Where the carcass is, there the ravens will collect together.
American proverbs
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Related quotes
Next To Collect
You could be the next to collect...
RESPECT.
You could be the next on the list...
To get it and quick.
You could be the next to collect...
RESPECT.
Tomorrow no one knows,
Just what to expect.
You may be next to collect it!
An overwhelming love received.
You may be next to collect,
A joy that never leaves.
You may be next to collect it!
A one of a kind peace...
On your mind.
You may be next to collect it!
An overwhelming love received.
You may be next to collect,
A joy that never leaves.
You may be next to collect it!
A one of a kind peace...
On your mind.
You may be next to collect,
Just accept you are blessed.
You could be the next to collect...
RESPECT.
You could be the next on the list...
To get it and quick.
You may be the next to collect it...
An abundance of happiness.
The next to collect.
The next to collect.
You may be the next to collect it...
An abundance of happiness.
The next to collect.
The next to collect.
You may be the next to collect it!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Blessing The Cornfields
Sing, O Song of Hiawatha,
Of the happy days that followed,
In the land of the Ojibways,
In the pleasant land and peaceful!
Sing the mysteries of Mondamin,
Sing the Blessing of the Cornfields!
Buried was the bloody hatchet,
Buried was the dreadful war-club,
Buried were all warlike weapons,
And the war-cry was forgotten.
There was peace among the nations;
Unmolested roved the hunters,
Built the birch canoe for sailing,
Caught the fish in lake and river,
Shot the deer and trapped the beaver;
Unmolested worked the women,
Made their sugar from the maple,
Gathered wild rice in the meadows,
Dressed the skins of deer and beaver.
All around the happy village
Stood the maize-fields, green and shining,
Waved the green plumes of Mondamin,
Waved his soft and sunny tresses,
Filling all the land with plenty.
`T was the women who in Spring-time
Planted the broad fields and fruitful,
Buried in the earth Mondamin;
`T was the women who in Autumn
Stripped the yellow husks of harvest,
Stripped the garments from Mondamin,
Even as Hiawatha taught them.
Once, when all the maize was planted,
Hiawatha, wise and thoughtful,
Spake and said to Minnehaha,
To his wife, the Laughing Water:
"You shall bless to-night the cornfields,
Draw a magic circle round them,
To protect them from destruction,
Blast of mildew, blight of insect,
Wagemin, the thief of cornfields,
Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear
"In the night, when all Is silence,'
In the night, when all Is darkness,
When the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin,
Shuts the doors of all the wigwams,
So that not an ear can hear you,
So that not an eye can see you,
Rise up from your bed in silence,
Lay aside your garments wholly,
Walk around the fields you planted,
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Song Of Hiawatha XIII: Blessing The Cornfields
Sing, O Song of Hiawatha,
Of the happy days that followed,
In the land of the Ojibways,
In the pleasant land and peaceful!
Sing the mysteries of Mondamin,
Sing the Blessing of the Cornfields!
Buried was the bloody hatchet,
Buried was the dreadful war-club,
Buried were all warlike weapons,
And the war-cry was forgotten.
There was peace among the nations;
Unmolested roved the hunters,
Built the birch canoe for sailing,
Caught the fish in lake and river,
Shot the deer and trapped the beaver;
Unmolested worked the women,
Made their sugar from the maple,
Gathered wild rice in the meadows,
Dressed the skins of deer and beaver.
All around the happy village
Stood the maize-fields, green and shining,
Waved the green plumes of Mondamin,
Waved his soft and sunny tresses,
Filling all the land with plenty.
`T was the women who in Spring-time
Planted the broad fields and fruitful,
Buried in the earth Mondamin;
`T was the women who in Autumn
Stripped the yellow husks of harvest,
Stripped the garments from Mondamin,
Even as Hiawatha taught them.
