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Kinsey's quest was really for us all to be tolerant and accepting of each other.

quote by Liam Neeson
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The Holy Grail

From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess done
In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale,
Whom Arthur and his knighthood called The Pure,
Had passed into the silent life of prayer,
Praise, fast, and alms; and leaving for the cowl
The helmet in an abbey far away
From Camelot, there, and not long after, died.

And one, a fellow-monk among the rest,
Ambrosius, loved him much beyond the rest,
And honoured him, and wrought into his heart
A way by love that wakened love within,
To answer that which came: and as they sat
Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darkening half
The cloisters, on a gustful April morn
That puffed the swaying branches into smoke
Above them, ere the summer when he died
The monk Ambrosius questioned Percivale:

`O brother, I have seen this yew-tree smoke,
Spring after spring, for half a hundred years:
For never have I known the world without,
Nor ever strayed beyond the pale: but thee,
When first thou camest--such a courtesy
Spake through the limbs and in the voice--I knew
For one of those who eat in Arthur's hall;
For good ye are and bad, and like to coins,
Some true, some light, but every one of you
Stamped with the image of the King; and now
Tell me, what drove thee from the Table Round,
My brother? was it earthly passion crost?'

`Nay,' said the knight; `for no such passion mine.
But the sweet vision of the Holy Grail
Drove me from all vainglories, rivalries,
And earthly heats that spring and sparkle out
Among us in the jousts, while women watch
Who wins, who falls; and waste the spiritual strength
Within us, better offered up to Heaven.'

To whom the monk: `The Holy Grail!--I trust
We are green in Heaven's eyes; but here too much
We moulder--as to things without I mean--
Yet one of your own knights, a guest of ours,
Told us of this in our refectory,
But spake with such a sadness and so low
We heard not half of what he said. What is it?
The phantom of a cup that comes and goes?'

`Nay, monk! what phantom?' answered Percivale.

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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The Island Hawk

Hushed are the whimpering winds on the hill,
Dumb is the shrinking plain,
And the songs that enchanted the woods are still
As I shoot to the skies again!
Does the blood grow black on my fierce bent beak,
Does the down still cling to my claw?
Who brightened these eyes for the prey they seek?
Life, I follow thy law!
For I am the hawk, the hawk, the hawk!
Who knoweth my pitiless breast?
Who watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.

As I glide and glide with my peering head,
Or swerve at a puff of smoke,
Who watcheth my wings on the wind outspread,
Here – gone – with an instant stroke?
Who toucheth the glory of life I feel
As I buffet this great glad gale,
Spire and spire to the cloud-world, wheel,
Loosen my wings and sail?
For I am the hawk, the island hawk,
Who knoweth my pitiless breast?
Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.

My mate in the nest on the high bright tree
Blazing with dawn and dew,
She knoweth the gleam of the world and the glee
As I drop like a bolt from the blue.
She knoweth the fire of the level flight
As I skim, close, close to the ground,
With the long grass lashing my breast and the bright
Dew-drops flashing around.
She watcheth the hawk, the hawk, the hawk
(Oh, the red-blotched eggs in the nest!)
Watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way.
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.

She builded her nest on the high bright wold,
She was taught in a world afar
The lore that is only an April old
Yet old as the evening star.
Life of a far off ancient day
In an hour unhooded her eyes.
In the time of the budding of one green spray
She was wise as the stars are wise.
An eyas in eyry, a yellow-eyed hawk,
On the old elm's burgeoning breast,
She watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way.

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Noyes
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Lancelot And Elaine

Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable,
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,
High in her chamber up a tower to the east
Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;
Which first she placed where the morning's earliest ray
Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam;
Then fearing rust or soilure fashioned for it
A case of silk, and braided thereupon
All the devices blazoned on the shield
In their own tinct, and added, of her wit,
A border fantasy of branch and flower,
And yellow-throated nestling in the nest.
Nor rested thus content, but day by day,
Leaving her household and good father, climbed
That eastern tower, and entering barred her door,
Stript off the case, and read the naked shield,
Now guessed a hidden meaning in his arms,
Now made a pretty history to herself
Of every dint a sword had beaten in it,
And every scratch a lance had made upon it,
Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh;
That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle;
That at Caerleon; this at Camelot:
And ah God's mercy, what a stroke was there!
And here a thrust that might have killed, but God
Broke the strong lance, and rolled his enemy down,
And saved him: so she lived in fantasy.

