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He makes idle boasting.

Latin proverbs
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Refuse To Be The One With That Title

Picking with an esteem,
A choice not to be one idle.
And not one to be guided by...
A looking with eyes from side to side.

Picking with an esteem,
A choice not to be one idle.
And not one to be guided by...
A looking with eyes from side to side.

Looking ahead and keeping one's faith,
With a hold that shows one bridled.
Are the ones who never wait too late...
Until time from them has escaped.

Picking with an esteem,
A choice not to be idle.
And not one to be guided by...
A looking with eyes from side to side.

Picking with an esteem,
A choice not to be...idle.
And not one to be guided by...
A looking with eyes from side to side.

Procrastinators are the ones to make mistakes.
And found to be...idle.
As they watch time from them fly right by...
While trying to catch up with slow strides.

Picking with an esteem,
A choice not to be one idle.
And not one to be guided by...
A looking with eyes from side to side.

Picking with an esteem,
A choice not to be...idle.
And not one to be guided by...
A looking with eyes from side to side.

Procrastinators are the ones to make mistakes.
And found to be those idle.
While trying to catch up with slow strides,
As they watch time from them fly right by.

Don't procrastinate and find it's much too late.
Refuse to be the one left idle.
Don't procrastinate and find it's much too late.
Refuse to be the one left idle.
Don't procrastinate and find it's much too late.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Tale XXI

The Learned Boy

An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true;
He did by all as all by him should do;
Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,
Yet famed for rustic hospitality:
Left with his children in a widow'd state,
The quiet man submitted to his fate;
Though prudent matrons waited for his call,
With cool forbearance he avoided all;
Though each profess'd a pure maternal joy,
By kind attention to his feeble boy;
And though a friendly Widow knew no rest,
Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd;
Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone
Their hearts' concern to see him left alone,
Jones still persisted in that cheerless life,
As if 'twere sin to take a second wife.
Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,
To find such numbers who will serve instead;
And in whatever state a man be thrown,
'Tis that precisely they would wish their own;
Left the departed infants--then their joy
Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy:
Whatever calling his, whatever trade,
To that their chief attention has been paid;
His happy taste in all things they approve,
His friends they honour, and his food they love;
His wish for order, prudence in affairs,
An equal temper (thank their stars!), are theirs;
In fact, it seem'd to be a thing decreed,
And fix'd as fate, that marriage must succeed:
Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and

hard,
Can hear such claims and show them no regard.
Soon as our Farmer, like a general, found
By what strong foes he was encompass'd round,
Engage he dared not, and he could not fly,
But saw his hope in gentle parley lie;
With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart,
He met the foe, and art opposed to art.
Now spoke that foe insidious--gentle tones,
And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones:
'Three girls,' the Widow cried, 'a lively three
To govern well--indeed it cannot be.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'it calls for pains and care:
But I must bear it.'--'Sir, you cannot bear;
Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye:'
'That, my kind friend, a father's may supply.'

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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Idle Lives Live to Wander

Idle lives live to wander,
Under discouraged eyes...
Reset to ponder,
Why they choose fits to drift...
In a constant need.
Of wanting to please.

Idle lives live to wander,
Under discouraged eyes...
Why,
There are others who believe...
They live just to be on bended knees.
Begging freely from a 'Deity'.
In a pleading to make easier,
A way of life they accept to breathe.

Idle lives live to wander,
Under discouraged eyes...
Reset to ponder,
Why they choose fits to drift...
In a constant need.
Of wanting to please.

Idle lives live to wander,
In a constant need.
Of wanting to please.

Idle lives live to wander,
In a constant need.
Of wanting to please.

Idle lives live to wander,
In a constant need.
Of wanting to please.

In a constant need.
Of wanting to please.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Go For The Throat (Use Your Own Imagination)

