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My occupation now, I suppose, is jail inmate.

quote by Theodore Kaczynski
Added by Lucian Velea
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Dead, Jail, Or Rock 'n Roll

When I was a kid all I wanted to be
Was the meanest dude on the meanest machine
Now I'm going to wrong way on a one-way street
I never fit this society
I don't really mind
Doing my own time
The three choices I ever came to find
Were:Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
I ain't looking for trouble but it's looking for me
The law of the jungle is protecting me
Lose sleep man stay out of your bed
You might wind up in jail if you lose your head
In death I might find
True peace of mind
But while I'm alive
Free choice is mine
It's either:Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
I don't really mind
Doing my own time
The three choices I ever came to find
Were either:Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll

song performed by Warrant
Added by Lucian Velea
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Dead, Jail, Or Rock 'n Roll

When I was a kid all I wanted to be
Was the meanest dude on the meanest machine
Now I'm going to wrong way on a one-way street
I never fit this society
I don't really mind
Doing my own time
The three choices I ever came to find
Were:Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
I ain't looking for trouble but it's looking for me
The law of the jungle is protecting me
Lose sleep man stay out of your bed
You might wind up in jail if you lose your head
In death I might find
True peace of mind
But while I'm alive
Free choice is mine
It's either:Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
I don't really mind
Doing my own time
The three choices I ever came to find
Were either:Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll
Dead, Jail or Rock'n'Roll

song performed by Warrant
Added by Lucian Velea
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Suppose

Suppose no rose would ever grow again
Suppose no brook would ever flow again
Suppose no star should ever glow again
Suppose you didn't love me
Suppose there were no bees or butterflies
Suppose no bird should ever cross the skies
Suppose the sun should never never rise
Suppose you didn't love me
It's impossible to imagine a world without a star
But imagining no you is more impossible, by far
Suppose the Springtime never should arrive
Suppose the tall green trees should not survive
Suppose I had no wish to be alive
Suppose you didn't love me
It's impossible to imagine a world without a star
But imagining no you is more impossible, by far
Suppose the Springtime never should arrive
Suppose the tall green trees should not survive
Suppose I had no wish to be alive
Suppose you didn't love me
Suppose you didn't love me

song performed by Elvis Presley
Added by Lucian Velea
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Beautiful Occupation

Don't just stand there watching it happening
I can't stand it don't feel it
Something telling me
Don't wanna go out this way
Have a nice day
Read it in the headlines
Watch it on the tv
Put it in the background
Stick it in the back
Stick it in the back
For the beautiful occupation
The beautiful occupation
Don't need an invitation
To drop in upon a nation
Up to city come
I'm just sittin here
I'm just wastin my time
Half a million civilians gonna die today
They looked the wrong way
Read it in the headlines
Watch it on the tv
Put it in the background
Stick it in the back
Stick it in the back
For the beautiful occupation
The beautiful occupation
you don't need an invitation
to drop in upon a nation
Don't just stand there watching it happening
I can't stand it dont feel it
Something telling me
Dont wanna go out this way
Have a nice day
Read it in the headlines
Watch it on the tv
Put it in the background
Stick it in the back
Stick it in the back
For the beautiful occupation
The beautiful occupation
You don't need an invitation
To drop in upon a nation
For the beautiful occupation
The beautiful occupation
So much for an intervention
Don't call the united nations

song performed by Travis
Added by Lucian Velea
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Yet Dish

I
Put a sun in Sunday, Sunday.
Eleven please ten hoop. Hoop.
Cousin coarse in coarse in soap.
Cousin coarse in soap sew up. soap.
Cousin coarse in sew up soap.

II
A lea ender stow sole lightly.
Not a bet beggar.
Nearer a true set jump hum,
A lamp lander so seen poor lip.

III
Never so round.
A is a guess and a piece.
A is a sweet cent sender.
A is a kiss slow cheese.
A is for age jet.

IV
New deck stairs.
Little in den little in dear den.

V
Polar pole.
Dust winder.
Core see.
A bale a bale o a bale.

VI
Extravagant new or noise peal extravagant.

VII
S a glass.
Roll ups.

VIII
Powder in wails, powder in sails, powder is all next to it is does
wait sack rate all goals like chain in clear.

IX
Negligible old star.
Pour even.
It was a sad per cent.
Does on sun day.
Watch or water.
So soon a moon or a old heavy press.

X

[...] Read more

poem by Gertrude Stein
Added by Poetry Lover
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Suppose a smile.

Suppose a smile.

Suppose it always, with a smile.

