Poems

The memories of a old man are the deeds of himself in his prime
He suffers in gloom in his sickroom, and talks to himself till he dies.
Life is a short warm moment and death is a long cold rest
You give it a trie try but in the twinkling of your eye
Goes eighty years, if unlucky, much less

So all aboard for the life's tour, maybe you'll make it to the top
But watch how you go, you may find it hard to get off

You are the angel of death and I am the dead man's son
He died like a mole in a fox hole with everyone still in the run
And who masters the fox hounds? When has the hunt begun?
Who calls the tune in your courtroom? Who beats the funeral drum?

The memories of a old man are the deeds of himself in his prime
He suffers in gloom in his sickroom, and talks to himself till he dies.

STAY
Stay and help me to end the day and if you don't mind we'll taste a bottle of wine
Stick around, we'll put one down, because I wanna find what lies behind those blue eyes
Midnight blue burning gold, the yellow moon is growing cold

I rise, looking through my morning eyes, surprised to find you by my side
I rack my brain to remember your name, to find the words to tell you goodbye
Morning dues, newborn day midnight blue turn to gray,
Midnight blue burning gold, the yellow moon has grown cold

Imagine - By John Lennon
Imagine there's no Heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace

You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world

You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one

http://music.yahoo.com/ar-254694-videos--John-Lennon

At Seventeen

I like this song. It sums up the fairness society shows for women who aren't rich or pretty.
At Seventeen - by Janus Ian
I learned the truth at seventeen, that love was meant for beauty queens.
In high school girls with clear skinned smiles, who married young and then retired.
The valentines I never knew, the Friday night charades of youth,
were spent on one more beautiful. At seventeen I learned the truth.
And those of us with ravaged faces, lacking in the social graces,
desperately remained at home, inventing lovers on the phone.
Who called to say come dance with me, and murmured vague obscenities.
...It isn't all it seems, at seventeen.
A brown eyed girl in hand me downs, whose name I never could pronounce
Said, pity please, the ones who serve, we only get what we deserve.
And the rich relationed hometown queen, who married into what she needs,
A guarantee of company, and haven for the elderly.
Remember those who win the game, lose the love they sought to gain.
Indebentures of quality. And dubious integrity.
Their small town eyes will gape at you, in dull surprise when payment due.
...Exceeds accounts received. At seventeen.
To those of us who knew the pain, of valentines that never came
and those whose names were never called when choosing sides for basketball.

It was long ago and far away, the world was younger than today
And dreams were all they gave for free, to ugly duckling girls like me
We all play the game and when we dare, to cheat ourselves at solitaire
Inventing lovers on the phone, repenting other lives unknown
That call and say, come dance with me, and murmur vague obscenities
At ugly girls like me
At seventeen

If yesterday has no beginning, and tommorrow never comes
Then today is just a place, where everything is done.

If a child becomes a man, and a man turns into stone
Then the love that that man shared, is dust upon his throne.

We all know what to do. We know what's to be done.
We must love our time today, because tommorrow never comes.

And if love won't build our mountains, then what good is it you say.
Its the love you give yourself, that's the love you give away.

Cause we all know what to do. We all know what to say.
Its our voices that we hear, on each and every day.

And if yesterday doesn't begin, and tommorrow isn't done
We'll find ourselves at last, at the setting of our sun. -jrc-