Once, when all the maize was planted,
Hiawatha, wise and thoughtful,
Spake and said to Minnehaha,
To his wife, the Laughing Water:
'You shall bless to-night the cornfields,
Draw a magic circle round them,
To protect them from destruction,
Blast of mildew, blight of insect,
Wagemin, the thief of cornfields,
Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear
'In the night, when all Is silence,'
In the night, when all Is darkness,
When the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin,
Shuts the doors of all the wigwams,
So that not an ear can hear you,
So that not an eye can see you,
Rise up from your bed in silence,
Lay aside your garments wholly,
Walk around the fields you planted,
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Elijah Fed By Ravens
Elijah's example declares,
Whatever distress may betide;
The saints may commit all their cares
To him who will surely provide:
When rain long withheld from the earth
Occasioned a famine of bread;
The prophet, secure from the dearth,
By ravens was constantly fed.
More likely to rob than to feed,
Were ravens who live upon prey;
But when the Lord's people have need,
His goodness will find out a way:
This instance to those may seem strange,
Who know not how faith can prevail;
But sooner all nature shall change,
Than one of God's promises fail.
Nor is it a singular case,
The wonder is often renewed;
And many can say, to his praise,
He sends them by ravens their food:
Thus worldlings, though ravens indeed,
Though greedy and selfish their mind,
If God has a servant to feed,
Against their own wills can be kind.
Thus Satan, that raven unclean,
Who croaks in the ears of the saints;
Compelled by a power unseen,
Administers oft to their wants:
God teaches them how to find food
From all the temptations they feel;
This raven, who thirsts for my blood,
Has helped me to many a meal.
How safe and how happy are they
Who on the good Shepherd rely!
He gives them out strength for their day,
Their wants he will surely supply:
He ravens and lions can tame,
All creatures obey his command;
Then let me rejoice in his name,
And leave all my cares in his hand.
poem by John Newton
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The age of innocence
Re-collect
Re-ligio
A high tide of returning faith
For the age of innocence
Le fin de toutes les ciecles
Weltschmertz too shallow for those
Who went abysses too high
Who went insanity too nigh
Go up
Super-modern stuck in
Heideggerian states of minds
Without even knowing that
New health be named after you
Carry the name the peace of glory
You sub-modern undercurrent
Talking to its future
Gather together
Powers of the world
Light up little girls’ golden matches
Re-collect little boys lost in no man’s host
Gather together and strike
Dancing light on fragility
Delicate wire walkers
Scar lit star dust dancers
Spinning ashes spread
Spread beyond the waters
You sub-modern undercurrent
Talking to its future
Re-collect
Memories of Earth risen grown up
In knife edges shortcuts torn apart
Dying a Nietzche strength in
‘they’ll call me a sickness’ testament
Michael Angelo mocking
Bartholomeus’s skin
The Moses horns bone bricked
Into the creation of Earth
Re-collect
Re-ligio
The high tide of returning faith
For the age of innocence
This is an unknown passion
A torment passion tearing to nothing
[...] Read more
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Ravens Child
This song appears on four albums, and was first released on the earth songs album. it has been released on the flower that shattered the stone, the very best ofjohn denver (single cd) and the j
Enver collection - rocky mountain high albums.
Ravens child
Is chasing salvation
Black beak turned white
From the crack and the snow
On the streets of despair
The answer is simple
A spoonful of mercy
Can set free the soul
The drug king sits
On his arrogant throne
Away and above and apart
Even children
Are twisted to serve him
And greed has corrupted
What once was a heart
Ravens child
Keeps vigil for freedom
Trades for the arms
That once made her strong
With nuclear warheads
And lasers in heaven
Fear does the choosing
Between right and wrong
The arms king sits
On his arrogant throne
Away and above and apart
Bankers assure him
That he neednt care
And greed makes a stone of
What once was a heart
Ravens child
Is washing the water
All of her wing-feathers
Blackened with tar
Prince william shorelines
An unwanted highway
Of asphalt and anger
An elegant scar
The oil king sits
On his arrogant throne
Away and above and apart
Lawyers have warned him
He mustnt speak
And greed has made silent
What once was a heart
You know there are walls
That come tumbling down
For people who yearn to be free
[...] Read more
song performed by John Denver
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The Ravens Call
i hear the ravens call
i see the dead mans fall
for once more i hear the ravens crow
of the words nevermore
just like that lonley man
that sat with a book in his hands
stairing at a picture of his lost love lenore
knowing she will never return to his door
as he hears the ravens call of nevermore nevermore
i will sit here by myself nevermore hearing the ravens crow
but signs of that raven will nevermore go
poem by Oi Boi Alec Wade
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The Gundaroo Bullock
Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone,
And there's some that breeds the brindle which they call the "Goulburn Roan";
But amongst the breeds of cattle there are very, very few
Like the hairy-whiskered bullock that they breed at Gundaroo.
