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Sainthood is acceptable only in saints.

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You only know saints by their miracles.

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The argument that the two parties should represent opposed ideals and policies, one, perhaps, of the Right and the other of the Left, is a foolish idea acceptable only to doctrinaire and academic thinkers.

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THE TOMB OF THE SAINTS... [A Visit To The Catacombs]

Visited the Tomb of the Saints last week
At the catacombs, beneath blackened soil
Cracked cobblestone, its entry path
Outer walls wrapped, in pea-green moss
Ancient must grabs you by the throat
Coats your lungs like the Takla Makan
Yet, two-thousand years of ashened mire
Ne're waver curious minds, from visiting
Canonized souls, within hallowed walls
It's cellared cold dampness, chilling your marrow
And, the warmest days, cool your blood, and brow
Centuries of Godliness, imbedded, like stonehenge

Walk deep inside its sacred womb...explore
Touch the countless stoneheads one by one
Each crypt a storied tale beyond its epitaph
Tales of martyrdom, aberration....miracles confirmed
Read, the etched carvings 'tween aged crosslines
Remind yourself as to who they were
Before they stood before you here, in silent sainthood
The structure itself, wears a badge of discord
Hieroglyphics still vaguely legible....
Saw the disfigured Cross of James The Lesser
So curved, it mirrored the twist of St. Bridget's
Time's touch is acrid, and boldly un-Christian

The chilled ambiance...eerily captive
Makes Grant's Tomb, seem like Strawberry Fields
Candles at night, only shadow this maze
Of the sacred remains, in thie caverned walls
Walking back on the cobblestone path, i muse
How faith, and sacrifice, still strike the heart
And my God....how my lungs ached for days
From the lingered must and moss that festered
As if Heaven made it clear, i would not soon forget
My visit, and experience in the catacombs
And i'm going back to the Tomb of the Saints
And revel in its holy echo, once again

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If Only you would

If Only you would
Give me refuge O Lord
To stay at your feet
In a line of saints.

I've already left behind
The world I loved.
Don't stand still:
It's your move now.

My caste is low;
My origins humble.
A little help from you
Will go a long way.

Thanks to Namdeo
You visited me
In a dream that left me
Poetry.

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Saints

They raise up saints
in the religions I've known.
And then they carve them
in white marble stone.
What have they done
to deserve such praise?
Have they done anything more
than our poor earthly slaves?

It seems to me
that they're so far away.
Why do people pray to them
every single day?
Sainthood is saved
for holy ones,
not sisters, brothers and sons,
who may not be holy
but give up their lives.
Their white marble stone
never ever survives.

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Not Only Accepted But Endorsed

When one is revealed to have an intelligence,
Among others who are more interested...
In displaying an ignorance,
That entertains in delighting...
Acceptable foolishness.
Here can be found in environments like this...
Is a total absence of an accountable responsibility.
With an insistence that persists.

And those who appear,
To have acquired an 'intelligence'...
Are often dismissed as novelties.
In environments,
Where a lack of discipline and laziness...
Is not only accepted,
But endorsed as a reflection...
Of what a mindlessness can enforce to exist.

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Only Once

Outside the gray clocks
Deeper than souls of books
Revel like a dragon
We all are dangerous
We are all beautiful
Oh! How I wished I was intoxicated
Only art makes me stay hard
Your bed must have elegance

Touch the senseless stars
The light frozen inside
Order like a Rimbaud kiss
Long sweet notes of Italy
Divine poetry
Paintings of a jazz garden
Necklace of quiet vulnerability
Subdued away from chivalry

We travelled by ship
We waited for the saints
I lost all faces
You gained the world
Knowledge brings slow death
Have you heard a voice in your world
Love is like a song we hear once
Only once

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Who but could—the saints preserve us, resist her...

Here; alone lying on this cotton pillow.
I can still recall the lure of her lily scent:
Bouquets do me gaze and camphor and shadow...
Never a dull moment does the heart repent:

Her fragrance, what; a promiscuous, allure.
Such elicit essences spring ajar the dart...
What an art this palpable kiss velour.
How it courses through my head and lonely heart...

Then swept-on bye with brocades of flower
Spent-fallen, from Piety, a honey-suckle,
Vine; twisting around, the Lover’s Lane Larkspur.
Who in the world could be gleeful, yet; still bashful?

Who but could—the saints preserve us, resist her.
Maybe; only the “Morning Star her goddess sister”.

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Who but could—the saints, resist her...