How came the lily maid by that good shield
Of Lancelot, she that knew not even his name?
He left it with her, when he rode to tilt
For the great diamond in the diamond jousts,
Which Arthur had ordained, and by that name
Had named them, since a diamond was the prize.

For Arthur, long before they crowned him King,
Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse,
Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn.
A horror lived about the tarn, and clave
Like its own mists to all the mountain side:
For here two brothers, one a king, had met
And fought together; but their names were lost;
And each had slain his brother at a blow;
And down they fell and made the glen abhorred:
And there they lay till all their bones were bleached,
And lichened into colour with the crags:
And he, that once was king, had on a crown
Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside.
And Arthur came, and labouring up the pass,
All in a misty moonshine, unawares

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Gareth And Lynette

The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent,
And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring
Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted Pine
Lost footing, fell, and so was whirled away.
'How he went down,' said Gareth, 'as a false knight
Or evil king before my lance if lance
Were mine to use--O senseless cataract,
Bearing all down in thy precipitancy--
And yet thou art but swollen with cold snows
And mine is living blood: thou dost His will,
The Maker's, and not knowest, and I that know,
Have strength and wit, in my good mother's hall
Linger with vacillating obedience,
Prisoned, and kept and coaxed and whistled to--
Since the good mother holds me still a child!
Good mother is bad mother unto me!
A worse were better; yet no worse would I.
Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force
To weary her ears with one continuous prayer,
Until she let me fly discaged to sweep
In ever-highering eagle-circles up
To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop
Down upon all things base, and dash them dead,
A knight of Arthur, working out his will,
To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came
With Modred hither in the summertime,
Asked me to tilt with him, the proven knight.
Modred for want of worthier was the judge.
Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said,
"Thou hast half prevailed against me," said so--he--
Though Modred biting his thin lips was mute,
For he is alway sullen: what care I?'

And Gareth went, and hovering round her chair
Asked, 'Mother, though ye count me still the child,
Sweet mother, do ye love the child?' She laughed,
'Thou art but a wild-goose to question it.'
'Then, mother, an ye love the child,' he said,
'Being a goose and rather tame than wild,
Hear the child's story.' 'Yea, my well-beloved,
An 'twere but of the goose and golden eggs.'

And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes,
'Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine
Was finer gold than any goose can lay;
For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid
Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm
As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours.
And there was ever haunting round the palm
A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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The Tale of Gamelyn

Fitt 1

Lithes and listneth and harkeneth aright,
And ye shul here of a doughty knyght;
Sire John of Boundes was his name,
He coude of norture and of mochel game.
Thre sones the knyght had and with his body he wan,
The eldest was a moche schrewe and sone bygan.
His brether loved wel her fader and of hym were agast,
The eldest deserved his faders curs and had it atte last.
The good knight his fadere lyved so yore,
That deth was comen hym to and handled hym ful sore.
The good knyght cared sore sik ther he lay,
How his children shuld lyven after his day.
He had bene wide where but non husbonde he was,
Al the londe that he had it was purchas.
Fayn he wold it were dressed amonge hem alle,
That eche of hem had his parte as it myght falle.
Thoo sente he in to contrey after wise knyghtes
To helpen delen his londes and dressen hem to-rightes.
He sent hem word by letters thei shul hie blyve,
If thei wolle speke with hym whilst he was alyve.

Whan the knyghtes harden sik that he lay,
Had thei no rest neither nyght ne day,
Til thei come to hym ther he lay stille
On his dethes bedde to abide goddys wille.
Than seide the good knyght seke ther he lay,
'Lordes, I you warne for soth, without nay,
I may no lenger lyven here in this stounde;
For thorgh goddis wille deth droueth me to grounde.'
Ther nas noon of hem alle that herd hym aright,
That thei ne had routh of that ilk knyght,
And seide, 'Sir, for goddes love dismay you nought;
God may don boote of bale that is now ywrought.'
Than speke the good knyght sik ther he lay,
'Boote of bale God may sende I wote it is no nay;
But I beseche you knyghtes for the love of me,
Goth and dresseth my londes amonge my sones thre.
And for the love of God deleth not amyss,
And forgeteth not Gamelyne my yonge sone that is.
Taketh hede to that oon as wel as to that other;
Seelde ye seen eny hier helpen his brother.'

