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Every Man Has A Woman Who Loves Him

Evry man has a woman who loves him,
Rain or shine or life or death.
If he finds her in this life time,
He will know when he presses his ear to her breast.
Why do I roam when I know youre the one?
Why do I laugh when I feel like crying?
Evry woman has a man who loves her,
Rise or fall of her life and in death.
If she finds him in this life time,
She will know when she looks into his eyes.
Why do I roam when I know youre the one?
Why do I run when I feel like holding you?
Evry man has a woman who loves him,
If he finds her in this life time he will know.

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Paul Eluard

‘She Looks Into Me…’

She looks into me
The unknowing heart
To see if I love
She has confidence she forgets
Under the clouds of her eyelids
Her head falls asleep in my hands
Where are we
Together inseparable
Alive alive
He alive she alive
And my head rolls through her dreams.

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She Is A Mother

She is a mother, but not a wife
In the arms of another, her passion lies

Why can't her husband make her feel that way?
So lost in his own life they live day to day
Passing each other like ships in the night
And he longs to hold her but it doesn't feel right

There came a man with arms so strong
Who spoke to her heart in lyric and song
And though her passion was dim glowing embers
The fire roars again as he makes her remember

She lay at peace, in his arms, in his bed,
Until a vision troubled her head
She saw the eyes of her little ones
So out of his house to her children she runs

She cries when she thinks of his arms around her
But nothing is worth this love that surrounds her
She opens her eyes and though feeling alone
She looks in their eyes and she knows she is home

She is a mother, but not a wife
In the eyes of her children, her true love lies

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The bike must go - a song

Got to keep the engine running - My soul's on fire
Like to see my baby - my one desire
Can't help this feeling it's hard to explain
It hurts my heart it gives me pain
She says
The bike must go
No no no no no
The bike must go

Riding through the city streets, with my leathers on
Looking cool in black as the day is long
I can't quite understand it but my baby's wrong
Plugged into her Ipod and listening to her song
She says
The bike must go
No no no no no
The bike must go.

She's driving me crazy with her stance
And I'm sure she's taking me for a dance
When she says I hate it - it's like doing time
Then she looks at me and says
The bike must go
Oh no no no no
The bike must go.


There's no way around it, can't persuade her n-o more,
it'll be a pity but what can I do?
Sooner or later she's got to see
The bike's for cruising with her and me
And she says:
The bike must go
Oh no no no no
The bike must go

How can she be so cruel when I love her so
I tried ever thing to please her that I know
Got to keep my baby on the wild side
And she looks into my eyes and says
The bike must go
Oh no no no no
The bike must go

I love my baby like a dog chewing a bone
I called her this morning on the telephone,
There's no way around it
I tried my best
There's nothing more to say except
The bike must go
The bike must go
Oh no no no no
The bike must go.

*I turned this poem into a song which you can listen to on Youtube or google. Just type 'the bike must go' Enjoy.

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A Gentle Madness (Love Poem)

Love is a gentle madness that leaves you empty,
Giving everything and expecting nothing back.

Love is a gentle madness that makes you feel alive,
Taking pleasure in every little thing she does.

Love is a gentle madness that changes everything,
Making your life impossible without her near.

Love is a gentle madness that drowns your sorrow,
Blinding you to her perfectly obvious imperfections.

Love is a gentle madness that brings you peace,
Holding you closer than her breath each night.

Love is a gentle madness that turns your world,
Seeing only beauty as she looks into your eyes.