Words and music by rick nielsen
Dont call me baby
Dont call me your inspiration
Dont call me jealous
I dont need you
Dont try to use me
You can use your own imagination
Just a little bit of information before I leave you
You gotta go for the throat (you can use your own imagination)
You gotta do it alone (just a little bit of information)
I am what I am (you can use your own imagination)
When I go for the throat
Dont try to please me
You just give me idle conversation
Doesnt give me any indication or reason
Dont try to use me
You can use your own imagination
Must be some sort of explanation or reason
And I go for the throat (you just give me idle conversation)
And I do it alone (you can use your own imagination)
And I am what I am (must be some sort of explanation)
When I go for the throat
If I say it again would you listen to me
If I shout it this time
If I say it again would you listen to me
If I shout it this time
Get a grip on yourself try to do it in time
Gotta say to yourself
If I say it again would you listen to me
If I shout it this time
I cant stand it no more (you can use your own imagination)
I go for the throat (just a little bit of information)
I do it alone (you just give me idle conversation)
I am what I am (you can use your own imagination)
cause I go for the throat (must be some sort of explanation)
I cant stand it no more (you can use your own imagination)
I am what I am (just a little bit of information)
I do it alone (you just give me idle conversation)
cause I go for the throat (must be some sort of explanation)
I am what I am (just a little bit of information)
I do it alone (you just give me idle conversation)

song performed by Cheap Trick
Added by Lucian Velea
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Go For The Throat

Words and music by rick nielsen
Don't call me baby
Don't call me your inspiration
Don't call me jealous
I don't need you
Don't try to use me
You can use your own imagination
Just a little bit of information before i leave you
You gotta go for the throat (you can use your own imagination)
You gotta do it alone (just a little bit of information)
I am what i am (you can use your own imagination)
When i go for the throat
Don't try to please me
You just give me idle conversation
Doesn't give me any indication or reason
Don't try to use me
You can use your own imagination
Must be some sort of explanation or reason
And i go for the throat (you just give me idle conversation)
And i do it alone (you can use your own imagination)
And i am what i am (must be some sort of explanation)
When i go for the throat
If i say it again would you listen to me
If i shout it this time
If i say it again would you listen to me
If i shout it this time
Get a grip on yourself try to do it in time
Gotta say to yourself
If i say it again would you listen to me
If i shout it this time
I can't stand it no more (you can use your own imagination)
I go for the throat (just a little bit of information)
I do it alone (you just give me idle conversation)
I am what i am (you can use your own imagination)
'cause i go for the throat (must be some sort of explanation)
I can't stand it no more (you can use your own imagination)
I am what i am (just a little bit of information)
I do it alone (you just give me idle conversation)
'cause i go for the throat (must be some sort of explanation)
I am what i am (just a little bit of information)
I do it alone (you just give me idle conversation)

song performed by Cheap Trick
Added by Lucian Velea
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Kiss Me Idle

Roses dead in dirty water held up by the vase
Once a gift good-bye but now remind me to replace
Hardened petals bang the dresser when they fall away
Kiss me idle
Kiss me without make-up, leave no marks upon my chest
Kiss me for no other reason then to give your eyes a rest
Kiss me slow and leave me lifeless, let this all digest
Kiss me idle
Slowly, slowly, the longer it takes the better mistakes we end up stumbling on
I wouldnt want to leave upon your tongue a sour taste
Leave it foiled and disappointed, wanting to be chased
A mouth thats open wide and speechless seems like such a waste
Kiss me idle
One time lazy, another time dear, despite all your fears of outlasting my love
I cant afford the stubborn sleep on photographs of birthdays past
So close your eyes and catch your breath and I will wait right here
I tied my fingers to remind me to leave you every day
While my hair is growing white, the strings are turning gray
One by one they come undone until they fall away
Kiss me idle kiss me idle

song performed by Verve Pipe
Added by Lucian Velea
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OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII (Entire)

Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove;
Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
Thou madest Life in man and brute;
Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot
Is on the skull which thou hast made.

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
Thou madest man, he knows not why,
He thinks he was not made to die;
And thou hast made him: thou art just.

Thou seemest human and divine,
The highest, holiest manhood, thou:
Our wills are ours, we know not how;
Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

Our little systems have their day;
They have their day and cease to be:
They are but broken lights of thee,
And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

We have but faith: we cannot know;
For knowledge is of things we see;
And yet we trust it comes from thee,
A beam in darkness: let it grow.

Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But more of reverence in us dwell;
That mind and soul, according well,
May make one music as before,

But vaster. We are fools and slight;
We mock thee when we do not fear:
But help thy foolish ones to bear;
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.

Forgive what seem’d my sin in me;
What seem’d my worth since I began;
For merit lives from man to man,
And not from man, O Lord, to thee.

Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair.
I trust he lives in thee, and there
I find him worthier to be loved.

Forgive these wild and wandering cries,

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Know Your Dreams

Claim you will not maim,
Those goals you have named to achieve.
No matter if your shoulders hold a heavy load...
Keep your motor fueled.
Don't be fooled by losers.
Wishing to melt away your 'cool'.

