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It's up to history to judge.

quote by Pol Pot
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Trial by Jury

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

THE LEARNED JUDGE
THE PLAINTIFF
THE DEFENDANT
COUNSEL FOR THE PLAINTIFF
USHER
FOREMAN OF THE JURY
ASSOCIATE
FIRST BRIDESMAID

SCENE - A Court of Justice, Barristers, Attorney, and Jurymen
discovered.

CHORUS

Hark, the hour of ten is sounding:
Hearts with anxious fears are bounding,
Hall of Justice, crowds surrounding,
Breathing hope and fear--
For to-day in this arena,
Summoned by a stern subpoena,
Edwin, sued by Angelina,
Shortly will appear.

Enter Usher

SOLO - USHER

Now, Jurymen, hear my advice--
All kinds of vulgar prejudice
I pray you set aside:
With stern, judicial frame of mind
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried.

CHORUS

From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried.

[During Chorus, Usher sings fortissimo, "Silence in Court!"]

USHER Oh, listen to the plaintiff's case:
Observe the features of her face--
The broken-hearted bride.
Condole with her distress of mind:
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried!

[...] Read more

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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You Cant Judge A Book By Looking At The Cover

1: you cant judge a apple by lookin at the tree.
Cant judge a honey by lookin at the bee.
Cant judge a daughter by lookin at the mother.
You cant judge a book by lookin at the cover.
Chorus: oh-oh, cant you see? you misjudged me, baby!
I look like a farmer but--Im a lover!
Cant judge a book by lookin at the cover.
2: you cant judge sugar by lookin at the pan.
Cant judge a woman by lookin at her man.
Cant judge one by lookin at the other.
You cant judge a book by lookin at the cover.
Chorus: oh-oh, cant you see? you misjudged me!
I look like a farmer but--Im a lover!
Cant judge a book by lookin at the cover.
3: you cant judge a fish by lookin in the pond.
Cant judge right by lookin at the wrong,
Cant judge a-one by lookin at the other.
You cant judge a book by lookin at the cover.
Chorus: oh-oh, cant you see? you misjudged me!
I look like a farmer but--Im a lover!
Cant judge a book by lookin at the cover.
4: cant judge a apple by lookin at the tree, baby.
Cant judge honey by lookin at the bee.
Cant judge a daughter by lookin at the mother.
You cant a book by lookin at the cover.
Chorus: oh-oh, cant you see? you misjudged me!
I look like a farmer but--Im a lover!
Cant judge a book a-by lookin at the cover.
Source: mark atkins (by ear), 4/30/00

song performed by Monkees
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Course Of Time. Book X.

God of my fathers! holy, just, and good!
My God! my Father! my unfailing Hope!
Jehovah! let the incense of my praise,
Accepted, burn before thy mercy seat,
And in thy presence burn both day and night.
Maker! Preserver! my Redeemer! God!
Whom have I in the heavens but Thee alone?
On earth, but Thee, whom should I praise, whom love?
For Thou hast brought me hitherto, upheld
By thy omnipotence; and from thy grace,
Unbought, unmerited, though not unsought—
The wells of thy salvation, hast refreshed
My spirit, watering it, at morn and even!
And by thy Spirit, which thou freely givest
To whom thou wilt, hast led my venturous song,
Over the vale, and mountain tract, the light
And shade of man; into the burning deep
Descending now, and now circling the mount,
Where highest sits Divinity enthroned;
Rolling along the tide of fluent thought,
The tide of moral, natural, divine;
Gazing on past, and present, and again,
On rapid pinion borne, outstripping Time,
In long excursion, wandering through the groves
Unfading, and the endless avenues,
That shade the landscape of eternity;
And talking there with holy angels met,
And future men, in glorious vision seen!
Nor unrewarded have I watched at night,
And heard the drowsy sound of neighbouring sleep;
New thought, new imagery, new scenes of bliss
And glory, unrehearsed by mortal tongue,
Which, unrevealed, I trembling, turned and left,
Bursting at once upon my ravished eye,
With joy unspeakable, have filled my soul,
And made my cup run over with delight;
Though in my face, the blasts of adverse winds,
While boldly circumnavigating man,
Winds seeming adverse, though perhaps not so,
Have beat severely; disregarded beat,
When I behind me heard the voice of God,
And his propitious Spirit say,—Fear not.
God of my fathers! ever present God!
This offering more inspire, sustain, accept;
Highest, if numbers answer to the theme;
Best answering if thy Spirit dictate most.
Jehovah! breathe upon my soul; my heart
Enlarge; my faith increase; increase my hope;
My thoughts exalt; my fancy sanctify,
And all my passions, that I near thy throne