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Just A Little Sign

Here I stand alone again
Hundreds all around
Didn't come here to wake a friend
But to listen to the sound
Something's growing in my pants
As she looks into my eyes
Now I smile the whole damn night
But my dream acts cold as ice
It's time for just a little sign
It's time, make believe the world is mine
It's time for just a little sign
It's time, make believe the world is mine
Just a little sign
Shouldn't I dare to talk to her
But what is it I would say
Surely I'd look like a clown
For my smiles freeze on my face
It's time for just a little sign
It's time, make believe the world is mine
It's time for just a little sign
It's time, make believe the world is mine
Just a little sign

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Every Man Has A Woman Who Loves Him

Every man has a woman who loves him
In rain or shine or life or death
If he finds her in this life time
He will know when he presses his ear to her breast
Why do I roam when I know youre the one
Why do I laugh when I feel like crying
Every woman has a man who loves her
Rise or fall of her life and death
If she finds him in this life time
She will know when she looks into his eyes
Why do I roam when I know youre the one
Why do I run when I feel like holding you
Every man has a woman who loves him
If he finds her in this life time
He will know

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Every Man Has A Woman Who Loves Him

Evry man has a woman who loves him,
Rain or shine or life or death.
If he finds her in this life time,
He will know when he presses his ear to her breast.
Why do I roam when I know youre the one?
Why do I laugh when I feel like crying?
Evry woman has a man who loves her,
Rise or fall of her life and in death.
If she finds him in this life time,
She will know when she looks into his eyes.
Why do I roam when I know youre the one?
Why do I run when I feel like holding you?
Evry man has a woman who loves him,
If he finds her in this life time he will know.

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When Someone Comes Into Your Life

When someone comes into your life
Take a chance, my love
Forget all the pain thats inside
Open up your heart
Youll forget as shes touching
Your face that I once held you
In my embrace
It might even feel right when you
Kiss her goodnight and not me
If someone should hold down her hand
Make her yours, my love
Dont know how long it may last,
Oh, how fast love goes
Youll forget me one day, dont you know
But your memories Ill never let go
I will love you the same as I did that
First day I found you
When someone comes into your life
Never close the door
What youre looking for
Might be in your arms at last
Dont run away
When someone comes into your life
Hold fast
When someone looks into your eyes
Dont refuse their love
You cant live the rest of your life
With a broken heart
Youll forget me one day, dont you know
But your memories Ill never let go
And when love comes to stay
I hope she loves you the way
I love you
When someone comes into your life
Never close the door
What youre looking for
Might be in your arms at last
Dont run away
When someone comes into your life
If someone comes into your life
When someone comes into your life
Hold fast, hold fast

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An Epic Woman

Woman tell me your thoughts
Shall I be the fool and you the teacher?
Am I your Adonis, or do you see a toad.
Chivalry demands that I am your knight without reward,
For my kin is that of Beowulf and Lancelot,
Dragon slayers, so command me.

I am woman I need no gesture, for wisdom lies in
Raindrops hung out to dry on silken cobwebs.
And in the beggar who is happy, while his king sleeps in fear

For my kin, blessed me with a rare beauty,
My reflection rivals that of the queen Of Sheba
My thoughts entwined with the warrior queen Boadicea,
My tenderness lies in queen Amyitis and her Hanging gardens of Babylon
My passion is that of Cleopatra for Mark Anthony,
And my faith equals that of Mary

So beware young Jason, speak from the heart,
Or you will summon queen Kriemhides in me,

For she killed Attila the Hun for less,
This Woman will send you to Phineas
A slave for the harpies, if you lie,
.
My lady, I have slain the sirens with Lyre music,
For my love for you was greater,
Alexander wept when there were no more worlds to conquer
Achilles killed Hector for Helen,
And King Leonidas defeated the Persian Empire

One glance from you and their deeds fade into oblivion,
Medea the Sorcerer, My mother,
Gave birth to me, for this moment
Woman take my hand and show me your love

Jason of Argo looks into my eyes
For I see the soul of a man
Your shield is heavy to stop you running away.
Your Hero Achilles was slain by a true suitor Paris,
His love for Helen was true.

You deceive all women.
Your Friend the Goddess Hera
Was killed by you,
It is my enslavement you seek, not love.

I send you to the Eighth Circle for Eternity to be whipped by Devils.
For the Harpies deserve better.
And Remember, these words
The Wisdom of King Arthur,

When a Woman you seek, be honest at all times,
No matter what the cost.
And defend her faith, her home,
And her country with your life
For these are the Thoughts of all Women.

