
And winning, winning, winning
It was pretty big year for predators
The marketplace was on a roll
And the land of opportunity
Spawned a whole new breed of men without souls
This year notoriety got all confused with fame
And the devil is downhearted babe, cause
Theres nothing left for him to claim
He said its just like home
Its so low-down I cant stand it
I guess my work around here has all been done
And the fruit is rotten, the serpents eyes shine
As he wraps around the vine,
In the garden of allah
In the garden of allah
In the garden of allah

song performed by Don Henley
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Everybody has that point in their life where you hit a crossroads and you've had a bunch of bad days and there's different ways you can deal with it and the way I dealt with it was I just turned completely to music.

quote by Taylor Swift
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Sugar Coating The Wholesomeness Of It

How can anyone look at a tree...
And not notice the leaves on it?

It's done!

How can someone not acknowledge,
A greeting said to them heard?
It's done.
Or the disrespect spoken from the lips of children.
And a total breakdown of discipline!

That too is done!

Truth is there.
Available and free.

Perhaps the reason for it not being sought as much...
Or has the popularity that fantasy and delusion flaunts,
Is its attachment and close association with reality!
And many people use that as an excuse not to deal with it!

And today...
Facing truth and reality,
Is more difficult for many...
Than it is to get a child to eat vegetables.
Without sugar coating the wholesomeness of it!
Making it an accepted game to play.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

When not much is happening and there seems to be nothing you can do to change that, you do wonder. But I am an actor, like it or not. I stuck with it and took what was offered.

quote by Kathleen Quinlan
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

It Is Not That Truth Is Disrespected

It is not that truth is disrespected.
It was never introduced.
It is those deceptions that are believed.
And the people are upset,
By what they have accepted...
That continues to change!
And they protest,
To have the original deceptions...
As remembered and kept,
They grew to trust...
To be returned.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

To Not Know What One Is And Should Be

TO NOT KNOW WHAT ONE IS AND SHOULD BE

To not know what one is and should be
Is ridiculous at the age of seventy-

To play games with one's own identity
Is a sport for those much younger-

Nonetheless I in my endless I-I-I ing
Play on,
Less serving You
Than I once dreamed,
And still obsessed as I was supposed to learn not to be
By my own name

Vanity of vanity says the preacher
And I in my case
In spades.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

When I was a boy and the world was young (Pushkin sonnet)

When I was a boy and the world was young
in my boyhood with immature fancies
still long before you did come along
there were no girlfriends or enemies,

the government send me off to war
to fight enemies I did not deplore
and when you were there with another;
to fight for him, for you and even her,

although everything I was giving
there was some men that I could not save,
without a question I had to be brave
but did my best at my task to stay living

and there they died for someone else's tranquillity,
while the horrors of war is still with and in me.

poem by Gert Strydom
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Do Not Be Angry With Yourself

She taught me to be the man I am for her,
Ne'er to waiver as truth keeps my path unaltered!
I have kept my faith when all else had relinquished,
Not for one moment did my love for thee vanquish!

I have done all I could for this truthful search,
All that is left is your acceptance!
Surely time breaks down your reluctance,
Easily back to you is your love- careful not to lurch!

Do not be angry with yourself- as neither am I,
Hurt in my heart, keeps me wondering why? !
You erred but for the side of caution,
On the wrong side it turns out of that inherent question!

Turns out for us that I was the love of your life,
And not that which is causal to all of our strife!

Maurice Harris,6 April 2008

poem by Maurice Harris
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

I Wish I Was…

I wish I were William Shakespeare
I’d be very happy writing plays,
Seeing them on the stage,
Making my audience laugh and cry.
Writing about some dark lady
I think to be a Muse.
That’d be alright for me.

I wish I were John Lennon
I’d be very happy making music,
Being a poet and a philosopher;
Playing the piano all night.
But I’d give anything up for love.
Give up everything for Yoko.
Hmmm, maybe not.

I wish I was Samwise Gamgee
I’d live a life as happy as could be,
Apart from the business with
Frodo and the Ring,
I’d be happy with living
In Bag End, in Hobbiton, in the Shire.
I’d live a life as happy as could be.

I could wish all I’d like,
But I’d never be any of them,
So for now I am happy being me.