Keep that heat you've got,
Turned up and piping hot!
Don't let that boat you row spring a leak.
Or be stopped by a rocking that shocks...
Your eyes,
Away from the prize.
Keep alive,
Those dreams not meant to idle.

Claim,
You will not maim...
Those goals you have named to achieve,
Accomplish and to realize.

Keep alive your eyes and kept on the prize.
Know your dreams,
Are not meant just to idle.

Keep that heat you've got,
Turned up and piping hot!
And know your dreams,
Are not meant just to idle.

Keep alive your eyes and kept on the prize.
Know your dreams,
Can be achieved and realized.

Keep that heat you've got,
Turned up and piping hot!
And know your dreams,
Are not meant just to idle.

Keep alive your eyes and kept on the prize.
Know your dreams,
Can be achieved and realized.
They're not just yours,
To sit around and idle.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Idle in June

She dares not let the world hear her speak,
She's getting thin and looking meek,
A grey hair is splitting in her widows peak
She lays idle in the month of June.

Her hands are cracked and stained from mud,
although she bathes in lathered suds
There's a little of me inside her blood
She lays idle in the month of June 

She carries child at her old age,
She's stuck inside her fleshy cage,
Her father birthed her insidious rage
She lays idle in the month of June.

They locked her in a cell up high,
The crime of seeking suicide
Some women they are born only to die,
She lays idle in the month of June.

One day, I know, I'll see her soon,
How I loathe the month of June,
We'll met again come the next new moon,  
I won't forget her, idle in the month of June.

poem by H.J. Shreeve
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Annus Mirabilis, The Year Of Wonders, 1666

1
In thriving arts long time had Holland grown,
Crouching at home and cruel when abroad:
Scarce leaving us the means to claim our own;
Our King they courted, and our merchants awed.

2
Trade, which, like blood, should circularly flow,
Stopp'd in their channels, found its freedom lost:
Thither the wealth of all the world did go,
And seem'd but shipwreck'd on so base a coast.

3
For them alone the heavens had kindly heat;
In eastern quarries ripening precious dew:
For them the Idumaean balm did sweat,
And in hot Ceylon spicy forests grew.

4
The sun but seem'd the labourer of the year;
Each waxing moon supplied her watery store,
To swell those tides, which from the line did bear
Their brimful vessels to the Belgian shore.

5
Thus mighty in her ships, stood Carthage long,
And swept the riches of the world from far;
Yet stoop'd to Rome, less wealthy, but more strong:
And this may prove our second Punic war.

6
What peace can be, where both to one pretend?
(But they more diligent, and we more strong)
Or if a peace, it soon must have an end;
For they would grow too powerful, were it long.

7
Behold two nations, then, engaged so far
That each seven years the fit must shake each land:
Where France will side to weaken us by war,
Who only can his vast designs withstand.

8
See how he feeds the Iberian with delays,
To render us his timely friendship vain:
And while his secret soul on Flanders preys,
He rocks the cradle of the babe of Spain.

9
Such deep designs of empire does he lay

[...] Read more

poem by John Dryden
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El Harith

Lightly took she her leave of me, Asmá--u,
went no whit as a guest who outstays a welcome;
Went forgetting our trysts, Burkát Shemmá--u,
all the joys of our love, our love's home, Khalsá--u.
Muhayyátu, she thee forgets, Sifáhu,
thee, Fitákon, Aádibon, thee Wafá--u.
Thee, Riád el Katá, thee, vale of Shérbub,
'Anak, thee, Shobatána, and thee, Ablá--u.
Nay, ye lost are to me with my lost glory;
nay, though tears be my meat, weeping wins no woman.
Yet, a snare to my eyes, afar was kindled
fire by night on the hill. It was Hind's love--beacon.
Blindly now do I watch her from Khezáza;
woe, the warmth of it, woe,--though the hilltops redden!
Woe its blaze from Akík, its flame from Shákhseyn!
woe the signal alight for me, Hind's love--incense!

Out on tears and despair! I go free, sundered;
here stand doors of relief. Who hath fled escapeth.
Mount I light on my nága. No hen ostrich
swift as she, the tall trotter, her brood behind her,
Hearing voices who fled from them, the hunters,
pressing fast on her way from mid--eve to nightfall.
Nay, behold her, my noble one, upheaving
motes and dust on her path, as a cloud pursuing.
All un--shooed are the feet of her, her sandals
strewn how wide on her road by the rough rocks loosened.
Joy thus take I on her, the summer heat through.
All but I had despaired,--like a blinded camel.