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What A Woman Wants

Damn what do these women want from us? Well i think they want respect, attention, affection, consideration, sexual pleasure(on those steamy nights) , to be pampered every once in a while, to be surprised every now and then lets them know we are thinkin of them other than when your around them, for their man to show them off and let every one know we feel they are our prize.Respect your woman dont look at other women. Respect her opinion and take all things she says into consideration. some women just want companionship and stability if u dont have it how can u offer it. a woman wants a man who doesnt love her jus for her looks or body but also appreciates and cherishes it. a woman wants to be happy not stressed overworked and underappreciated and a man who doesnt mind breakin his pride and attitude for her. a man who would trade anything in the world not to have her but jus to see her smile. only because if loved her the way he say he did her and her smile would be his diamond.RESPECT ATTENTION LOVE AFFECTION HONESTY AND LOYALTY will decide if ur relaltionship lasts or shud i say if u last

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The eyes of the ikon

The door creaks as she opens it
and the fall of the heavy iron latch
echoes through the empty church.

The atmosphere inside, this cold day,
is heavy, as such holy places are,
locked now at night; heavy,
with what? Anticipation? Memory,
of all the human emotions
that have passed through them?
There’s still the clinging promise,
the fragrance of yesterday’s incense;
it could almost be a midnight forest
in its wood-scented mystery.

She lights a candle, drops a coin
slowly, as those do to whom
each coin has a meaning.

She is small, shrunken as the aged are,
wrapped into roundness against the cold,
yet neatly; today there’s an extra sense of purpose
about her walk towards the glittering
gold ikonostasis –

is it the anniversary of the day
her husband perished in the labour camp?
Or the day her son died fighting
so that such as she might live,
to mourn him, proudly, all her life?

Or was she, is she, that unmarried, famous
junior lecturer who lost her job
for speaking truth, whose students
carried her shoulder-high and placed her
on the tank outside the university,
challenging its gun?

She kneels in front of the ancient ikon,
framed in gold; the ikon that tourists
note with a glance, as ‘Christ’…though when painted,
it was known as ‘Son of God’; now they call it
‘Son of Man’ – that seems to suit it.

She looks intently into its eyes
as she has so many times; each time,
a new day, asking what He has in store for her.
As intently as its painter, praying as he worked,
that He might come and fill the painted form
with His eyes, His heart, His soul; all that He brought to earth
from That which sent Him

She looks into the eyes of the ikon –
or does the ikon look at her?
In some other world, there is mighty sound,
perhaps a word; the air is filled with soundlessness;
there’s fire that burns forever; great waters flow
like grace itself; new earth is watered.

She sees, in some great where between
herself and all things, love that cannot be measured;
mercy that can only explain itself with itself;
grace that’s only known; her life
opens itself to her clearly, soundlessly;
all is revealed to the seeking heart.

The candles flicker; the door creaks,
and the heavy iron latch echoes
once, in the empty church. The Son of Man
in the form of an old woman wrapped against the cold,
steps out into His kingdom. A few snowflakes;
a pale winter sun. Look into her eyes.

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Ikon

The door creaks, as she opens it
and the fall of the heavy iron latch
echoes through the empty church.

The atmosphere inside, this cold day,
is heavy, as such holy places are,
locked now at night; heavy,
with what? Anticipation? Memory,
of all the human emotions
that have passed through them?
There’s still the clinging promise,
the fragrance of yesterday’s incense;
it could almost be a midnight forest
in its wood-scented mystery.

She lights a candle, drops a coin
slowly, as those do to whom
each coin has a meaning.

She is small, shrunken as the aged are,
wrapped into roundness against the cold,
yet neatly; today there’s an extra sense of purpose
about her walk towards the glittering
gold ikonostasis –

is it the anniversary of the day
her husband perished in the labour camp?
Or the day her son died fighting
so that such as she might live,
to mourn him, proudly, all her life?