© Charlie F. Kane

21/3/06

poem by Charlie F. Kane
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Your Daughter Was A Good Person

Your daughter was a good person I believe that to be true
And the fate that was her's surely was not her due
By bullies in the workplace she was driven to suicide
In such a tragic way your beloved young daughter died
For their part in her death a heavy fine they have paid
Though a greater example of them ought to be made
Workplace bullying ought to be looked on as a serious crime
And those found guilty of it serve at least two years of prison time
The bullies by all account have relocated to Interstate
If they feel sorry now it is sorry too late
Their behaviour unmanly and cowardly and bad
Of their beautiful daughter they robbed a mum and dad
For the death of a young woman they must take the blame
And for the rest of their lives they must live with their shame.

poem by Francis Duggan
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

That I Did Not Say

If you 'were' to select,
Someone to which your abilities were compared...
To be critiqued.
Whom would you pick?

'Hmmm...
Let's see.
I would probably pick someone who believed,
Their best was to achieve mediocrity.'

But suppose their efforts were championed.
And the greater of your efforts were deemed to be less.
Wouldn't that bother you?
Wouldn't you be upset?

'Why should I be bothered?
My mind is not one of a critic.
And I spend no time deciding 'whom' to crtique.'

So you think nothing of your accomplishments.
Nor of your notoriety.

'THAT I did not say.
My devotion, commitment and sacrifice,
Consistency with persistence and longevity...
Should speak for itself.'

Then you are familiar with being criticized?

'Oh yes.
Definitely.
But I've been working on my low tolerance,
When showing I am getting annoyed.'

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

I Was Born and Raised

When the sun was hanging bright
And the moon gloom with execsive light
Then I was born
When the days were constantly burning
And the cloud immensely weeping
Then I was born
When human were not humble
And the races were different people
Then I was born
When actions were filled with advantage
And the minds were like gabbage
Then I was born
When the street were filled with blood
And human words were built with fraud
Then I was born
When parents cannot make their stomach feed
And they cannot take the responsibility of their breed
Then I was born
Where the people were just part of a story
And their effort was to build another man glory
Their I was raised
Where men were like iron
But their strength was for a corn
Their I was raised
Where people were deprived
And from them wealth is derived
There I was born and raised
Where the land is good
But the people cannot make their food
Their I was born and raised
Where the place is called africa
And the people are called african
Their I was born and raised
I was born and raised
Where the people’s destiny lies in the grave

poem by Kemurl Fofanah
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

I Was Only Joking

(r. stewart / g. grainger)
Ever since I was a kid at school
I messed around with all the rules
Apologised then realised
Im not different after all
Me and the boys thought we had it sussed
Valentinos all of us
My dad said we looked ridiculous
But boy we broke some hearts
In and out of jobs, running free
Waging war with society
Dumb blank faces stare back at me
But nothing ever changed
Promises made in the heat of the night
Creeping home before it got too light
I wasted all that precious time
And blamed it on the wine
Chorus:
I was only joking my dear
Looking for a way to hide my fear
What kind of fool was i
I could never win
Never found a compromise
Collected lovers like butterflies
Illusions of that grand first prize
Are slowly wearing thin
Susy baby you were good to me
Giving love unselfishly
But you took it all too seriously
I guess it had to end
(chorus)
Now you ask me if Im sincere
Thats the question that I always fear
Verse seven is never clear
But Ill tell you what you want to hear
I try to give you all you want
But giving love is not my strongest point
If thats the case its pointless going on
Id rather be alone
cause what Im doing must be wrong
Pouring my heart out in a song
Owning up for prosperity
For the whole damn world to see
Quietly now while I turn a page
Act one is over without costume change
The principal would like to leave the stage
The crowd dont understand

song performed by Rod Stewart
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Actually I Do Not Talk Much About This And That

if you ask me now, this moment, forgive me but i am ready
with a sack
of lies filled with rice grains of excuses to feed my
hunger for truth, sorry

but i need to feed my lean days and you will see
how hard it is when summer comes
with nothing but tin roof on our heads
for shelter,

hot we are familiar about what hot is,
how hot is it when we mean hot
this Philippine summer
in this city
and you must not have the nerve to tell me
to cool my skin
like i am your tamed reptile
a snake perhaps or the turtle that you once knew me to be,

time has changed my shape and way of looking
at the river
you do not know how i have made ties with the frogs
wishing for the heron to come to eat us
and we learned our lesson so well,