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Pollok
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The History Of Tomorrow

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of light
By dumping us in the dark with pits everywhere

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of food
By asking us to chop several fire-woods to heat up a pot full of stones

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of job creation
By making us slaves on our own soil

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of education
By dumping us in dilapidated buildings without teachers

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of accountability
By looting our treasury and asking us for yet another term in office

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of safety
By leaving pot holes large enough to swallow countless accident victims on our roads

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our bows and arrows
Would secure our future

I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of a country, a country with countless heroes
It’s the history of a country, a country with countless robbers
Robbers with fame
Robbers without shame
Robbers that we would roast with flame

© Adegbenro Adekunle Jacob

Tomorrow’s history is today. All world leaders must make real democracy work. They must be selfless. We must not wait until there is horror and terror before we learn. Nigerian leaders must shun CORRUPTION.

poem by Adegbenro Adekunle
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The Dog

THE key, which opes the chest of hoarded gold.
Unlocks the heart that favours would withhold.
To this the god of love has oft recourse,
When arrows fail to reach the secret source,
And I'll maintain he's right, for, 'mong mankind,
Nice presents ev'ry where we pleasing find;
Kings, princes, potentates, receive the same,
And when a lady thinks she's not to blame,
To do what custom tolerates around;
When Venus' acts are only Themis' found,
I'll nothing 'gainst her say; more faults than one,
Besides the present, have their course begun.

A MANTUAN judge espoused a beauteous fair:
Her name was Argia:--Anselm was her care,
An aged dotard, trembling with alarms,
While she was young, and blessed with seraph charms.
But, not content with such a pleasing prize,
His jealousy appeared without disguise,
Which greater admiration round her drew,
Who doubtless merited, in ev'ry view,
Attention from the first in rank or place
So elegant her form, so fine her face.

'TWOULD endless prove, and nothing would avail,
Each lover's pain minutely to detail:
Their arts and wiles; enough 'twill be no doubt,
To say the lady's heart was found so stout,
She let them sigh their precious hours away,
And scarcely seemed emotion to betray.

WHILE at the judge's, Cupid was employed,
Some weighty things the Mantuan state annoyed,
Of such importance, that the rulers meant,
An embassy should to the Pope be sent.
As Anselm was a judge of high degree,
No one so well embassador could be.

'TWAS with reluctance he agreed to go,
And be at Rome their mighty Plenipo';
The business would be long, and he must dwell
Six months or more abroad, he could not tell.
Though great the honour, he should leave his dove,
Which would be painful to connubial love.
Long embassies and journeys far from home
Oft cuckoldom around induce to roam.

THE husband, full of fears about his wife;
Exclaimed--my ever--darling, precious life,
I must away; adieu, be faithful pray,

[...] Read more

poem by La Fontaine
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Judge

Judge is not here to decide
Who is winner and who is loser.
Judge is here to decide
Who is in right point.

No judge is empower to
Pronounced death sentences
No judge has got power
To give life to the lifeless.

Judge can not decide
The synonyms and antonyms
Judge can not say
The right source for right word.

Judge is not judge
So long as the judge is mortal
Judge is judge
If judge is eternal.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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You Cant Judge A Book

You cant judge a book by looking at the cover
No, you cant judge a man by looking at the cover
And you cant judge a book by looking at the cover
When I was young and went to school
My mama taught me the magic rule
And what she said I tried my best to follow
She said
You cant judge a book by looking at the cover
No, you cant judge a man by looking at the cover
And you cant judge a book by looking at the cover
Then I left school and moved around
And what I saw and what I found
Made me remember what she said to follow
She said
You cant judge a book by looking at the cover
No, you cant judge a man by looking at the cover
And you cant judge a book by looking at the cover
And now I think, by now Id know, that what appears is not always so
And I remember what she said to follow
She said
You cant judge a book by looking at the cover
No, you cant judge a man by looking at the cover
And you cant judge a book by looking at the cover

song performed by Rick Springfield
Added by Lucian Velea
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An Essay on Criticism

Part I

INTRODUCTION. That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public. That a true Taste is as rare to be found as a true Genius. That most men are born with some Taste, but spoiled by false education. The multitude of Critics, and causes of them. That we are to study our own Taste, and know the limits of it. Nature the best guide of judgment. Improved by Art and rules, which are but methodized Nature. Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a Critic, particularly Homer and Virgil. Of licenses, and the use of them by the ancients. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them.