Far away by Grabben Gullen, where the Murrumbidgee flows,
There's a block of broken country-side where no one ever goes;
For the banks have gripped the squatters, and the free selectors too,
And their stock are always stolen by the men of Gundaroo.
There came a low informer to the Grabben Gullen side,
And he said to Smith the squatter, "You must saddle up and ride,
For your bullock's in the harness-cask of Morgan Donahoo --
He's the greatest cattle-stealer in the whole of Gundaroo."
"Oh, ho!" said Smith, the owner of the Grabben Gullen run,
"I'll go and get the troopers by the sinking of the sun,
And down into his homestead tonight we'll take a ride,
With warrants to identify the carcass and the hide."
That night rode down the troopers, the squatter at their head,
They rode into the homestead, and pulled Morgan out of bed.
"Now, show to us the carcass of the bullock that you slew --
The hairy-whiskered bullock that you killed in Gundaroo."
They peered into the harness-cask, and found it wasn't full,
But down among the brine they saw some flesh and bits of wool.
"What's this?" exclaimed the trooper; "an infant, I declare;"
Said Morgan, "'Tis the carcass of an old man native bear.
I heard that ye were coming, so an old man bear I slew,
Just to give you kindly welcome to my home in Gundaroo.
"The times are something awful, as you can plainly see,
The banks have broke the squatters, and they've broke the likes of me;
We can't afford a bullock -- such expense would never do --
So an old man bear for breakfast is a treat in Gundaroo."
And along by Grabben Gullen, where the rushing river flows,
In the block of broken country where there's no one ever goes,
On the Upper Murrumbidgee, they're a hospitable crew --
But you mustn't ask for "bullock" when you go to Gundaroo.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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On The Progress Of The Soul...
Forget this rotten world, and unto thee
Let thine own times as an old story be.
Be not concern'd; study not why, nor when;
Do not so much as not believe a man.
For though to err, be worst, to try truths forth
Is far more business than this world is worth.
I'he world is but a carcass; thou art fed
By it, but as a worm, that carcass bred;
And why shouldst thou, poor worm, consider more,
When this world will grow better than before,
Than those thy fellow-worms do think upon
That carcass's last resurrection?
Forget this world, and scarce think of it so,
As of old clothes, cast off a year ago.
To be thus stupid is alacrity;
Men thus lethargic have best memory.
Look upward; that's towards her, whose happy state
We now lament not, but congratulate.
She, to whom all this world was but a stage,
Where all sat heark'ning how her youthful age
Should be employ'd, because in all she did
Some figure of the golden times was hid.
Who could not lack, what'er this world could give,
Because she was the form, that made it live;
Nor could complain that this world was unfit
To be stay'd in, then when she was in it;
She, that first tried indifferent desires
By virtue, and virtue by religious fires;
She, to whose person paradise adher'd,
As courts to princes; she, whose eyes enspher'd
Star-light enough t' have made the South control,
(Had she been there) the star-full Northern Pole;
She, she is gone; she is gone; when thou knowest this,
What fragmentary rubbish this world is
Thou knowest, and that it is not worth a thought;
He honours it too much that thinks it nought.
Think then, my soul, that death is but a groom,
Which brings a taper to the outward room,
Whence thou spiest first a little glimmering light,
And after brings it nearer to thy sight;
For such approaches doth heaven make in death.
Think thyself labouring now with broken breath,
And think those broken and soft notes to be
Division, and thy happiest harmony.
Think thee laid on thy death-bed, loose and slack,
And think that but unbinding of a pack,
To take one precious thing, thy soul, from thence.
Think thyself parch'd with fever's violence;
Anger thine ague more, by calling it
Thy physic; chide the slackness of the fit.