we made more slime, and poisonous
tumors in our skins to protect us, they tell you this story
i was there then
and compromised a little with how my life has to be managed,

chameleon, iguana, hot days, sandstorms, some easy preys
to our feeding times,
dark lonely nights with the timid moon
heavy rains at times and flood that
forced us to stay on cliffs
for months, i have learned these all

years, we have not met and one day
we meet again on the hills filled with flowers
and friendly air,

you are so confident, and you touch me
but i am already harmful,
the way i make you feel
sends you the signals of second thoughts
there is a little distance
between you and me
and in between is the doubt and questions

you touch me again
i feel so cold and you felt the danger of this reptile

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Not In Touch With Reality

They have no idea what reality is, while thinking God doesn’t exist.
These people seem to be everywhere, living their life without a care.
But the little reality that they see was planned by God in Eternity.
Friend, God created every single man as part of His Sovereign Plan.
Many my friend, believe God to be, nothing more than man’s fantasy.

The need for them to believe is something that they can’t conceive.
Instead of wanting to believe, they choose to live a life deceived.
They have no idea why they’re here and no belief beyond this sphere.
They only believe in natural birth then they simply decay in the earth.
Believing that they have evolved, when they die they just dissolve.

Truth for them is only relevant and it changes with every new event.
Sin to them is just a choice, while our concerns are simply noise.
Living life with an amoral mind, all moral thought by them is denied.
They say there are no absolutes, to what we claim to be God’s Truth.
But one question they will ignore, ask them are you absolutely sure?

They live in a world all their own and they’re going to die alone.
Their life of sin is not of The Lord, and by Him it will not be ignored.
All Sin and evil that you see will be destroyed, in the fire of Eternity.
Even if one ignores this fate, from God’s Judgment he won’t escape.
Reality they will know for sure when they’re in the fire forevermore.

For every single man’s reality extends, my friend, far into Eternity.
With no grasp of eternity, they have no idea what their end will be.
Even if they don’t understand, all before God’s Judgment will stand.
But friend they shall see, when before Him they’re on bended knee.
For every man has a destiny, and this they shall face in Eternity.

poem by Bob Gotti
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Not To Be With You

Not to be with you,
not to know your breathing beside me,
not to be able to put my arms around you
and kiss the black candles away,
change skies with a glance,
feel your mystery seeping into me
like a veil of rain,
my heart a hive of stars,
my body crazed
by a fragrance of the moon,
to feel the intimate moment hang
like a dropp of dew
poised like the silence that falls before it;
is a mountain peering down into its own valley
at a whisper of cloud
that passes like a secret,
a red carpet of blood that wants to fly
laid out for an unknown dignitary.
You are not here
but I walk with you alone
under the smudged moonlight,
through the tidal shadows of soft, ebbing trees,
and gusts of warm air touch me like your skin,
and the assent in your eyes
is a colour only the heart can see,
and my longing is a map to anywhere
my mouth might meet yours,
and my hands visit the shrines of your body
like pilgrims full of reverence
for an infidel religion
with beautiful eyes,
with sacred scars and a language
that is born along
with the serpent fire of my ripening passion
to annihilate myself in your doorway,
to unspool the river
in the supple coral of your water-rose,
the keel of my tongue
circumnavigating your startled equators,
and all your tender meridians
bowstrings taut with anticipation
of electric arrows released in ecstasy,
both of us wounded by insatiable joy
in a storm of mushrooms and black cherries,
in the oceanic hunger of the sea
for an oracular island of forbidden frenzies,
for mystic releases
that free oblivion from servitude
and teach the chains of existence
to dance to the music
of their own liberation,
their own falling away like rain,
that the true ground of their being
was always the wind
that binds the message to the world
in the arms of lovers creating each other
from black palettes in the darkness,
from moss and apricots,
from the long wharves
of interminable kisses
that gore like the horns of garden snails,
from the fountain-mouths of ancient eclipses,
the dark abundance
of the feast that is received like eyes
and the night chutes that open nocturnal poppies
like auroras of furious sugar
to squander the stars
in the throats of jubilant black holes,
to appease the unattainable
with the inexhaustible satiation of gratified silos.
Not to be with you,
my wings ache with urgent migrations,
and I am as impetuous as a sword
in the foundries of my blood,
and my voice
is the remote thunder of humbled apples,
and my dragons swarm
the abyss of your beauty
like shepherd moons, sunspots,
a calendar of desires
that marks every phase of your body off
as an apostate holiday,
the omen that winnows
a harvest of bells.
Not to be with you is a cloak
that weighs more than the night sky,
the eyelid of an iron rose,
a feather of lead
that drowns in its own reflection
like the shadow of a flightless longing,
the unquenchable silence
of a well on the moon
listening for rain.

poem by Patrick White
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

There Was A Child Went Forth

THERE was a child went forth every day;
And the first object he look'd upon, that object he became;
And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of
the day, or for many years, or stretching cycles of years.