Suppose the sun to shine,
shine with a smile;

suppose the rain to fall and smile
smile at the earth;
the snow, with gentle smile,
protecting tender shoots;

suppose the wind to smile
mysteriously, about its secretwork;

suppose – that’s easy – flowers
to open with a smile; and
smile as they fade and wave farewell,
a smile that says, that’s how it is…

suppose some patient smiles:
as rain-forests say to those who cut them down,
you’ll live to regret this; here’s
your chance to learn;

suppose the desert sand to smile
and say, you took the trees, and now
I’m here; plant, call down rain, store, irrigate…

suppose the ice-cap, melting with sad smile,
saying, I did not choose…

suppose that Abraham, Moses, Christ, Mohammed
spoke their uncompromising, uncomfortable truths
always with a smile; a gentle smile;
a smile to say, I'm here, you're here to learn...

suppose the spear to smile,
hammered into pruning-hook..

suppose smile met with smile.

Suppose.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Holloway Jail

They took my baby, to holloway jail,
They took my baby, down holloway jail,
She was a lady, when she went in,
Now shes in jail, and its giving me hell.
She was succeeding in the city,
She was just beginning to excel,
Then a spiv named frankie simes
Led her to a life of crime,
And led her on the downward trail.
Frankie came home late from work one evening,
The c.l.d. were hot on his trail,
Frankie promised everything,
And then he went and turned her in,
She went and took the rap for him,
Now shes impaled in holloway jail.
They took my baby, down holloway jail,
They took my baby, to holloway jail,
There aint no pity, there aint no bail,
And she assures me that its living hell.
She was young and ever so pretty,
Now she looks so old and pale,
She never sees the day,
She wastes her life away,
Sitting in that prison cell.
They took my baby to holloway jail,
They took my baby, down holloway jail,
She was a lady when she went in,
Now shes in jail, and its giving me hell.
Shes impaled, in holloway jail.

song performed by Kinks
Added by Lucian Velea
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Since I’ve Been In Jail

Since I've been in jail
the world has turned around the sun ten times
And if you ask the earth, it will say:
'It's not worth mentioning,
a microscopic time.'
And if you ask me, I will say:
'It's ten years of my life.'
I had a pencil
the year I came to jail.
It wore out in a week from writing.
And if you ask the pencil, it will say:
'A whole life.'
And if you ask me, I will say:
'It's nothing, a mere week.'
Osman who was jailed for murder
completed a seven-year stretch and left
since I've been in jail.
He wandered around outside for a while,
and then got jailed again for smuggling.
He served a six-month term and left again,
and yesterday a letter came saying he's married
and a child will be born in the spring.
Now they're ten years old
the children who fell from their mothers' womb
that year I came to jail,
And the colts of that year who had long thin shaky legs
have long since become docile broad-rumped mares.
But the olive shoots are still shoots
and they're still children.
New squares have opened up in my distant city
since I've been in jail.
And our family
is living in a house I've never seen
on a street I don't know.
The bread was pure white, like cotton,
the year I came to jail.
Later it was rationed out,
And we here on the inside beat one another
for a piece of black crust the size of a fist.
Now it's free again,
But brown and tasteless.
The year I came to jail
The Second One had just begun.
The ovens in Dachau Camp were not yet lit,
The atom bomb was not yet hurled upon Hiroshima.
Time flowed like the blood of a child with his throat cut.
Later that chapter was officially closed,
Now American dollars are talking about a Third.
But in spite of everything, the days have brightened
since I've been in jail,

[...] Read more

poem by Nazim Hikmet
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Rubber Bullets

I went to a party at the local county jail
All the cons were dancing and the band began to wail
But the guys were indiscreet
They were brawling in the street
At the local dance at the local county jail
Well the band were playing
And the booze began to flow
But the sound came over on the police car radio
Down at precinct 49
Having a tear-gas of a time
Sergeant baker got a call from the governor of the county jail
Load up, load up, load up with rubber bullets
Load up, load up, load up with rubber bullets
I love to hear those convicts squeal
Its a shame these slugs aint real
But we cant have dancin at the local county jail
Sergeant baker and his men made a bee-line for the jail
And for miles around
You could hear the sirens wail
Theres a rumor goin round death row
That a fuse is gonna blow
At the local hop at the local county jail
Whatcha gonna do about it, whatcha gonna do
Whatcha gonna do about it, whatcha gonna do
Sergeant baker started talkin
With a bullhorn in his hand
He was cool, he was clear
He was always in command
He said blood will flow;
Here padre
Padre you talk to your boys...
Trust in me -
God will come to set you free
Well we dont understand
Why you called in the national guard
When uncle sam is the one
Who belongs in the exercise yard
We all got balls and brains
But somes got balls and chains
At the local dance at the local county jail
Load up, load up, load up with rubber bullets
Load up, load up, load up with rubber bullets
Is it really such a crime
For a guy to spend his time
At the local dance at the local county jail
At the local dance at the local county jail
Whatcha gonna do about it, whatcha gonna do
Whatcha gonna do about it, whatcha gonna do

song performed by 10 Cc
Added by Lucian Velea
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Medley: Rubber Bullets/silly Love Songs/life Is A Hinestrone