Here; alone lying on this cotton pillow.
I can still recall the lure of her lily scent:
Bouquets do me gaze and camphor and shadow...
Never a dull moment does the heart repent:

Her fragrance, what; a promiscuous, allure.
Such elicit essences spring ajar the dart...
What an art this palpable kiss velour.
How it courses through my head and lonely heart...

Then swept-on bye with brocades of flower
Spent-fallen, from Piety, a honey-suckle,
Vine; twisting around, the Lover's Lane Larkspur.
Who in the world could be gleeful, yet; still bashful?

Who but could—the saints preserve us, resist her.
Maybe; only the "Morning Star her goddess sister".

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In Acceptable Bondage

They find themselves in acceptable bondage.
Feeling complete and shackled,
With a dignity and pride...
Only money and the absence,
Of an identity can buy!

Trapped by things that can not touch them back!
However...
They have secured their place,
With the best of those achieving...
The heights of a nothingness to offer!
And 'that' they believe...
Will leave a mark of success,
That feeds others best!

Their accomplishments will go down,
In a history that has already been forgotten.
But who cares?
They did prove without question,
They and they alone...
Can and did live well!

Without a documented fact,
That they ever lived at all!
Just produced.
An array of discretions...
To sustain an influx,
Of their own seductions.
And this did not require an insight,
To inspire!

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As Though It Were My Only Son....

there is no such thing as an official poem.
there maybe familiar ones,
most acceptable ones with the pulitzers and nobels and whatevers
but there is only this personal poem that you compose
for no one, or for no other and sometimes not even for yourself
it is a journal, a landmark of your stay,
a feeling that you cannot forget, you record it,
it is only you who knows it well and fully
recognizes it when after a time, when you have forgotten,
it comes to you as a reminder
about someone, about something, about an event
that when you pass away and come back
in whatever form
it becomes a scent of someone, or something and then
you remember exactly
what it was, and then you say, this is the poem that i have once
composed
and i love it, and i remember,
it is my poem,
i have composed it for that reason
and i am proud of it
as though
it were my only son.

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Love's the Only Thing Worth Dying for

Love's the only thing worth dying for, bleeding for:
From out of the whole world's total comings and goings,
The only commerce can absolve finally the emptiness
All the saints knew this: that to truly live abundantly
One must give oneself over to that slow, flameless burn
Renew the undying heart of love; encompassing holocaust
Then the purified heart becomes a hidden sun
With the fearful power suns contain, secretly within
Which the eternal mind of creation can combust;
Exhaust, the continuous machination of it's universes
Whose very cores ignite, when that unmanifest potential;
Of Love becomes too great, too strong to bear
To be resisted for one more instant out of time
The force borne toward and away from love, unbalanced
Creation's exigency bursts forth into being, out of fullness,
From a single dying exhalation of breath, either side of the fulcrum
Lit by the single fuse of one who once died, blossoming into love.

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Angels Are Not Saints

angels are not saints, we do believe that they exist
they can even transform themselves into human for
form, but still remain to what they are in their natural
phenomenon

they are called by many names, they too have rank to
obey, for angels lives like us, who work and have task
given by their master, in some moments we see them,
as they appears everyone notice them for angels, are
favorite images in every literature

angels are not God, that can judge nor an icon to be adored
in the altar that we throne, for only they serve to the master
where they return, in God's wisdom they are form

all angels are holy, but not a saints, as it could be, for only
man's nature reserved to be, by holiness one's sinfulness
make us saint in all eternity

angels is in highest stage, where over and above human sphere,
never that they are superior nor inferior to human lure, for one
mistake subject to be thrown to the fire that burn

angels are angels never be a saints for eternity, for our destiny
they are made, forever they well always lead us, we equal the
same beginning in the image and likeness of God, we took
and shared one love, a breath that last for a lifetime

angels as we, differ from they, who by the one who sent them,
reminds us all, to be, in a nation of saints not of an angel
where we are call

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As The Saints Enter In

Will the Saints go marching in, or humbly greet God, who died for sin?
Will they march in as if deserving, or enter humbled hearts for serving?
How will they enter God’s Gate above, open only, through God’s love?
The love and mercy poured on us, when by Grace we embraced Jesus.

All knowing we would return to dust, without that humble heart of Trust,
Knowing that we’d return to the earth, apart from Christ’s Spiritual Birth,
For it’s nothing that we have done, but all the work of God’s Only Son,
Christ’s finished work on the Cross, for we bring only, our sinful dross.