Or was she, is she, that unmarried, famous
junior lecturer who lost her job
for speaking truth, whose students
carried her shoulder-high and placed her
on the tank outside the university,
challenging its gun?

She kneels in front of the ancient ikon,
framed in gold; the ikon that tourists
note with a glance, as ‘Christ’…though when painted,
it was known as ‘Son of God’; now they call it
‘Son of Man’ – that seems to suit it.

She looks intently into its eyes
as she has so many times; each time,
a new day, asking what He has in store for her.
As intently as its painter, praying as he worked,
that He might come and fill the painted form
with His eyes, His heart, His soul; all that He brought to earth
from That which sent Him

She looks into the eyes of the ikon –
or does the ikon look at her?
In some other world, there is mighty sound,
perhaps a word; the air is filled with soundlessness;
there’s fire that burns forever; great waters flow
like grace itself; new earth is watered.

She sees, in some great where between
herself and all things, love that cannot be measured;
mercy that can only explain itself with itself;
grace that’s only known; her life
opens itself to her clearly, soundlessly;
all is revealed to the seeking heart.

The candles flicker; the door creaks,
and the heavy iron latch echoes
once, in the empty church; the Son of Man,
in the form of an old woman wrapped against the cold,
steps out into His kingdom. A few snowflakes;
a pale winter sun. But look into her eyes.

[revised]

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To Holy Russia

The door creaks, as she opens it
and the fall of the heavy iron latch
echoes through the empty church.

The atmosphere inside, this cold cold day,
is heavy, as such holy places are;
locked now at night; heavy,
with what? Anticipation; presence; memory
of all the human emotions
that have passed through them?

There’s still the clinging promise,
the fragrance of yesterday’s incense;
it could be a midnight cedar forest
in its dark wood-scented mystery.

She lights a candle, drops a coin
slowly, as those do to whom
each coin has a meaning.

She is small, shrunken as the aged are,
wrapped into roundness against the cold,
yet neatly; today there’s an extra sense of purpose
about her walk towards the glittering
gold ikonostasis –

is it the anniversary of the day
her husband perished in the labour camp?
Or the day her son died fighting
so that such as she might live,
to mourn him, proudly, all her life?

Or was she, is she, that unmarried, once famous
junior lecturer who lost her job
for speaking truth, whose students
carried her shoulder-high and placed her
on the tank outside the university,
challenging its gun?

She kneels in front of the ancient ikon,
thick with gold; the ikon that tourists
note with brief glance as ‘Christ’…though when painted,
it was known as ‘Son of God’; now they call it
‘Son of Man’ – that seems to suit it.

She looks intently into His eyes
as she has so many times; each time,
a new day, asking what He has in store for her;

asks as intently as its painter: praying as he worked,
that He might come and fill the painted form
with His eyes, His heart, His soul; all that He brought to earth
from That which sent Him

She looks into the eyes of the ikon –
or does the ikon look at her?
In some other world, there is mighty sound,
perhaps a word; the air is filled with soundlessness;
there’s fire that burns forever; great waters flow
like grace itself; new earth is watered.

She sees, in some great where between
herself and all things, love that cannot be measured;
mercy that can only explain itself with itself;
grace that’s only to be known; her heart
opens itself to her soundlessly;
all is revealed to the seeking heart.

The candles flicker in the draught; the door creaks,
and the heavy iron latch echoes
once, in the empty church; the Son of Man,
as an old woman, wrapped against the cold,
steps out into His kingdom. A few snowflakes;
a pale winter sun. But look into His eyes.

*

(revised)

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The Romance of Britomarte

I'LL tell you a story ; but pass the 'jack',
And let us make merry to-night, my men.
Aye, those were the days when my beard was black—
I like to remember them now and then—
Then Miles was living, and Cuthbert there,
On his lip was never a sign of down ;
But I carry about some braided hair,
That has not yet changed from the glossy brown
That it show'd the day when I broke the heart
Of that bravest of destriers, 'Britomarte.'