[...] Read more
poem by John Donne
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The Bees and Flies
A Farmer of the Augustan Age
Perused in Virgil's golden page
The story of the secret won
From Proteus by Cyrene's son--
How the dank sea-god showed the swain
Means to restore his hives again.
More briefly, how a slaughtered bull
Breeds honey by the bellyful.
The egregious rustic put to death
A bull by stopping of its breath,
Disposed the carcass in a shed
With fragrant herbs and branches spread,
And, having well performed the charm,
Sat down to wait the promised swarm.
Nor waited long. The God of Day
Impartial, quickening with his ray
Evil and good alike, beheld
The carcass--and the carcass swelled.
Big with new birth the belly heaves
Beneath its screen of scented leaves.
Past any doubt, the bull conceives!
The farmer bids men bring more hives
To house the profit that arrives;
Prepares on pan and key and kettle,
Sweet music that shall make 'em settle;
But when to crown the work he goes,
Gods! What a stink salutes his nose!
Where are the honest toilers? Where
The gravid mistress of their care?
A busy scene, indeed, he sees,
But not a sign or sound of bees.
Worms of the riper grave unhid
By any kindly coffin-lid,
Obscene and shameless to the light,
Seethe in insatiate appetite,
Through putrid offal, while above
The hissing blow-fly seeks his love,
Whose offspring, supping where they supt,
Consume corruption twice corrupt.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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HIRED GUNS (For The Lone Ranger)
HIRED GUNS
(For The Lone Ranger)
by Steven A. J. Drake
January 28,2012
1) Fighting a war with words out of
The deep, dark recesses of my mind.
According to my bloodline. I'm related
To Joaquin Murrieta. California.
Robin Hood of the old west.
He got with an Indian woman.
Apache. Geronimo. Arizona.
Perhaps parts of New Mexico.
2) Hard pressed with guns and saddle.
Raised myself up with a bow and arrows.
Slipping back over time's of treacherous
Deep, dark secret shadows. Government stealing
Indian land. Gold and silver.
The white of their eyes. Over the crest
Of mountains. No fair gains for a free ride,
Across the western plains, disguised.
Chorus:
Hired guns to steal your cattle.
Drawing your marksmanship.
Without a medal. Mixed, to even the score.
After the facts at the rue morgue.
Ravens knocking down your door.
Sleep with one eye open. Stars
With a mask for the Lone Ranger.
3) Sky was the limit. Talk to eagles.
Bare down the punches. Wearing a mask for
Zorro. Clearing your head. Broken treaties.
Wiping out the buffalo. Trade fairs that come
Down to zero. No peace of mind.
Stealing your heroes. Gifts of labor
Sought after the facts of tomorrow...
Raising questions up out of the dead.
Bridge:
A whole lot has changed. Stagecoaches.
Wells Fargo. Pinkerton hired to break up
The Unions. Where are the bodies buried?
In the graves at the O.K. Corral.
Horses prancing in the arena.
Clowns taking the bulls by the horns.
In crowds of desperados.
[...] Read more
poem by Steven Drake
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The timetable of four
The golden glows of sunlight hit me
The smell of freshly cut grass reached me
The sight of freedom exhilarated me
The sounds of birds intrigued me
The beauty around me radiated from everything
The long open stretches of grass
The shady woodlands going on and on
The unending number of livening creatures
The cawing raven in the tree branches
The worm busily digging in the soil
The fish swimming idly in the pond
The child playing happily in the park
It is summer now but soon it will change
Soon it will change
Soon it will change into Autumn
I’ll still be in my tree
The children are playing in the heaps of leaves
The leaves have all gone a golden colour
The ravens are searching for bugs in the leaves
The fish are swimming slower in their pond
It is Autumn now but it will soon change
Soon it will change
Soon it will change into Winter
I’ll still be in my tree
There are no children playing
There are no leaves on the trees
The ravens have all gone south
There are no fish in the pond
It is Winter now but it will soon change
It will soon change
It will soon change into spring
I’ll still be in my tree
The children are starting to come back
The ravens are backing cawing in the trees
There is new fish in the pond
There are new buds on the trees
It is Spring now but soon it will change
Soon it will change
Soon it will change into Summer
I’ll still be in my tree
[...] Read more
poem by Eben S J
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Memorabilia
what do your nipples look like)
wherever i go
i take a little piece of you
i collect
i reject
photographs i took of you
well times i passed through
so many faces
so many places
i have got to have a memory
i have never been there
i have never had you
i can't remember
give me your reminder
i collect
i reject
memorabilia
(now girl..only it's flavor..bow down here)
keychains and snowstorms
the taste of your sweat
the look in your eye
i have been inside you
i know what it feels like
(wet as it is..the whiter the honey)
i collect
i reject
memorabilia
(goodies come in here all day)
give me your reminder
i can't remember
i collect
i reject
memorabilia
song performed by Nine Inch Nails
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Two Men On Fire
The air of two men is alight,
The fire surrounds them and fights,
What do we gain from this?