'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But of the two less dangerous is th'offence
To tire our patience than mislead our sense:
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose;
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.

'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critic's share;
Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well;
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
But are not Critics to their judgment too?

Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right:
But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced,
Is by ill col'ring but the more disgraced,
So by false learning is good sense defaced:
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools:
In search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn Critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,
There are who judge still worse than he can write.

Some have at first for Wits, then Poets pass'd;
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain Fools at last.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learn'd witlings, numerous in our isle,
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,

[...] Read more

poem by Alexander Pope
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Tom Zart's 52 Best Of The Rest America At War Poems

SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III

The White House
Washington
Tom Zart's Poems

March 16,2007
Ms. Lillian Cauldwell
President and Chief Executive Officer
Passionate Internet Voices Radio
Ann Arbor Michigan

Dear Lillian:
Number 41 passed on the CDs from Tom Zart. Thank you for thinking of me. I am thankful for your efforts to honor our brave military personnel and their families. America owes these courageous men and women a debt of gratitude, and I am honored to be the commander in chief of the greatest force for freedom in the history of the world.
Best Wishes.

Sincerely,

George W. Bush

SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III

Our sons and daughters serve in harm's way
To defend our way of life.
Some are students, some grandparents
Many a husband or wife.

They face great odds without complaint
Gambling life and limb for little pay.
So far away from all they love
Fight our soldiers for whom we pray.

The plotters and planners of America's doom
Pledge to murder and maim all they can.
From early childhood they are taught
To kill is to become a man.

They exploit their young as weapons of choice
Teaching in heaven, virgins will await.
Destroying lives along with their own
To learn of their falsehoods too late.

The fearful cry we must submit
And find a way to soothe them.
Where defenders worry if we stand down
The future for America is grim.

[...] Read more

poem by Tom Zart
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It Takes A Worried Man

Oh it takes a worried man, sing a worried song
Takes a worried man, come sing a little worried song
Well it takes a worried man to sing a worried song
Im worried now, wont be worried long
I went down to the riverside and I laid me down to sleep
Went down to the riverside, laid me down to sleep, lord
A-well I went down to the riverside, laid me down to sleep
When I woke up there were shackles on both-a my feet
Hit it!
(chorus)
It takes a worried man, to sing a worried song
It takes a worried man (come) to sing a worried song
Yeah, it takes a worried man, yeah, to sing a worried song
Im worried now but I wont be worried long
Worry for me!
(instrumental)
I said, judge (judge) judge, whats a-gonna be my fine?
I said, judge (judge) judge (judge) tell me whats gonna be my fine?
I said, judge (judge) judge (judge) tell me whats gonna be my fine?
He said, twenty-one years (oh) on that old rock island line
Oh well it takes a worried man, to sing a worried song
Takes a worried man, to sing a worried song
Yeah, it takes a worried man, to sing a worried song
Im worried now, but I wont be worried long
Sing it one more time!
It takes a worried man, to sing a worried song
It takes a worried man, to sing a worried song, my lord
It takes a worried man, to sing a worried song
Im worried now, but I wont be worried long

song performed by Van Morrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Hanging Judge

I am the Judge, the flower of the law,
Bolstered in, privileged, all men’s awe;
When I am pleased to display my wit
The court is a-cackle with joy of it;
When my liver is slightly out of order
Woe to who crosses me—barrister, warder!
How do I rule the obsequious gang?
The secret is simple—I always hang!
One plant in my legal garden grows:
The mandrake’s shriek is the solace I chose;
And I water my treasure whenever I can
With the blood that drips from a gibbeted man.
Justice? Fiddlesticks! Mercy? Fudge!
I am the Judge!
I am the Judge. I like to dine
Before I charge: then, flushed with wine,
I bully the jury into submission
And rise to the height of judicial ambition.
O how I thrill deliciously
At the wretch in his anguish under me!
I gather my brows in a terrible frown,
The slow beads drop from his forehead down;
I lower my voice, and my eyes I roll:
“The Lord have mercy upon your soul!”
He lifts his hands; but—“Sheriff!” I shout,
And his knees give way as they drag him out.
Into eternity he shall trudge.
I am the Judge!
I am the Judge. A Judge should be
A pattern of humble piety.
A week well spent brings Sabbath content:
To church my steps are piously bent.
When the holy man reads the holy book
I grieve for the god, by gods forsook,
So clumsily crucified: pity rises
He was not a remanet to My assizes!
But when at the door they stand aside
To watch me pass, how I swell with pride
To hear them say, “That’s Him all right!
He hanged another one yesterday night!
The jury cried mercy, he wouldn’t budge,
He is the Judge!”
I am the Judge. When at Michael’s trump
The dead from their mouldering sepulchres jump,
And the Great Judge sits on his jewelled throne
To give each man the crop he has sown,
Up I’ll come with my little lot
Taut in the loop of a hangman’s knot!
I will bring them trooping, trooping in
With my quaint black halter-mark under each chin:

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred George Stephens
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Paradise Lost: Book 10

Mean while the heinous and despiteful act
Of Satan, done in Paradise; and how
He, in the serpent, had perverted Eve,
Her husband she, to taste the fatal fruit,
Was known in Heaven; for what can 'scape the eye
Of God all-seeing, or deceive his heart
Omniscient? who, in all things wise and just,
Hindered not Satan to attempt the mind
Of Man, with strength entire and free will armed,
Complete to have discovered and repulsed
Whatever wiles of foe or seeming friend.
For still they knew, and ought to have still remembered,
The high injunction, not to taste that fruit,
Whoever tempted; which they not obeying,
(Incurred what could they less?) the penalty;
And, manifold in sin, deserved to fall.
Up into Heaven from Paradise in haste
The angelick guards ascended, mute, and sad,
For Man; for of his state by this they knew,
Much wondering how the subtle Fiend had stolen
Entrance unseen. Soon as the unwelcome news
From Earth arrived at Heaven-gate, displeased
All were who heard; dim sadness did not spare
That time celestial visages, yet, mixed
With pity, violated not their bliss.
About the new-arrived, in multitudes
The ethereal people ran, to hear and know
How all befel: They towards the throne supreme,
Accountable, made haste, to make appear,
With righteous plea, their utmost vigilance
And easily approved; when the Most High
Eternal Father, from his secret cloud,
Amidst in thunder uttered thus his voice.
Assembled Angels, and ye Powers returned
From unsuccessful charge; be not dismayed,
Nor troubled at these tidings from the earth,
Which your sincerest care could not prevent;
Foretold so lately what would come to pass,
When first this tempter crossed the gulf from Hell.
I told ye then he should prevail, and speed
On his bad errand; Man should be seduced,
And flattered out of all, believing lies
Against his Maker; no decree of mine
Concurring to necessitate his fall,
Or touch with lightest moment of impulse
His free will, to her own inclining left
In even scale. But fallen he is; and now
What rests, but that the mortal sentence pass
On his transgression,--death denounced that day?
Which he presumes already vain and void,

[...] Read more

poem by John Milton
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Black History Month

In January...
There they are making history.
In February...
There they are making history.
In March...
There they are making history.
In April...
There they are making history.
In May...
There they are making history.
In June...
There they are making history.
In July...
There they are making history.
In August...
There they are making history.
In September...
There they are making history.
In October...
There they are making history.
In November...
There they are making history.
In December...
There they are making history.

But...
It's nice to know
The shortest month of the year
Was chosen to celebrate
The great deeds of African-Americans!
However...
It is those LEAP YEARS,
That really have the blacks jumping for joy!

Note: 'Black History Month' along with other
works of interest can be found in...

*'MindPrints from Untouched Places-VOL I'*
~Now available online at a PC near you~

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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IV. Tertium Quid

True, Excellency—as his Highness says,
Though she's not dead yet, she's as good as stretched
Symmetrical beside the other two;
Though he's not judged yet, he's the same as judged,
So do the facts abound and superabound:
And nothing hinders that we lift the case
Out of the shade into the shine, allow
Qualified persons to pronounce at last,
Nay, edge in an authoritative word
Between this rabble's-brabble of dolts and fools
Who make up reasonless unreasoning Rome.
"Now for the Trial!" they roar: "the Trial to test
"The truth, weigh husband and weigh wife alike
"I' the scales of law, make one scale kick the beam!"
Law's a machine from which, to please the mob,
Truth the divinity must needs descend
And clear things at the play's fifth act—aha!
Hammer into their noddles who was who
And what was what. I tell the simpletons
"Could law be competent to such a feat
"'T were done already: what begins next week
"Is end o' the Trial, last link of a chain
"Whereof the first was forged three years ago
"When law addressed herself to set wrong right,
"And proved so slow in taking the first step
"That ever some new grievance,—tort, retort,
"On one or the other side,—o'ertook i' the game,
"Retarded sentence, till this deed of death
"Is thrown in, as it were, last bale to boat
"Crammed to the edge with cargo—or passengers?
"'Trecentos inseris: ohe, jam satis est!
"'Huc appelle!'—passengers, the word must be."
Long since, the boat was loaded to my eyes.
To hear the rabble and brabble, you'd call the case
Fused and confused past human finding out.
One calls the square round, t' other the round square—
And pardonably in that first surprise
O' the blood that fell and splashed the diagram:
But now we've used our eyes to the violent hue
Can't we look through the crimson and trace lines?
It makes a man despair of history,
Eusebius and the established fact—fig's end!
Oh, give the fools their Trial, rattle away
With the leash of lawyers, two on either side—
One barks, one bites,—Masters Arcangeli
And Spreti,—that's the husband's ultimate hope
Against the Fisc and the other kind of Fisc,
Bound to do barking for the wife: bow—wow!
Why, Excellency, we and his Highness here
Would settle the matter as sufficiently