O the curse of men's eyes, of their ill--speaking!
Danger deep and a wound did their false lips deal us.
Have not these with their tongues made small things great things,
telling lies of our lives, our kind kin, the Arákim?
Mixing blame with un--blame for us, till flouted
stand we, proven of wrong, with the guilty guiltless.
All, say these, that have run with us the wild ass,
ours are they, our allies, as our own tribe their tribes.
Thus by night did they argue it and plot it,
rose at dawn to their treason and stood forth shouting.
Loud the noise of their wrath. This called, that answered;
great the neighings of steeds and the camel roarings.

Ho, thou weaver of wild words, thou tale--painter!
must it thus be for ever and thus with Amru?
Not that slanders are strange. Their words we heed not;
long ere this have we known them, their lips, the liars.
High above them we live. Hate may not harm us,
fenced in towers of renown, our unstained bright honour.
Long hath anger assailed us, rage, denial;

[...] Read more

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Helping Hands

You gotta believe we can change the world
Don't turn a blind eye to tomorrow's world
But on the good side looking out
Don't take for granted the silent shout
The hands of time are rolling past
To turn the tide, we must move fast
Let's share the hope and pull some strings
We hold the answer this vision sings
They're holding on
But for how long
Let's set them free
Put your helping hands together rockin' on for survival
Gotta take a stand, time to make a plan, don't sit idle
We are the key to the dreams
It's not as hard as it seems
No
Get up and put your hands together
All your helping hands
Oh yeah
We're three steps down, you're two steps back
No more widgin' and that's a fact
A call to arms, let's take a stand
It's up to you to lend a helping hand
They're holding on
But for how long
Let's set them free
Put your helping hands together rockin' on for survival
Gotta take a stand, time to make a plan, don't sit idle
We are the key to the dreams
It's not as hard as it seems
No
Get up and put your hands together
All your helping hands, yeah
We're the thunder in the storm
That brings the winds of change
Together we can overcome
And start a brand new day
Put your helping hands together rockin' on for survival (Yeah yeah)
Gotta take a stand, it's time to make a plan, don't sit idle (No, no, no, no)
Put your helping hands together rockin' on for survival
Gotta take a stand, c'mon make a plan, don't sit idle (Oh!)

song performed by Quiet Riot
Added by Lucian Velea
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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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Pearl

Pearl of delight that a prince doth please
To grace in gold enclosed so clear,
I vow that from over orient seas
Never proved I any in price her peer.
So round, so radiant ranged by these,
So fine, so smooth did her sides appear
That ever in judging gems that please
Her only alone I deemed as dear.
Alas! I lost her in garden near:
Through grass to the ground from me it shot;
I pine now oppressed by love-wound drear
For that pearl, mine own, without a spot.

2
Since in that spot it sped from me,
I have looked and longed for that precious thing
That me once was wont from woe to free,
To uplift my lot and healing bring,
But my heart doth hurt now cruelly,
My breast with burning torment sting.
Yet in secret hour came soft to me
The sweetest song I e'er heard sing;
Yea, many a thought in mind did spring
To think that her radiance in clay should rot.
O mould! Thou marrest a lovely thing,
My pearl, mine own, without a spot.

3
In that spot must needs be spices spread
Where away such wealth to waste hath run;
Blossoms pale and blue and red
There shimmer shining in the sun;
No flower nor fruit their hue may shed
Where it down into darkling earth was done,
For all grass must grow from grains that are dead,
No wheat would else to barn be won.
From good all good is ever begun,
And fail so fair a seed could not,
So that sprang and sprouted spices none
From that precious pearl without a spot.

4
That spot whereof I speak I found
When I entered in that garden green,
As August's season high came round
When corn is cut with sickles keen.
There, where that pearl rolled down, a mound
With herbs was shadowed fair and sheen,
With gillyflower, ginger, and gromwell crowned,
And peonies powdered all between.

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Child Of The Islands - Autumn

I.

BROWN Autumn cometh, with her liberal hand
Binding the Harvest in a thousand sheaves:
A yellow glory brightens o'er the land,
Shines on thatched corners and low cottage-eaves,
And gilds with cheerful light the fading leaves:
Beautiful even here, on hill and dale;
More lovely yet where Scotland's soil receives
The varied rays her wooded mountains hail,
With hues to which our faint and soberer tints are pale.
II.