Sir Hugh was slain (may his soul find grace !)
In the fray that was neither lost nor won
At Edgehill—then to St. Hubert's Chase
Lord Goring despatch'd a garrison—
But men and horses were ill to spare,
And ere long the soldiers were shifted fast.
As for me, I never was quartered there
Till Marston Moor had been lost ; at last,
As luck would have it, alone, and late
In the night, I rode to the northern gate.

I thought, as I pass'd through the moonlit park,
On the boyish days I used to spend
In the halls of the knight lying stiff and stark—
Thought on his lady, my father's friend
(Mine, too, in spite of my sinister bar,
But with that my story has naught to do)—
She died the winter before the war—
Died giving birth to the baby Hugh.
He pass'd ere the green leaves clothed the bough,
And the orphan girl was the heiress now.

When I was a rude and a reckless boy,
And she a brave and a beautiful child,
I was her page, her playmate, her toy—
I have crown'd her hair with the field-flowers wild
Cowslip and crowfoot and colt's-foot bright—
I have carried her miles when the woods were wet,
I have read her romances of dame and knight ;
She was my princess, my pride, my pet.
There was then this proverb us twain between,
For the glory of God and of Gwendoline.

She had grown to a maiden wonderful fair,
But for years I had scarcely seen her face.
Now, with troopers Holdsworth, Huntly, and Clare,
Old Miles kept guard at St. Hubert's Chase,
And the chatelaine was a Mistress Ruth,
Sir Hugh's half-sister, an ancient dame,
But a mettlesome soul had she forsooth,
As she show'd when the time of her trial came.
I bore despatches to Miles and to her
To warn them against the bands of Kerr.

And mine would have been a perilous ride
With the rebel horsemen—we knew not where
They were scattered over that country side,—
If it had not been for my brave brown mare.
She was iron-sinew'd and satin-skinn'd,
Ribb'd like a drum and limb'd like a deer,
Fierce as the fire and fleet as the wind—
There was nothing she couldn't climb or clear—
Rich lords had vex'd me, in vain, to part
For their gold and silver, with Britomarte.

Next morn we muster'd scarce half a score
With the serving men, who were poorly arm'd
Five soldiers, counting myself, no more,
And a culverin, which might well have harm'd
Us, had we used it, but not our foes,
When, with horses and foot, to our doors they came,
And a psalm-singer summon'd us (through his nose),
And deliver'd—'This, in the people's name,
Unto whoso holdeth this fortress here,
Surrender ! or bide the siege—John Kerr.'

'Twas a mansion built in a style too new,
A castle by courtesy, he lied
Who called it a fortress—yet, 'tis true,
It had been indifferently fortified—
We were well provided with bolt and bar—
And while I hurried to place our men,
Old Miles was call'd to a council of war
With Mistress Ruth and with her, and when
They had argued loudly and long, those three,
They sent, as a last resource, for me.

In the chair of state sat erect Dame Ruth ;
She had cast aside her embroidery ;
She had been a beauty, they say, in her youth,
There was much fierce fire in her bold black eye.
'Am I deceived in you both ?' quoth she.
'If one spark of her father's spirit lives
In this girl here—so, this Leigh, Ralph Leigh,
Let us hear what counsel the springald gives.'
Then I stammer'd, somewhat taken aback—
(Simon, you ale-swiller, pass the 'jack').

The dame wax'd hotter—'Speak out, lad, say,
Must we fall in that canting caitiff's power ?
Shall we yield to a knave and a turncoat ? Nay,
I had liever leap from our topmost tower.
For a while we can surely await relief ;
Our walls are high and our doors are strong.'
This Kerr was indeed a canting thief—
I know not rightly, some private wrong
He had done Sir Hugh, but I know this much,
Traitor or turncoat he suffer'd as such.