The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass, and white and red morning-glories, and white and red
clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the Third-month lambs, and the sow's pink-faint litter, and the
mare's foal, and the cow's calf,
And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the pond-
side,
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there--and the
beautiful curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads--all became part
of him.

The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part of
him; 10
Winter-grain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and the
esculent roots of the garden,
And the apple-trees cover'd with blossoms, and the fruit afterward,
and wood-berries, and the commonest weeds by the road;
And the old drunkard staggering home from the out-house of the
tavern, whence he had lately risen,
And the school-mistress that pass'd on her way to the school,
And the friendly boys that pass'd--and the quarrelsome boys,
And the tidy and fresh-cheek'd girls--and the barefoot negro boy and
girl,
And all the changes of city and country, wherever he went.

His own parents,
He that had father'd him, and she that had conceiv'd him in her womb,
and birth'd him,
They gave this child more of themselves than that; 20
They gave him afterward every day--they became part of him.

The mother at home, quietly placing the dishes on the supper-table;
The mother with mild words--clean her cap and gown, a wholesome odor
falling off her person and clothes as she walks by;
The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, anger'd, unjust;
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture--the
yearning and swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsay'd--the sense of what is real--the
thought if, after all, it should prove unreal,
The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time--the curious
whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and specks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets--if they are not flashes
and specks, what are they? 30
The streets themselves, and the façades of houses, and goods in the
windows,
Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank'd wharves--the huge crossing at the
ferries,
The village on the highland, seen from afar at sunset--the river
between,
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables of
white or brown, three miles off,
The schooner near by, sleepily dropping down the tide--the little
boat slack-tow'd astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping,
The strata of color'd clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint, away
solitary by itself--the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon's edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt marsh
and shore mud;
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now
goes, and will always go forth every day.

poem by Walt Whitman
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

When My Heart Isn't A Hummingbird

When my heart isn't a hummingbird on a keyboard,
it's a spider on a guitar. The long fingers of a surgeon
my mother used to say, the air bright with potential
and the creature with a purpose, a future it meant,
a destiny it was born to fulfil like a chain reaction.
Now it's an error of evolution just to make it through another day.

And nights, sidereal ballerinas leaping like Cygnus at zenith
over the toxic wavelengths in this snakepit of street life.
Blessings on everyone's head, I've shed a few lives of my own,
but I mean the nights, sometimes the nights,
scatter my own ashes over my head in mourning
like a nuclear winter that won't let me forget.

Now there's nothing perennial about my paradigms
and the flowers don't grow as imperial as they used to.
Ferocious weeds spring up among the downtrodden
and swarm the gardens of the sun-king, the cattails
impaled, and the heads of the poppies on pikes by the gate.
I'm looking for new moons in the calendars of chaos
to sow the teeth of a dragon under. Soil made vintage
by the dissolution of the dead who are buried in me
as I keep on living their deaths like an impossible ending
to a recurring dream I haven't woken up from in years.

Red alert. Don't climb higher than the mountain is tall
unless you've got a star in your eye you're going to follow
for the rest of your denatured life. But no one's listening.
They're all taking polls of bad examples on talent shows.
Can't stand the artificial lights or the trained hilarity
of the audience defrocking sacred clowns at a cult ritual.
But I found a flap at the back of the circus tent
I like to slip out through and let the darkness
wash the patina of blazing out of my eyes
and encounter six thousand stars whose shining
ease the mind by enlightening its unique insignificance.