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Makin History

Tonight theres a magic that I cant explain
Tune-up and start the show all set now ready to go
This bands gonna really rock tonight
Steppin out upon the stage
Under those lights again
Were gonna shake the place tonight
They gotta new song high in the charts you know
You must have heard them play it on the radio
When that flat top starts that picking
Hear the bass drum start that kicking
The joint is really jumpin now
Ooh mama its so exiting to feel
That tension rising when they turn the house lights down
Its a strange kinda magic that never seems to age
Makin history
Makin history
Adding a new leaf to the story that is rocknroll
Makin history
Makin history
Playing a new beat to the glory
That is rocknroll
Rock on
They gotta new song
High in the charts you know
You must have heard them play it on the radio
Hear the start and the jumbo gibson
You dont know what youre missing if youre not
Painting the town tonight
Ooh mama its so exiting to feel
That tension rising when they turn the house lights down
Makin history
Makin history
Adding a new leaf to the story that is rocknroll
Makin history
Makin history
Playing a new beat to the glory
That is rocknroll
Makin history
Makin history
Adding a new leaf to the story that is rocknroll
Makin history
Makin history
Playing a new beat to the glory that is rocknroll
Mama its so exiting-oh oh
Dont you find the beat exiting

song performed by Cliff Richard
Added by Lucian Velea
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The History of Now

The recording of culture is history;
but our culture is more than that.
It's the world of human action,
and the myths we make of the fact.

The recording of history is culture,
but our history is more than that.
It informs a hidden agenda.
Unconscious of motive we act.

It's the history of now, the history of now.
It's only the present that exists as endowed.
It's the history of now. The moment - KAPOW!
That knocks you right over and muddies your brow.

Through the prism of language, we know what we know.
We carry our baggage and stories of woe.
Victor and vanquished pride cannot budge,
the dead weight of hatred and ancestral grudge.

We fight our good fights with our hand on our heart;
the music is swelling as loved ones depart.
As sheep to the slaughter, the script cannot chart,
a course more ignoble: the propagandist's art.

The recording of history is culture,
but our culture is more than that.
More than the great individuals,
the scholars so love in their tracts.

The recording of culture is history;
but our history is more than that.
Not simple dates or statistics,
the full horror and gore still attracts.

It's the history of now, the history of now.
A strange contradiction that makes sense somehow.
It's the history of now, a mystery and shroud.
The past and the future: best fiction allowed.

poem by David SmithWhite
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VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator

Ah, my Giacinto, he's no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we're eight?
Seven and one's eight, I hope, old curly-pate!
—Branches me out his verb-tree on the slate,
Amo-as-avi-atum-are-ans,
Up to -aturus, person, tense, and mood,
Quies me cum subjunctivo (I could cry)
And chews Corderius with his morning crust!
Look eight years onward, and he's perched, he's perched
Dapper and deft on stool beside this chair,
Cinozzo, Cinoncello, who but he?
—Trying his milk-teeth on some crusty case
Like this, papa shall triturate full soon
To smooth Papinianian pulp!