Quoth Miles—'Enough ! your will shall be done ;
Relief may arrive by the merest chance,
But your house ere dusk will be lost and won ;
They have got three pieces of ordnance.'
Then I cried, 'Lord Guy, with four troops of horse,
Even now is biding at Westbrooke town ;
If a rider could break through the rebel force
He would bring relief ere the sun goes down
Through the postern door could I make one dart
I could baffle them all upon Britomarte.'

Miles mutter'd 'Madness !' Dame Ruth look'd grave,
Said, 'True, though we cannot keep one hour
The courtyard, no, nor the stables save,
They will have to batter piecemeal the tower,
And thus——' But suddenly she halted there.
With a shining hand on my shoulder laid,
Stood Gwendoline. She had left her chair,
And, 'Nay, if it needs must be done,' she said,
'Ralph Leigh will gladly do it, I ween,
For the glory of God and of Gwendoline.'

I had undertaken a heavier task
For a lighter word. I saddled with care,
Nor cumber'd myself with corselet nor casque
(Being loth to burden the brave brown mare).
Young Clare kept watch on the wall—he cried,
'Now, haste, Ralph ! this is the time to seize ;
The rebels are round us on every side,
But here they straggle by twos and threes.'
Then out I led her, and up I sprung,
And the postern door on its hinges swung.

I had drawn this sword—you may draw it and feel,
For this is the blade that I bore that day—
There's a notch even now on the long grey steel,
A nick that has never been rasp'd away.
I bow'd my head and I buried my spurs,
One bound brought the gliding green beneath ;
I could tell by her back-flung, flatten'd ears
She had fairly taken the bit in her teeth—
(What, Jack, have you drain'd your namesake dry,
Left nothing to quench the thirst of a fly ?)

These things are done, and are done with, lad,
In far less time than your talker tells;
The sward with their hoof-strokes shook like mad,
And rang with their carbines and petronels ;
And they shouted, 'Cross him and cut him off,'
'Surround him,' 'Seize him,' 'Capture the clown,
Or kill him,' 'Shall he escape to scoff
In your faces ?' 'Shoot him or cut him down.'
And their bullets whistled on every side :
Many were near us and more were wide.

Not a bullet told upon Britomarte ;
Suddenly snorting, she launched along ;
So the osprey dives where the seagulls dart,
So the falcon swoops where the kestrels throng ;
And full in my front one pistol flash'd,
And right in my path their sergeant got.
How are jack-boots jarr'd, how are stirrups clash'd,
While the mare like a meteor past him shot ;
But I clove his skull with a backstroke clean,
For the glory of God and of Gwendoline.

And as one whom the fierce wind storms in the face
With spikes of hail and with splinters of rain,
I, while we fled through St. Hubert's Chase,
Bent till my cheek was amongst her mane.
To the north full a league of the deer-park lay,
Smooth, springy turf, and she fairly flew,
And the sound of their hoof-strokes died away,
And their far shots faint in the distance grew.
Loudly I laughed, having won the start,
At the folly of following Britomarte.

They had posted a guard at the northern gate—
Some dozen of pikemen and musketeers.
To the tall park palings I turn'd her straight ;
She veer'd in her flight as the swallow veers.
And some blew matches and some drew swords,
And one of them wildly hurl'd his pike,
But she clear'd by inches the oaken boards,
And she carried me yards beyond the dyke ;
Then gaily over the long green down
We gallop'd, heading for Westbrooke town.

The green down slopes to the great grey moor,
The grey moor sinks to the gleaming Skelt—
Sudden and sullen, and swift and sure,
The whirling water was round my belt.
She breasted the bank with a savage snort,
And a backward glance of her bloodshot eye,
And 'Our Lady of Andover's' flash'd like thought,
And flitted St. Agatha's nunnery,
And the firs at The Ferngrove fled on the right,
And 'Falconer's Tower' on the left took flight.