I went to a party at the local county jail
All the cons were dancing and the band began to wail
But the guys were indiscreet
They were brawling in the street
At the local dance at the local county jail
Well the band were playing
And the booze began to flow
But the sound came over on the police car radio
Down at precinct 49
Having a tear-gas of a time
Sergeant baker got a call from the governor of the county jail
Load up, load up, load up with rubber bullets
Load up, load up, load up with rubber bullets
I love to hear those convicts squeal
Its a shame these slugs aint real
But we cant have dancin at the local county jail
Sergeant baker and his men made a bee-line for the jail
And for miles around
You could hear the sirens wail
Theres a rumor goin round death row
That a fuse is gonna blow
At the local hop at the local county jail
Whatcha gonna do about it, whatcha gonna do
Whatcha gonna do about it, whatcha gonna do
Sergeant baker started talkin
With a bullhorn in his hand
He was cool, he was clear
He was always in command
He said blood will flow;
Here padre
Padre you talk to your boys...
Trust in me -
God will come to set you free
Well we dont understand
Why you called in the national guard
When uncle sam is the one
Who belongs in the exercise yard
We all got balls and brains
But somes got balls and chains
At the local dance at the local county jail
Load up, load up, load up with rubber bullets
Load up, load up, load up with rubber bullets
Is it really such a crime
For a guy to spend his time
At the local dance at the local county jail
At the local dance at the local county jail
Whatcha gonna do about it, whatcha gonna do
Whatcha gonna do about it, whatcha gonna do
===================
10cc - silly love

[...] Read more

song performed by 10 Cc
Added by Lucian Velea
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Rubber Bullets/sngl/bonus

10cc - rubber bullets
---------------------
I went to a party at the local county jail
All the cons were dancing and the band began to wail
But the guys were indiscreet
They were brawling in the street
At the local dance at the local county jail
Well the band were playing
And the booze began to flow
But the sound came over on the police car radio
Down at precinct 49
Having a tear-gas of a time
Sergeant baker got a call from the governor of the county jail
Load up, load up, load up with rubber bullets
Load up, load up, load up with rubber bullets
I love to hear those convicts squeal
It's a shame these slugs ain't real
But we can't have dancin' at the local county jail
Sergeant baker and his men made a bee-line for the jail
And for miles around
You could hear the sirens wail
There's a rumor goin' round death row
That a fuse is gonna blow
At the local hop at the local county jail
Whatcha gonna do about it, whatcha gonna do
Whatcha gonna do about it, whatcha gonna do
Sergeant baker started talkin'
With a bullhorn in his hand
He was cool, he was clear
He was always in command
He said "blood will flow;
Here padre
Padre you talk to your boys..."
"trust in me -
God will come to set you free"
Well we don't understand
Why you called in the national guard
When uncle sam is the one
Who belongs in the exercise yard
We all got balls and brains
But some's got balls and chains
At the local dance at the local county jail
Load up, load up, load up with rubber bullets
Load up, load up, load up with rubber bullets
Is it really such a crime
For a guy to spend his time
At the local dance at the local county jail
At the local dance at the local county jail
Whatcha gonna do about it, whatcha gonna do
Whatcha gonna do about it, whatcha gonna do

song performed by 10 Cc
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Ghost - Book IV

Coxcombs, who vainly make pretence
To something of exalted sense
'Bove other men, and, gravely wise,
Affect those pleasures to despise,
Which, merely to the eye confined,
Bring no improvement to the mind,
Rail at all pomp; they would not go
For millions to a puppet-show,
Nor can forgive the mighty crime
Of countenancing pantomime;
No, not at Covent Garden, where,
Without a head for play or player,
Or, could a head be found most fit,
Without one player to second it,
They must, obeying Folly's call,
Thrive by mere show, or not at all
With these grave fops, who, (bless their brains!)
Most cruel to themselves, take pains
For wretchedness, and would be thought
Much wiser than a wise man ought,
For his own happiness, to be;
Who what they hear, and what they see,
And what they smell, and taste, and feel,
Distrust, till Reason sets her seal,
And, by long trains of consequences
Insured, gives sanction to the senses;
Who would not (Heaven forbid it!) waste
One hour in what the world calls Taste,
Nor fondly deign to laugh or cry,
Unless they know some reason why;
With these grave fops, whose system seems
To give up certainty for dreams,
The eye of man is understood
As for no other purpose good
Than as a door, through which, of course,
Their passage crowding, objects force,
A downright usher, to admit
New-comers to the court of Wit:
(Good Gravity! forbear thy spleen;
When I say Wit, I Wisdom mean)
Where (such the practice of the court,
Which legal precedents support)
Not one idea is allow'd
To pass unquestion'd in the crowd,
But ere it can obtain the grace
Of holding in the brain a place,
Before the chief in congregation
Must stand a strict examination.
Not such as those, who physic twirl,
Full fraught with death, from every curl;