It trots
Already through my head, though noon be now,
Does supper-time and what belongs to eve.
Dispose, O Don, o' the day, first work then play!
—The proverb bids. And "then" means, won't we hold
Our little yearly lovesome frolic feast,
Cinuolo's birth-night, Cinicello's own,
That makes gruff January grin perforce!
For too contagious grows the mirth, the warmth
Escaping from so many hearts at once—
When the good wife, buxom and bonny yet,
Jokes the hale grandsire,—such are just the sort
To go off suddenly,—he who hides the key
O' the box beneath his pillow every night,—
Which box may hold a parchment (someone thinks)
Will show a scribbled something like a name
"Cinino, Ciniccino," near the end,
"To whom I give and I bequeath my lands,
"Estates, tenements, hereditaments,
"When I decease as honest grandsire ought."
Wherefore—yet this one time again perhaps—
Shan't my Orvieto fuddle his old nose!
Then, uncles, one or the other, well i' the world,
May—drop in, merely?—trudge through rain and wind,
Rather! The smell-feasts rouse them at the hint
There's cookery in a certain dwelling-place!
Gossips, too, each with keepsake in his poke,
Will pick the way, thrid lane by lantern-light,
And so find door, put galligaskin off
At entry of a decent domicile
Cornered in snug Condotti,—all for love,
All to crush cup with Cinucciatolo!

Well,
Let others climb the heights o' the court, the camp!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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So Judge Me Not For Mistakes I've Made

Judge me not,
For...
Mistakes I've made,
Because...
I had to grow up too.
One day you will discover...
Growing up is not a thing,
Easy to do.

No one living can ever escape,
From mistakes everyday made.
And no one living can ever replace,
A time long gone.

Judge me not,
For...
Mistakes I've made,
Because...
I had to grow up too.
One day you will discover...
Growing up is not a thing,
Easy to do.

No one living can ever escape,
From mistakes everyday made.
And no one living can ever replace,
A time long gone.

No one living can ever escape,
From mistakes everyday made.
And no one living can ever replace,
A time long gone.

Judge me not for mistakes I've made.
A yesterday lived can not be erased.
Judge me not for mistakes I've made.
Look at me for who I am and today!

Judge me not for mistakes I've made.
A yesterday lived can not be erased.
So judge me not for mistakes I've made.
Look at me for who I am and today!

No one living can ever escape,
From mistakes everyday made.
And no one living can ever replace,
A time long gone.

So judge me not for mistakes I've made.
A yesterday lived can not be erased.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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History Stones People.

History stones people.

They stoned Moses, David and Linclon,
history did that for all to see

Marbel and cement,
that's all it leaves behind
of a long changing life.

Great heroes of time,
fall under the mercy
of the sculptor's knife.

History stones faces,
in a way that would make
ecclestias cringe.
History stones feet,
in a way that would make
piligrims cry.

History stones life
to always stay fresh,
yet, what is life without
the sins of the flesh.

All the radical kids
get stoned
and never change
or even move a muscle.

All the sword raising warriors
history stoned
without blood in their veins.

You can see all the victims
that history stoned
when you walk in the park,
they got kings
and queens
hell, they even got Gods.

They are there captive

[...] Read more

poem by Samuel Katz
Added by Poetry Lover
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On Passing Cromwell Street

In Melbourne streets named in his honour though he does not warrant such fame
For he lived a life of dishonour yet he never felt any shame
For his crimes against the poor of Ireland the winners write the history they say
And historians are too kind to Cromwell the one who did awful things in his day.

He evicted the poor of rural Ireland those who only knew of poverty
And put them on the hard road to Connacht the victims of crimes against humanity
His army were thugs and not soldiers for they did things that soldiers ought not do
The winners always write the history though their version of history is often not true.

In Cromwell's time the winners wrote the history and the winners still write the history today
But for any crimes against humanity the winners too should be made to pay
But Cromwell and his army honoured for their crimes in Ireland against the poor defenceless poor
'Tis sad to think that one so unworthy of a place in history is secure.

To hell or to Connacht his catch cry he forced thousands of poor families on the road
To people who were penniless and innocent not one scrap of mercy he showed
Thousands of them died in the harsh Irish Winter when homelessness on them took it's toll
Because they were poor they were punished though their life circumstances beyond their control.

I think of the untruths of history each time I drive by Cromwell street
The history written by winners their history of lies and deceit
I say to myself they honour a tyrant and I struggle for to understand
Why they name a street after somebody who oppressed the poor of Ireland.

Andrew Marvell in verse glorified Cromwell but he was one who would not know
What Cromwell and his army got up to in Ireland in those bleak times centuries ago
But he only believed what they told him and they told him what he wanted to hear
History often written by unworthy people those who rule by terror and fear.

In Melbourne streets named in his honour his poor victims long forgotten and gone
Into the World of the forgotten but Cromwell's fame is living on
And the lessons we should have learned from history did not lead to a fair go for all
And the winners only write the story though the real truth they never recall.

poem by Francis Duggan
Added by Poetry Lover
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