Undeserving, Grace allows us to see, it is not of us, but, God’s Mercy,
As Christ received all we deserve, when His Father, He chose to serve,
Becoming for us God’s Sacrifice, so that we could enter into Paradise,
The finished work, of Christ alone, makes way for us to be God’s Own.

What God did, truly humbles men, when in Christ, they are Born Again,
Through God’s Spirit from above, men are humbled by Amazing Love,
And through faith, alone in Christ, by God, we are granted Eternal Life,
Beginning with New Life we receive, when God’s Truth, we truly believe.

It truly is the Lord’s Gift of Grace, that we shall enter God’s Holy Place,
As men born in sin, with feet of clay, only God could provide The Way,
So it is God Who will be Glorified, as all the Saints humbly step inside,
The Holy, Dwelling Place of The Lord, to serve with Christ forevermore.

(Copyright ©10/2009)

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Hail The Saints!

The 'Saints' are a group of (mostly) seventh grade boys from St. David's School in NYC who are playing in the Chelsea Piers Soccer League. This is dedicated to them.


HAIL THE SAINTS!

Hail the Saints as we ponder the year;
an annus mirabilis - let's give a cheer.
And as it relates to that leather-bound sphere,
other than Chelsea - had we a Peer?

The Saints were Olympian; the Saints were Titanic.
Their boyish élan was - both divine and satanic.
The Saints were miraculous; the Saints were divine.
The Saints had good sportsmanship - most of the time.

Their strikes were just heavenly; their saves were Nirvana.
Their moves looked like those of - Diego Maradona.
But once in a while, without notice or warning,
the play was erratic - like George Best in the morning.

Let us proclaim from the rooftops, indeed:
Lude pro nobis - our footballing creed.
The litany of saints is a short one to quote.
So, may I commence? I know it by rote.

Henry and Daniel, Dany and James;
Patty and Arthur of 'golden boot' fame.
Alfredo and Colin and Jake will pass on,
the gospel of soccer by Luke and by John.

The Saints would surprise me - again and again:
that boys-will-be-boys, but still be 'good men'.
But what I loved best 'bout this team - and it's rare,
was their sense of camaraderie - palpably there.

So as they go forward in soccer and life,
dribbling thru toils and trials and strife.
I hope they'll remember those days - they were fun.
When soccer and Sainthood - united as one.

(March 2010 New York City)

Mark J. Schulte
____________

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Only Small Ray

Only a small ray can pass
No one can make trespass
It is living hell and severe punishment
For patriots it is called banishment

How much sacrifice one has to make?
Whose interest is in jeopardy or at stake?
How much humiliation you undergo as slave?
Is there any great abuse and intruder can give?

I took to arms for holy cause
There was complete lull and pause
As if freedom spirit was dying or seen no where
No one could think of taking up arms and dare

Scores of comrades lost their lives in ensuing struggle
There was no law and order as if prevailed in jungle
It was more of insult and complete hell
Nothing was acceptable except the isolation in cell

I don’t remember how many were pushed behind bars?
It was even feared many more might have been pushed very far
Yet we had kept high spirit with burning of freedom lamp
We wanted it to achieve through peaceful means and stamp

I would hear cuckoos and sparrows sweet voice
Though it was reaching to me with faint noise
I had high hope of bright day with promises
When birds could freely sing we could not afford to miss

It was clear in mind that we would be lost in history pages
History would be with full of errors and cleverly managed too
But that was misconception at this time and I was forced to rethink
It was very much advisable to risk life and prefer to sink

The freedom and independence is not won without sacrifices
It has lost its charm during process with disappearance of old faces
New generation may takes us to new zenith with no tall promises
But keep high tradition and values with no more visible lapses

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When The Saints Go Marching In

We are traveling in the footsteps
Of those whove gone before
But well all be reunited (but if we stand reunited)
On a new and sunlit shore (then a new world is in store)
Oh when the saints go marching in
When the saints go marching in
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
And when the sun refuse (begins) to shine
And when the sun refuse (begins) to shine
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
When the moon turns red with blood
When the moon turns red with blood
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
On that hallelujah day
On that hallelujah day
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
Oh when the trumpet sounds the call
Oh when the trumpet sounds the call
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
Some say this world of trouble
Is the only one we need
But Im waiting for that morning
When the new world is revealed
When the revelation (revolution) comes
When the revelation (revolution) comes
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
When the rich go out and work
When the rich go out and work
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
When the air is pure and clean
When the air is pure and clean
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
When we all have food to eat
When we all have food to eat
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
When our leaders learn to cry
When our leaders learn to cry
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in

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All-Saints' Day (1867)

Blessed are they whose baby-souls are bright,
Whose brows are sealèd with the cross of light,
Whom God Himself has deign'd to robe in white—
Blessed are they!