It stings and shudders our blood,
The fire retires and is stolen,
Fierce winds dissolve its anger,
Minds attached always collect information.
The air of two men is afire,
The clothes possessed are an attack.
Two men are on fire, two men will bear
The time so rare, and the fierce winds collect
And more collect, to dissolve the hurt.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Finding Words to Define Regret
Be not me,
When I'm with you?
Is that what you're saying,
You see me do?
But not me,
Is that one who is...
Doing the best to collect regrets,
With an attitude that's negative.
We do and we don't,
And most times it's ignored.
We can be under one roof...
Yet behind separate doors.
I am he
You once adored.
The one committed
To adventure
We said we'd explore?
We're on different shores...
Together.
Be not 'me',
When I'm with you?
Is that what you're saying,
You see me do?
But not me,
Is that one who is...
Doing the best to collect regrets,
With an attitude that's negative.
Only you helped me decide...
That part of me you took for granted,
Had to heal and mend when my eyes opened.
I was happy when that happened.
I wanted us both to see the same sunset...
Holding hand and hand facing the horizon.
But not me,
Is that one who is...
Doing the best to collect regrets,
With an attitude that's negative.
Sometimes that would be both of us...
Disgusted together.
But I'm not about that anymore,
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Those Who Declare Themselves Proud and Beautiful
They don't speak to them
Because of what was said
To a family member,
Associated to a relative of a friend.
And that friend is rumored to be gay
On the down low and cheating
With the first cousin's lesbian wife.
And the commuters could care less
About any of this as they trespass
To collect and run.
This has all been a setup...
To leave the inner cities,
As a place they do not wish to live
But leech!
Gang wars on turf those fighting don't own.
Drug confiscations done...
While everyone is spied upon!
Either filmed by street cameras,
Or illegal phone tappings...
By those who satisfy their justified immorality!
And the commuters could care less
About any of this as they trespass
To collect and run.
This has all been a setup...
To leave the inner cities,
As a place they do not wish to live
But leech!
Every street has at least one church,
To praise something that's said to represent 'God'.
And no one thinks it strange or odd,
These areas of high crime produce higher illiterate rates.
With illegitimacies of all kinds taking place...
And fostered!
Those elected to terms take turns debating fates.
Handing out pamphlets to those who can not read,
Write or recite a word understood!
But it's 'all good' in these depressed neighborhoods.
Since the people aren't aware,
Just how valued their presence is there!
They are used to fund all of the profit to them...
For them never comes!
But supports activities for those 'assigned'
To enrich their lives with grants and subsidies!
And the commuters could care less
About any of this as they trespass
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Vacate Those Dark Days
Vacate those dark days!
The ones experienced.
And those anticipated to dedicate,
Another round of wasted time.
Vacate those dark days!
Get up and leave them.
Or have them removed,
From the corners of your mind!
Vacate those dark days!
Eliminate the reason,
For them to stay in your way.
And why...
Are you rehearsing,
Self denial and sacrifice?
To please what outcome?
For what and for whom...
Do you give this attention to?
Chase away your blues.
Collect every key,
That frees you to unlock every piece...
Keeping you in a tolerance,
To nibble upon such contented torment.
Collect every key,
That frees you to unlock every piece...
Of this self inflicted madness witnessed.
Be done with it.
Vacate those dark days!
The ones experienced.
And those anticipated to dedicate,
Another round of wasted time.