For there the Scarlet Rowan seems to mock
The red sea coral--berries, leaves, and all;
Light swinging from the moist green shining rock
Which beds the foaming torrent's turbid fall;
And there the purple cedar, grandly tall,
Lifts its crowned head and sun-illumined stem;
And larch (soft drooping like a maiden's pall)
Bends o'er the lake, that seems a sapphire gem
Dropt from the hoary hill's gigantic diadem.
III.

And far and wide the glorious heather blooms,
Its regal mantle o'er the mountains spread;
Wooing the bee with honey-sweet perfumes,
By many a viewless wild flower richly shed;
Up-springing 'neath the glad exulting tread
Of eager climbers, light of heart and limb;
Or yielding, soft, a fresh elastic bed,
When evening shadows gather, faint and dim,
And sun-forsaken crags grow old, and gaunt, and grim.
IV.

Oh, Land! first seen when Life lay all unknown,
Like an unvisited country o'er the wave,
Which now my travelled heart looks back upon,
Marking each sunny path, each gloomy cave,
With here a memory, and there a grave:--
Land of romance and beauty; noble land
Of Bruce and Wallace; land where, vainly brave,
Ill-fated Stuart made his final stand,
Ere yet the shivered sword fell hopeless from his hand--
V.

I love you! I remember you! though years
Have fleeted o'er the hills my spirit knew,
Whose wild uncultured heights the plough forbears,
Whose broomy hollows glisten in the dew.

[...] Read more

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Gotham - Book II

How much mistaken are the men who think
That all who will, without restraint may drink,
May largely drink, e'en till their bowels burst,
Pleading no right but merely that of thirst,
At the pure waters of the living well,
Beside whose streams the Muses love to dwell!
Verse is with them a knack, an idle toy,
A rattle gilded o'er, on which a boy
May play untaught, whilst, without art or force,
Make it but jingle, music comes of course.
Little do such men know the toil, the pains,
The daily, nightly racking of the brains,
To range the thoughts, the matter to digest,
To cull fit phrases, and reject the rest;
To know the times when Humour on the cheek
Of Mirth may hold her sports; when Wit should speak,
And when be silent; when to use the powers
Of ornament, and how to place the flowers,
So that they neither give a tawdry glare,
'Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air;'
To form, (which few can do, and scarcely one,
One critic in an age, can find when done)
To form a plan, to strike a grand outline,
To fill it up, and make the picture shine
A full and perfect piece; to make coy Rhyme
Renounce her follies, and with Sense keep time;
To make proud Sense against her nature bend,
And wear the chains of Rhyme, yet call her friend.
Some fops there are, amongst the scribbling tribe,
Who make it all their business to describe,
No matter whether in or out of place;
Studious of finery, and fond of lace,
Alike they trim, as coxcomb Fancy brings,
The rags of beggars, and the robes of kings.
Let dull Propriety in state preside
O'er her dull children, Nature is their guide;
Wild Nature, who at random breaks the fence
Of those tame drudges, Judgment, Taste, and Sense,
Nor would forgive herself the mighty crime
Of keeping terms with Person, Place, and Time.
Let liquid gold emblaze the sun at noon,
With borrow'd beams let silver pale the moon;
Let surges hoarse lash the resounding shore,
Let streams meander, and let torrents roar;
Let them breed up the melancholy breeze,
To sigh with sighing, sob with sobbing trees;
Let vales embroidery wear; let flowers be tinged
With various tints; let clouds be laced or fringed,
They have their wish; like idle monarch boys,
Neglecting things of weight, they sigh for toys;

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poem by Charles Churchill
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Stream Of Thought

Today is an
Idle sort of day
Autumn-like-
Almost
The foliage upon the trees outside is
Somewhat bashful yet, although
It was the summer that
I have always adored
It was a day like this day, that
I was taken away.
I am starting to remember now, that
During my favorite time of year- as
I am locked inside this tiny L-shaped room-
White walled and barren as I feel inside
Impassively staring out the window.
My thoughts are elsewhere-
Thinking back forty years, upon
The day I lost myself.
Screaming in terror and bewilderment on
The very day the world first fell out from under me-
I escaped to another place and time,
Thunderclouds, black as the fear raging in my gut,
Dark and dismal as that night my world caved in.
Lost, alone and screaming with fright…
Disconnected wires in my brain,
Cotton filled and twisted out of form
It was last night I believe
They took me away and brought me to this place.
In spite of the deluge and the devil’s voices in my head
I wish I were outside dancing in the rain barefooted,
With my long auburn hair
Tossed about by the wind
Crying and laughing at the same time
At the absurdity of it all,
And if lightning were to strike me dead
It would be the demon’s voices that brought me to this place,
Running scared, screaming out in fear
As fiendish voices commanded me to die.
It is a sultry, idle sort of day
But just like any other day
Something happened that made me forget where the flowers grew.
Shock was induced to
Those disconnected wires in my brain
That set my soul afire
Screaming out in terror and in pain
A kind of pain that I never will forget,
As if a cinder block wall was erected between the world, and myself
Even if I were dancing in the rain barefooted,
My long auburn hair
Tossed about in the wind,