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator

Ah, my Giacinto, he's no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we're eight?
Seven and one's eight, I hope, old curly-pate!
—Branches me out his verb-tree on the slate,
Amo-as-avi-atum-are-ans,
Up to -aturus, person, tense, and mood,
Quies me cum subjunctivo (I could cry)
And chews Corderius with his morning crust!
Look eight years onward, and he's perched, he's perched
Dapper and deft on stool beside this chair,
Cinozzo, Cinoncello, who but he?
—Trying his milk-teeth on some crusty case
Like this, papa shall triturate full soon
To smooth Papinianian pulp!

It trots
Already through my head, though noon be now,
Does supper-time and what belongs to eve.
Dispose, O Don, o' the day, first work then play!
—The proverb bids. And "then" means, won't we hold
Our little yearly lovesome frolic feast,
Cinuolo's birth-night, Cinicello's own,
That makes gruff January grin perforce!
For too contagious grows the mirth, the warmth
Escaping from so many hearts at once—
When the good wife, buxom and bonny yet,
Jokes the hale grandsire,—such are just the sort
To go off suddenly,—he who hides the key
O' the box beneath his pillow every night,—
Which box may hold a parchment (someone thinks)
Will show a scribbled something like a name
"Cinino, Ciniccino," near the end,
"To whom I give and I bequeath my lands,
"Estates, tenements, hereditaments,
"When I decease as honest grandsire ought."
Wherefore—yet this one time again perhaps—
Shan't my Orvieto fuddle his old nose!
Then, uncles, one or the other, well i' the world,
May—drop in, merely?—trudge through rain and wind,
Rather! The smell-feasts rouse them at the hint
There's cookery in a certain dwelling-place!
Gossips, too, each with keepsake in his poke,
Will pick the way, thrid lane by lantern-light,
And so find door, put galligaskin off
At entry of a decent domicile
Cornered in snug Condotti,—all for love,
All to crush cup with Cinucciatolo!

Well,
Let others climb the heights o' the court, the camp!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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New, New Minglewood Blues

New, New Minglewood Blues
-------------------------
I was born in the desert
Raised in a lion's den
I was born in the desert
Raised in a lion's den
Oh, my number one occupation
Is stealing women from their men
Well, I'm a wanted man in Texas,
busted jail and I'm gone for good.
Said, I'm a wanted man in Texas,
busted jail and I'm gone for good.
Well, the sheriff couldn't catch me,
but his little girl sure wished she could.
Well now the doctor call me crazy,
sometimes I am, sometimes I ain't,
Said now the doctor call me crazy,
sometimes I am, sometimes I ain't,
Yes, and the preacher man call me sinner
but his little girl call me saint.
Well a couple shots of whiskey
women round here start looking good,
I said a couple shots of whiskey
women round here start looking good,
A couple more shots of whiskey,
I'm going down to Minglewood.
Said, I was born in the desert
Raised in a lion's den
Said, I was born in the desert
Raised in a lion's den
Yes and my number one occupation
Is stealing women from their men
I was born in the desert
Raised in a lion's den
I was born in the desert
Raised in a lion's den
Oh, my number one occupation
Is stealing women from their men

song performed by Grateful Dead
Added by Lucian Velea
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All New Minglewood Blues