Collect every key,
That frees you to unlock every piece...
Of this self inflicted madness witnessed.
Be done with it.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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What's The Need To Save For A Rainy Day?
What's the need to save for a rainy day?
Or keep good dishes to look at,
And never use.
Just to look at...
And never ever use.
To collect good stuff that has never been touched?
Makes little sense when no one visits much,
To appreciate what's valued but does collect dust.
And when those gold trimmed cups begin to rust up,
Who then would wish to sip...
From a cup used that could be chipped on their visit?
I would rather lick tea from a bowl if I knew this.
Whoever got a benefit without a taking of a risk?
Whoever took a risk and not received a benefit?
Just to look at and to never use 'something'...
Like a covering of chairs to plastic wrap,
Who can sit comfortably on top of that?
To look at and to never use 'something'!
What is the risk?
Where's the benefit in this?
What's the need to save for a rainy day?
Or keep good dishes to look at...
And never be used.
Just to look at and to never use 'something'...
Like a covering of chairs to plastic wrap,
Who can sit comfortably on top of that?
Or keep good dishes never touched.
And all they do is collect dust.
What's the need to save for a rainy day?
Or keep good dishes...
To look at and never use.
What is the risk?
Where's the benefit in this?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Cart, Carter and a Carte Blanche!
He collects pebbles into his dilapidated cart
The plastic red bucket perhaps from a junk yard it seems
And luckily no license needs for the unending road?
I asked him; 'Papa! Why all these pebbles? '
'Yes I understand and everybody asks the same question,
Certainly I pass this clue and do not bother please!
I make my own tomb with the help of these round stones
And this white blank paper which I have signed below
That's for my humble epitaph and I hope you finish it? '
Yes I do Papa! ; 'Some collect bare lands for future prospects
And some collect money for pleasure but very few
Those who collect friends and that's why I scribbled few lines hereto! '
(To Mr. Patrick Gabriel)
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 2
ALL were attentive to the godlike man,
When from his lofty couch he thus began:
“Great queen, what you command me to relate
Renews the sad remembrance of our fate:
An empire from its old foundations rent, 5
And ev’ry woe the Trojans underwent;
A peopled city made a desart place;
All that I saw, and part of which I was:
Not ev’n the hardest of our foes could hear,
Nor stern Ulysses tell without a tear. 10
And now the latter watch of wasting night,
And setting stars, to kindly rest invite;
But, since you take such int’rest in our woe,
And Troy’s disastrous end desire to know,
I will restrain my tears, and briefly tell 15
What in our last and fatal night befell.
“By destiny compell’d, and in despair,
The Greeks grew weary of the tedious war,
And by Minerva’s aid a fabric rear’d,
Which like a steed of monstrous height appear’d: 20
The sides were plank’d with pine; they feign’d it made
For their return, and this the vow they paid.
Thus they pretend, but in the hollow side
Selected numbers of their soldiers hide:
With inward arms the dire machine they load, 25
And iron bowels stuff the dark abode.
In sight of Troy lies Tenedos, an isle
(While Fortune did on Priam’s empire smile)
Renown’d for wealth; but, since, a faithless bay,
Where ships expos’d to wind and weather lay. 30
There was their fleet conceal’d. We thought, for Greece
Their sails were hoisted, and our fears release.
The Trojans, coop’d within their walls so long,
Unbar their gates, and issue in a throng,
Like swarming bees, and with delight survey 35
The camp deserted, where the Grecians lay:
The quarters of the sev’ral chiefs they show’d;
Here Phœnix, here Achilles, made abode;
Here join’d the battles; there the navy rode.
Part on the pile their wond’ring eyes employ: 40
The pile by Pallas rais’d to ruin Troy.
Thymoetes first (’t is doubtful whether hir’d,
Or so the Trojan destiny requir’d)
Mov’d that the ramparts might be broken down,
To lodge the monster fabric in the town. 45
But Capys, and the rest of sounder mind,
The fatal present to the flames designed,
Or to the wat’ry deep; at least to bore
The hollow sides, and hidden frauds explore.
The giddy vulgar, as their fancies guide, 50
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poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
Added by Poetry Lover
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