Blessed are they who follow through the wild
His sacred footprints, as a little child;
Who strive to keep their garments undefiled—
Blessed are they!

Blessed are they who commune with the Christ,
Midst holy angels, at the Eucharist—
Who aye seek sunlight through the rain and mist—
Blessed are they!

Blessed are they—the strong in faith and grace—
Who humbly fill their own appointed place;
They who with steadfast patience run the race—
Blessed are they!

Blessed are they who suffer and endure—
They who through thorns and briars walk safe and sure;
Gold in the fire made beautiful and pure!—
Blessed are they!

Blessed are they on whom the angels wait,
To keep them facing the celestial gate,
To help them keep their vows inviolate—
Blessed are they!

Blessed are they to whom, at dead of night,—
In work, in prayer—though veiled from mortal sight,
The great King's messengers bring love and light—
Blessed are they!

Blessed are they whose labours only cease
When God decrees the quiet, sweet release;
Who lie down calmly in the sleep of peace—
Blessed are they!
Whose dust is angel-guarded, where the flowers
And soft moss cover it, in this earth of ours;
Whose souls are roaming in celestial bowers—
Blessed are they!

Blessed are they—our precious ones—who trod
A pathway for us o'er the rock-strewn sod.
How are they number'd with the saints of God!
Blessed are they!

Blessed are they, elected to sit down
With Christ, in that day of supreme renown,
When His own Bride shall wear her bridal crown—
Blessed are they!

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Who Are The Saints?

Just who are the Saints my friend, let The Word help you comprehend?
Are Saints a select religious few, selected by a tiny hand picked crew?
Are they made for worship by men, which by Christ will be condemned?
Or are they men like me and you, who have come into a life that’s new?

Call no one on earth Father Jesus said, it’s in Matthew haven’t you read?
For we have but one Father in Heaven, all else is simply religious leaven.
Men’s pious religious veneration, has nothing to do with true Salvation.
True Saints are humbled when, they realize they should be condemned.

All those who come to Christ in faith, are said by God to be His Saints.
Saints are the men set apart by God, while still upon this earth we trod.
We become a Saint when we believe, so please friend, don’t be deceived.
The Bible said that men would fall away, in the spiritual apostasy of today.

What about the Saints at Ephesus, should these men be respected less?
What about the Saints at Rome, the Pope or Vatican wasn’t even known?
Why not believe the words of Christ, if we’re serious about Eternal Life?
The Holy Spirit is the one who seals, all God’s living Saints who are real.

Our worship should go to only one; and that is God and His Only Son.
Just one mediator between God and man, this is easy to understand.
The mediator is Jesus Christ; for Christ is the One who gave His life.
He gave His life for me and you; Christ died so we could live life anew.

Because of His work on the cross, we enter God’s throne with boldness.
He now intercedes for the Saints, who pray to God through humble faith.
Soon Christ will call His Saints up, to return with Him in eternal triumph.
Then religious men in fear will faint, when they see Christ’s real Saints.

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When The Saints Go Marchin' In (Live)

WHEN THE SAINT GO MARCHING IN
Louis Armstrong
I: We are trav'ling in the footsteps
Of those who've gone before
But we'll all be reunited (But if we stand reunited)
On a new and sunlit shore (Then a new world is in store)
D - - - / G - - - / D - - - / A - - - /
D - - - / G - - - / D - A - / D - - - //
V: O when the Saints go marching in
When the Saints go marching in
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
D - - - / / / A7 - - - / D - - - / G - - - / D - A - / D - - - //
And when the sun refuse (begins) to shine
And when the sun refuse (begins) to shine
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
When the moon turns red with blood
When the moon turns red with blood
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
On that hallelujah day
On that hallelujah day
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
O when the trumpet sounds the call
O when the trumpet sounds the call
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
B: Some say this world of trouble
Is the only one we need
But I'm waiting for that morning
When the new world is revealed
(As Intro)
V: When the revelation (revolution) comes
When the revelation (revolution) comes
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
When the rich go out and work
When the rich go out and work
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
When the air is pure and clean
When the air is pure and clean
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
When we all have food to eat
When we all have food to eat
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
When our leaders learn to cry
When our leaders learn to cry
O Lord I want to be in that number
When the Saints go marching in
Bo Peterson

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