I was born in the desert Raised in a lion's den
I was born in the desert Raised in a lion's den
Oh, my number one occupation is stealing women from their men
Well, I'm a wanted man in Texas, busted jail and I'm gone for good.
Said, I'm a wanted man in Texas, busted jail and I'm gone for good.
Well, the sheriff couldn't catch me,
But his little girl sure wish she could.
Well now the doctor call me crazy, sometimes I am, sometimes I ain't,
Said now the doctor call me crazy, sometimes I am, sometimes I ain't,
Yes, and the preacher man call me sinner
But his little girl call me saint.
Well a couple shots of whiskey women 'round here start looking good,
I said a couple shots of whiskey women 'round here start looking good,
A couple more shots of whiskey, I'm going down to Minglewood.
Said, I was born in the desert Raised in a lion's den
Said, I was born in the desert Raised in a lion's den
Yes and my number one occupation is stealing women from their men
I was born in the desert Raised in a lion's den
Oh, my number one occupation is stealing women from their men

song performed by Grateful Dead
Added by Lucian Velea
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To Get That Money

to get that money
make that money
steal that money
go to jail.

to get that jewelry
make that money
steal that jewelry
go to jail

banker man,
understand
steal that money
go to jail.

wallstreet man
understand,
steal that money
go to jail.

mr. thief
it's my belief
steal that money
go to jail.

mr. crime
I ain't lyin'
steal that money
go to jail.

poem by Richard Jarboe
Added by Poetry Lover
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Knyghthode and Bataile

A XVth Century Verse Paraphrase of Flavius Vegetius Renatus' Treatise 'DE RE MILITARI'

Proemium.
Salue, festa dies
i martis,
Mauortis! auete
Kalende. Qua Deus
ad celum subleuat
ire Dauid.

Hail, halyday deuout! Alhail Kalende
Of Marche, wheryn Dauid the Confessour
Commaunded is his kyngis court ascende;
Emanuel, Jhesus the Conquerour,
This same day as a Tryumphatour,
Sette in a Chaire & Throne of Maiestee,
To London is comyn. O Saviour,
Welcome a thousand fold to thi Citee!

And she, thi modir Blessed mot she be
That cometh eke, and angelys an ende,
Wel wynged and wel horsed, hidir fle,
Thousendys on this goode approche attende;
And ordir aftir ordir thei commende,
As Seraphin, as Cherubyn, as Throne,
As Domynaunce, and Princys hidir sende;
And, at o woord, right welcom euerychone!

But Kyng Herry the Sexte, as Goddes Sone
Or themperour or kyng Emanuel,
To London, welcomer be noo persone;
O souuerayn Lord, welcom! Now wel, Now wel!
Te Deum to be songen, wil do wel,
And Benedicta Sancta Trinitas!
Now prosperaunce and peax perpetuel
Shal growe,-and why? ffor here is Vnitas.

Therof to the Vnitee 'Deo gracias'
In Trinitee! The Clergys and Knyghthode
And Comynaltee better accorded nas
Neuer then now; Now nys ther noon abode,
But out on hem that fordoon Goddes forbode,
Periurous ar, Rebellovs and atteynte,
So forfaytinge her lyif and lyvelode,
Although Ypocrisie her faytys peynte.

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Let's Just Suppose

Let’s just suppose
That over four thousand young men
Got jobs and got married
Became normal Americans and then

Let’s just suppose
These same young men of our new generation
Stayed home and avoided
Nightmares and mutilation

Let’s just suppose
Over four thousand lives were sadly expended
In a hostile land, so far away
In a war built on lies, and is yet open-ended

Let’s just suppose
That many untold billions in funds
Had over four thousand of those young men
Building our country, in lieu of bearing guns

Let’s just suppose
That instead, billions were spent on education
On infrastructure, medical research and homeland defense
Lives better spent, to build a better, stronger nation

Let’s just suppose
That the mad minds in our administration
Had Instead, kept those heroic young boys
safe at home, while still defending our nation

Let’s just wonder
amidst all the war-wager’s noise
Was this one man…Saddam Housein
Worth more than four thousand of our young boys?

Let’s just suppose
This madness we could suspend
All stand together and say “enough is enough.”
We’re not the world’s policemen
This madness must end!

Let’s just propose….
To bring our young men
Back home.

poem by David Whalen
Added by Poetry Lover
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Angels

Angels..
do you believe in angels?
do angels believe in you?
which question, the more sensible?

suppose angels
to know greatly more than us..
suppose, that’s why they’re there…

suppose, they know space is not fully real:
enter it knowingly, to deliver us
a holy message, wearing whiteness, light,
which would announce them
truthful, good of all good, and beautiful..

suppose, they know time is not fully real:
enter it knowingly, to deliver us
a message that’s eternal, phrased
in terms of human life, direct, immediate;

suppose them, to be untroubled
by human frailty: knowing all
they need to know; messengers
of love beyond all love;
rejoicing in the heavenly joy
of living under perfect law..

suppose… suppose…
that all this living metaphor,
so recognisable to human mind,
lives in each human heart..

poem by Michael Shepherd
Added by Poetry Lover
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