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poem by Claudia Krizay
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The Victories Of Love. Book I

I
From Frederick Graham

Mother, I smile at your alarms!
I own, indeed, my Cousin's charms,
But, like all nursery maladies,
Love is not badly taken twice.
Have you forgotten Charlotte Hayes,
My playmate in the pleasant days
At Knatchley, and her sister, Anne,
The twins, so made on the same plan,
That one wore blue, the other white,
To mark them to their father's sight;
And how, at Knatchley harvesting,
You bade me kiss her in the ring,
Like Anne and all the others? You,
That never of my sickness knew,
Will laugh, yet had I the disease,
And gravely, if the signs are these:

As, ere the Spring has any power,
The almond branch all turns to flower,
Though not a leaf is out, so she
The bloom of life provoked in me;
And, hard till then and selfish, I
Was thenceforth nought but sanctity
And service: life was mere delight
In being wholly good and right,
As she was; just, without a slur;
Honouring myself no less than her;
Obeying, in the loneliest place,
Ev'n to the slightest gesture, grace
Assured that one so fair, so true,
He only served that was so too.
For me, hence weak towards the weak,
No more the unnested blackbird's shriek
Startled the light-leaved wood; on high
Wander'd the gadding butterfly,
Unscared by my flung cap; the bee,
Rifling the hollyhock in glee,
Was no more trapp'd with his own flower,
And for his honey slain. Her power,
From great things even to the grass
Through which the unfenced footways pass,
Was law, and that which keeps the law,
Cherubic gaiety and awe;
Day was her doing, and the lark
Had reason for his song; the dark
In anagram innumerous spelt
Her name with stars that throbb'd and felt;

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poem by Coventry Patmore
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Fixed To Stick On Idle

And I...
Made a pact.
To get my life,
Back...
On track.
And still you,
Chewed me away.

And I...
Took all of that back,
To feel dismayed...
And from you I stayed.
To give you space.

And 'then' you appear,
Wanting me near...
Again.
But I'm not feeling it.

And 'then' you appear,
Just to let me...
See your tears.
Dripping with words,
Of missing me.

But my heart's now fixed on idle.
Without a throttle there,
To begin...
A re-starting.

Yes my heart's now fixed to stick,
On idle.
With hopes that someone else...
Will come,
With an interest to ignite...
My love.

And I...
Made a pact.
To get my life,
Back...
On track.
And still you,
Chewed me away.

And I...
Took all of that back,
To feel dismayed...
And from you I stayed.
To give you space.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A pulse in the eternal mind-Anagram Poem

Inhumane lisper talented.
Hell! I am a superintendent
Inane, up hell’s terminated
Headier, small, unpenitent.

Shut inane, an ill tempered
Leaden lush, I’m a pertinent
Humane perils in talented
Ill-natured, shape eminent

Inhumane let and reptiles
Help! I’m a sunnier talented
Inhumane talented perils
Neat hills, I am unrepented

Humane and silent reptile
Handle in sleepier mutant
Underneath ailments pile
An idle, supereminent halt

I’m a lethal, unrepented sin
Up ill mannered ‘n’ hesitate
Lamented pleasure in thin
idle snarl-up, heat eminent

Serene handle, up militant
Up eminent idea enthralls
I am the nude sin repellant
Lupine time Neanderthals.

Inane semen, putrid, lethal
Humane, planted, resilient,
Puerile hand, sentimental
Mushier and penile talent

Pluralist heed, an eminent
I 'm a stunner, idle elephant
Inane sell, I am the prudent
Serene handle, up militant

A pulse in the eternal mind
Help uninterested animal!
Insane elephant, true, mild
Unite simple Neanderthal.

In neat prudish elemental
Annihilated supreme lent

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poem by Marieta Maglas
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