And over 'The Ravenswold' we raced—
We rounded the hill by 'The Hermit's Well'—
We burst on the Westbrooke Bridge—'What haste ?
What errand ?' shouted the sentinel.
'To Beelzebub with the Brewer's knave !'
'Carolus Rex and he of the Rhine !'
Galloping past him, I got and gave
In the gallop password and countersign,
All soak'd with water and soil'd with mud,
With the sleeve of my jerkin half drench'd in blood.

Now, Heaven be praised that I found him there—
Lord Guy. He said, having heard my tale,
'Leigh, let my own man look to your mare,
Rest and recruit with our wine and ale ;
But first must our surgeon attend to you ;
You are somewhat shrewdly stricken, no doubt.'
Then he snatched a horn from the wall and blew,
Making 'Boot and Saddle' ring sharply out.
'Have I done good service this day ?' quoth I.
'Then I will ride back in your troop, Lord Guy.'

In the street I heard how the trumpets peal'd,
And I caught the gleam of a morion
From the window—then to the door I reel'd ;
I had lost more blood than I reckon'd upon ;
He eyed me calmly with keen grey eyes
Stern grey eyes of a steel-blue grey—
Said, 'The wilful man can never be wise,
Nathless the wilful must have his way,'
And he pour'd from a flagon some fiery wine ;
I drain'd it, and straightway strength was mine.

. . . . . . .

I was with them all the way on the brown—
'Guy to the rescue !' 'God and the king !'
We were just in time, for the doors were down ;
And didn't our sword-blades rasp and ring,
And didn't we hew and didn't we hack ?
The sport scarce lasted minutes ten—
(Aye, those were the days when my beard was black ;
I like to remember them now and then).
Though they fought like fiends, we were four to one,
And we captured those that refused to run.

We have not forgotten it, Cuthbert, boy !
That supper scene when the lamps were lit ;
How the women (some of them) sobb'd for joy ;
How the soldiers drank the deeper for it;
How the dame did honours, and Gwendoline,
How grandly she glided into the hall,
How she stoop'd with the grace of a girlish queen,
And kiss'd me gravely before them all ;
And the stern Lord Guy, how gaily he laugh'd,
Till more of his cup was spilt than quaff'd.

Brown Britomarte lay dead in her straw
Next morn—we buried her—brave old girl !
John Kerr, we tried him by martial law,
And we twisted some hemp for the trait'rous churl ;
And sheI met her alone—said she,
'You have risk'd your life, you have lost your mare,
And what can I give in return, Ralph Leigh ?'
I replied, 'One braid of that bright brown hair.'
And with that she bow'd her beautiful head,
'You can take as much as you choose,' she said.

And I took it—it may be, more than enough—
And I shore it rudely, close to the roots.
The wine or wounds may have made me rough,
And men at the bottom are merely brutes.
Three weeks I slept at St. Hubert's Chase ;
When I woke from the fever of wounds and wine
I could scarce believe that the ghastly face
That the glass reflected was really mine.
I sought the hall—where a wedding had been—
The wedding of Guy and of Gwendoline.

The romance of a grizzled old trooper's life
May make you laugh in your sleeves : laugh out,
Lads ; we have most of us seen some strife ;
We have all of us had some sport, no doubt.
I have won some honour and gain'd some gold,
Now that our king returns to his own ;
If the pulses beat slow, if the blood runs cold,
And if friends have faded and loves have flown,
Then the greater reason is ours to drink,
And the more we swallow the less we shall think.

At the battle of Naseby, Miles was slain,
And Huntly sank from his wounds that week ;
We left young Clare upon Worcester plain—
How the 'Ironside' gash'd his girlish cheek.
Aye, strut, and swagger, and ruffle anew,
Gay gallants, now that the war is done !
They fought like fiends (give the fiend his due)—
We fought like fops, it was thus they won.
Holdsworth is living for aught I know,
At least he was living two years ago,

And Guy—Lord Guy—so stately and stern,
He is changed, I met him at Winchester ;
He has grown quite gloomy and taciturn.
Gwendoline !—why do you ask for her ?
Died ! as her mother had died before—
Died giving birth to the baby Guy !
Did my voice shake ? Then am I fool the more.
Sooner or later we all must die ;
But, at least, let us live while we live to-night.
The days may be dark, but the lamps are bright.