I like to blunder my way into places alone
where who I am is nobody's business but the willows
and they're not saying anything to the wind
that's heard it all before. One moment you're the canvas
and the next you're a paint rag up to your alligators
in muddy oils trying to save an orchid from its own hysteria.
If there's any rafter of my life left standing
it's as fragile as a compass needle wobbling on a thorn.
One moment you're teaching spiders to play the guitar
without barring their chords, and get rid of
those old harps of theirs that have been collecting in the corner
like dreamcatchers they couldn't hold a note
if it were a velcro butterfly, and the next
you're boiling strings like spinal cords in a bird bath.

But alone, where there's no assent or denial,
and the false redeemers are orphaned
in their baskets and mangers among the hay and bull rushes,
I can juggle the crazy wisdom of myriad worlds
bubbling up in my blood like a playful multiverse
without dropping one of them, and swallow the swords
the moon lays down on the lake in tribute.
No blackboards in my freedom. No chalk fossils
among my crayons, I have been schooled
in the ghettos and still life studios of my solitude.

Here where the river emerges from a larynx of dead trees
I can think my way into the most open-minded modes of death
without having to turn around and go home again
or forget I'm just an organ of light that makes things visible
for anyone with an eye to spare, or the time
to listen to the picture-music where their senses meet
like parallel lives that have suddenly come into focus.

poem by Patrick White
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Inasmuch As Ye Did It Not . . .

If Jesus came to London,
Came to London to-day,
He would not go to the West End,
He would come down our way;
He'd talk with the children dancing
To the organ out in the street,
And say he was their big Brother,
And give them something to eat.

He wouldn't go to the mansions
Where the charitable live;
He'd come to the tenement houses
Where we ain't got nothing to give.
He'd come so kind and so homely,
And treat us to beer and bread,
And tell us how we ought to behave;
And we'd try to mind what He said.

In the warm bright West End churches
They sing and preach and pray,
They call us 'Beloved brethren,'
But they do not act that way.
And when He came to the church door
He'd call out loud and free,
You stop that preaching and praying
And show what you've done for Me.'

Then they'd say, 'O Lord, we have given
To the poor both blankets and tracts,
And we've tried to make them sober,
And we've tried to teach them facts.
But they will sneak round to the drink-shop,
And pawn the blankets for beer,
And we find them very ungrateful,
But still we persevere.'

Then He would say, 'I told you
The time I was here before,
That you were all of you brothers,
All you that I suffered for.
I won't go into your churches,
I'll stop in the sun outside.
You bring out the men your brothers,
The men for whom I died!'

Out of our beastly lodgings,
From arches and doorways about,
They'd have to do as He told them,
They'd have to call us out.
Millions and millions and millions,
Thick and crawling like flies,
We should creep out to the sunshine
And not be afraid of His eyes.

He'd see what God's image looks like
When men have dealt with the same,
Wrinkled with work that is never done,
Swollen and dirty with shame.
He'd see on the children's forehead
The branded gutter-sign
That marks the girls to be harlots,
That dooms the boys to be swine.

Then He'd say, 'What's the good of churches
When these have nowhere to sleep?
And how can I hear you praying
When they are cursing so deep?
I gave My Blood and My Body
That they might have bread and wine,
And you have taken your share and theirs
Of these good gifts of mine!'

Then some of the rich would be sorry,
And all would be very scared,
And they'd say, 'But we never knew, Lord!'
And He'd say, 'You never cared!'
And some would be sick and shameful
Because they'd know that they knew,
And the best would say, 'We were wrong, Lord.
Now tell us what to do!'

I think He'd be sitting, likely,
For someone 'ud bring Him a chair,
With a common kid cuddled up on His knee
And the common sun on His hair;
And they'd be standing before Him,
And He'd say, 'You know that you knew.
Why haven't you worked for your brothers
The same as I worked for you?

'For since you're all of you brothers
It's clear as God's blessed sun
That each must work for the others,
Not thousands work for one.
And the ones that have lived bone-idle
If they want Me to hear them pray,
Let them go and work for their livings
The only honest way!

'I've got nothing new to tell you,
You know what I always said -
But you've built their bones into churches
And stolen their wine and bread;
You with My Name on your foreheads,
Liar, and traitor, and knave,
You have lived by the death of your brothers,
These whom I died to save!'

I wish He would come and say it;
Perhaps they'd believe it then,
And work like men for their livings
And let us work like men.
Brothers? They don't believe it,
The lie on their lips is red.
They'll never believe till He comes again,
Or till we rise from the dead!

poem by Edith Nesbit
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!