Quotes about lied, page 4
Cherokee Bend
His father was a man who could never understand
The shame on a red mans face
So they lived in the hills and they never came down
But to trade in the white mans place
It was early in the spring when the snow had disappeared
They came down with a bag of skins
In the fall of the year of 1910
Daddy died by the rope down in cherokee bend.
Daddy didnt like what the white man said
bout the dirty little kid at his side
Daddy didnt like what the white man did
Nor the deal or the way that he lied
There was blood on the floor of the government store
When the men took his daddy away
But the boy stayed back till he come to his end
And he run like the wind from cherokee bend.
Now the mother was alone and the winter was at hand
And she prayed to her spirit kin
It was warm in the lodge in the kentucky hills
On the day when the boy came in
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song performed by Gordon Lightfoot
Added by Lucian Velea
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My life a lie
My life a lie
My life a lie
which i cannot deny
for i dind't try
to defy gravity
nor did I take
any effort
to break
with success
out of this
emptiness.
I lied to much
to do swear
by the truth
that each lie
was good:
for the judge
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poem by Madrason writer
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Niets te Kiezen
Niets te Kiezen
Niet verder dan dit,
niet verder dan dit lied,
verder dan dit lied niet.
Dit witte lied dat,
dat tegen de nacht
tegen de nacht aan zit.
Bleek van schemer
blauwsig zelfs,
pulserende rivieren.
Dichtgeklapte klieren,
steunende scharnieren
kreunend van de kou
dat allesomvattend
blind, dof en grauw.
Bedekt met mantelzorg
voor die nooit een
mantel droegen
er nooit om vroegen
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poem by Madrason writer
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Breathe
I know I said I couldn't breathe without
you
I lied and was blinded by that thing
called love
You are gone and I breathe just fine
Oooohhh aaaahhh
See, my lungs are just fine
How are you though?
Don't give a darn about you anymore
But have you had dinner though?
Really mad at you right now
I know I said I could breathe fine without
you
I lied and was blinded by that thing
called hurt
Your touch broke me, why did you have
to go?
I'm still on the floor where I lay
The day I heard you were gone away
My heart still hits the ground
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poem by Jenim Dibie
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In de schaduwranden van het licht.
In de schaduwranden
van het licht.
Voor hen die nooit een lied
gezongen,
voor hen die nooit een
woord gelezen,
voor hen die nooit een doek
hebben beschilderd,
ze lieten werelden in zich
besloten,
werelden waarvan we
mede genoten,
zongen ze niet onder
de regen zacht een lied,
gaven ze niet bij 't ochtend gloren
thee aan bed
met mandarijntjes toe
alsof opnieuw geboren,
zij hebben niet de moed
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poem by Madrason writer
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Center of Golden Trinkets
The greatness of this land...
Goes uncelebrated on foreign soil,
Where oil is abundant and sold to enrich...
The lives of those upon land God has chosen,
For 'them' to nourish and enrich themselves!
'May the eyes of the wise open! '
No one can fake an ownership that does not exist.
The consciousness of the Earth will not permit it!
A divineness given has made some minds sick...
With a wicked self centeredness that is going to be punished.
'May the eyes of the wise open! '
Integrity kept was not swept away by the feeding of greed.
It stay and wanted to share resources.
Forces proceeded to addict a mindset to things.
Increasing the need to fill empty spaces with waste.
And the luxury of bad taste.
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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0013 The Witness Box
It was a minor court case –
a matter of a market trader
selling maybe stolen goods,
the police attempting, probably not for the first time,
to get clear evidence to nail him…
but for those serving on a jury
for the first time, an occasion
full of all the solemn majesty of law;
the difficulties of following court proceedings;
weighing the evidence; and most of all,
the fear of convicting an innocent man –
even, as visibly here, a slippery man to deal with.
The court was small; almost intimate.
After the grubby, vague, sometimes seemingly irrelevant
prosecution claims (points being made that
a jury would not appreciate, involving finer points of law) -
and, months after the event,
policemen reading from notes they took of the case
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Autobiography
I was born in 1902
I never once went back to my birthplace
I don't like to turn back
at three I served as a pasha's grandson in Aleppo
at nineteen as a student at Moscow Communist University
at forty-nine I was back in Moscow as the Tcheka Party's guest
and I've been a poet since I was fourteen
some people know all about plants some about fish
I know separation
some people know the names of the stars by heart
I recite absences
I've slept in prisons and in grand hotels
I've known hunger even a hunger strike and there's almost no food
I haven't tasted
at thirty they wanted to hang me
at forty-eight to give me the Peace Prize
which they did
at thirty-six I covered four square meters of concrete in half a year
at fifty-nine I flew from Prague to Havana in eighteen hours
I never saw Lenin I stood watch at his coffin in '24
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poem by Nazim Hikmet
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Ballad of Fisher's Boarding-House
'T was Fultah Fisher's boarding-house,
Where sailor-men reside,
And there were men of all the ports
From Mississip to Clyde,
And regally they spat and smoked,
And fearsomely they lied.
They lied about the purple Sea
That gave them scanty bread,
They lied about the Earth beneath,
The Heavens overhead,
For they had looked too often on
Black rum when that was red.
They told their tales of wreck and wrong,
Of shame and lust and fraud,
They backed their toughest statements with
The Brimstone of the Lord,
And crackling oaths went to and fro
Across the fist-banged board.
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Ballad of Fisher's Boarding-House
That night, when through the mooring-chains
The wide-eyed corpse rolled free,
To blunder down by Garden Reach
And rot at Kedgeree,
The tale the Hughli told the shoal
The lean shoal told to me.
'T was Fultah Fisher's boarding-house,
Where sailor-men reside,
And there were men of all the ports
From Mississip to Clyde,
And regally they spat and smoked,
And fearsomely they lied.
They lied about the purple Sea
That gave them scanty bread,
They lied about the Earth beneath,
The Heavens overhead,
For they had looked too often on
Black rum when that was red.
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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