For to me the sunlight seems worn and wan :
The sun, he is losing his splendour now—
He can never shine as of old he shone
On her glorious hair and glittering brow.
Ah ! those days that were, when my beard was black,
Now I have only the nights that are.
What, landlord, ho ! bring in haste burnt sack,
And a flask of your fiercest usquebaugh.
You, Cuthbert ! surely you know by heart
The story of her and of Britomarte.

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Players (Only Love You When They're Playing)

No doubt I'm the one your mama
Warned you about
I'm known for taking ladies home
And turning them out.
Like kissing all the girlies and
Making them cry.
I'm a wise guy with wits
The opposite of shy
Make your girl's pussy shiver
When she looks in my eyes.
So uh.
One's for the money

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Once upon a shooting star

Once upon a shooting star, I made a wish for a love afar, the one man I wish to have, for him my life I would give, when he looks into my eyes, I get the instant rush of butterflies, I love this man with all of my heart, the love I feel is like a game of darts, taking chances and scoring high, if not for him I would have no life, we are as one in every way, together forever until the end of days, Once upon a shooting star, I wished for a love afar, I thank that star for all it is worth, and forever this person there forth.

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I did not seek death but she came along (cavatina sequence)

(after Emily Dickinson)

I did not seek death but she came along,
was visiting
in passing looked at me wearily;
I was shooting,
she was a entrancing, lewd, lascivious
kind of being;
who really did love destruction and war,
she promised to visit me once more.

She said that all of her kisses and bliss
would transport me
into a unknown distant restful place,
eternity
was one of her many vague promises,
from her grasp free
grenades, rockets, shells detonated
while still in vain, with longing, she waited.

["Because I Could Not Stop for Death" by Emily Dickinson.]

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When I Look Into Your Eyes

When I look at your eyes
I read a thousand love poems
Spoken softly in a thousand sighs
Embracing me like I was home.

When I look into your eyes
A thousand words of love there seen
Deep emotions I find there lie
Expressed to me, like I was a queen

When I look into your eyes Love,
All Time and Space just disappear
I seem to be lost in the galaxies above
And that feeling comes when you are near.

One look...so eloquent in meaning
Drown me in a burst of brilliant stardust
As my heart glows with intense beating
I feel like melting, and dropp my gaze...I must.


Copyright Cynthia Buhain-Baello
February 22,2010
Philippines

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Sweetmother

Let her be nice, let her be wicked is she, mother is my mother. Let her be beauty, let her be ugly, mother is my mother. A gold that can never be lost, she look after me even if am wicked, she look into my eyes when am wick praying all days for my life. Even if she don't eat, she will look for what to eat. Let her be ugly, mother is my mother when i was still a kid, she carries me gently on her hand, she willlonl into my eyes and smile, she will say my good child when you are strong, you will make it in life, you will be successful even more that mother. There is no better love than mama's care. I love you mother. May you dat the FRUIT OF YOUR LABOUR.

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She Looks Just Like You!

'She looks just like you! ', it says, on the back of the photograph;
Alas, this photograph (and others) is all I have,
To remind me that my importance has not faded
And that I need restore the Natural Order that He created
For a beautiful little lady, who knows not, her 'Dad';
Oh, if only I could share with her, the dreams I had
For a future that put her in the forefront
And not this 'present', subjugated to what others want!
So long as the status quo is maintained, they are satiate,
Yet, with their near-sightedness, they fail to appreciate
What is of paramount importance is this Father-Daughter bond;
Until our consort's reprise, I hold onto memories, most fond,
Of a little lady, I, sadly, no longer know...
And watch emotions that could be no stronger, grow!

-Maurice Harris,5 September 2011

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