Thoo lete thei the knyght lyen that was not in hele,
And wenten into counselle his londes for to dele;
For to delen hem alle to on that was her thought.
And for Gamelyn was yongest he shuld have nought.
All the londe that ther was thei dalten it in two,
And lete Gamelyne the yonge without londe goo,

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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A Tolerant Society

A tolerant society we've heard it all before
That fellow he is different he is from a distant shore
He never will be my friend so him i will ignore
I will only tolerate him just that and nothing more.

A tolerant society those words often used of late
By the leaders of the Government in a so called egalatarian State
Yet his birthday or successes we will never celebrate
We will only tolerate him he will never be our mate.

A tolerant society words best used to describe
That we will put up with others but we'll stick by our own tribe
Them we shall not acknowledge or to them say hello
And about them and their culture we do not wish to know.

In a tolerant society we only tolerate
And closer ties or friendships with them we do not wish to cultivate
He is from a different culture and our differences are great
And we only tolerate him he will never be our mate.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Quest

Part i:

Three men set out for their worldly quest
One for gold, another for a pleasure nest
The third for what he could not tell
But trusted his heart to lead him well.

'I shall have every silver and every gold'
The first boasted so bold
'All pleasure everywhere is mine'
The second yelled, 'with plenty wine and dine'

To the third they asked, 'what will yours be'
'Well for all i ask and seek, ' said he
'Let the sun guide me by day, by night the moon
To my quest, my heart shall lead me there soon'

Part ii

And there before the rising sun
Set all three with hope to return
Through North, south, from east to west
In search of their worldly quest

Part iii

The first found silver and gold of every kind
Much more he hoped to find
Some so big, some sparkling small
O! How much he loved them all

The second found his pleasure land
With plenty merry go hand
So much to eat, and much to drink
Till his cheeks grew fat and pink

Part iv

The third, from valley low, to mountain top
And yet he did not stop
For deep inside love bade him come
Of your quest, you'd find the sum

Alas! So weary from his worldy quest
Sat he down quietly to rest
Soon he was gently fast asleep
As he snored so free and deep

[...] Read more

poem by Okonkwo Osamedua. Allen
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Taken To Extremes

At one time I was,
Am I now...
No!
At one time I was,
Am I now...
No!
At one time I was,
Am I now...
No!
Accepting people AND their shortcomings

At one time I was,
Am I now...
No!
At one time I was,
Am I now...
No!
At one time I was,
Am I now...
No!
Accepting people AND their shortcomings

I had stop,
Accepting people and their shortcomings
I had to stop,
An empathy they would expect from me.
I was made to drop,
All the giving of my energy...
Taken to extremes until they saw me bleed.

I had stop,
Accepting people and their shortcomings
I had to stop,
An empathy they would expect from me.
I was made to drop,
All the giving of my energy...
Taken to extremes until they saw me bleed.

At one time I was,
Am I now...
No!
At one time I was,
Am I now...
No!
At one time I was,
Am I now...
No!
Accepting people AND their shortcomings.

I was made to drop,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Tied By The Wrists To A Pity Pit

Down, down feeling gagged and bound.
And tied by the wrists to a pity pit.
Convicted with an accepting addiction of it.

Stretched beyond imagination,
People wish they could elope with their hopes.
At the end of slipping twisting ropes...
And blowing in a wind that shifts.

Picked and tossed across a river like a pebble.
And not making a ripple or a dent.
Hoping that a simple skip will give them a lift.
But that lift to them aint been sent to benefit.

People feel today they are weak and feeble.
With down cast eyes in cracks and ruts.
And no one seems to want to give that up!
But...
Down, down feeling gagged and bound.
Tied by the wrists to a pity pit.
And...
Convicted with an accepting addiction of it.
Oh...
Down, down feeling gagged and bound.
And tied by the wrists to a pity pit.
And...
Convicted with an accepting addiction of it.
Existing everyday to be defeated and licked.

Down, down feeling gagged and bound.
And tied by the wrists to a pity pit.
Convicted with an accepting addiction of it.

Doo doo doo doo doo down down,
Doo doo doo down down...
And tied by the wrists to a pity pit.
Doo doo doo doo doo down down,
Doo doo doo down down...
And tied by the wrists to a pity pit.
Doo doo doo doo doo down down,
Doo doo doo down down...
And tied by the wrists to a pity pit.
As if convicted accepting of it.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Psycho Killer

I cant seem to face up to the facts
Im tense and nervous and i
Cant relax
I cant sleep cause my beds on fire
Dont touch me Im a real live wire
Psycho killer
Quest que cest
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away
Psycho killer
Quest que cest
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away
You start a conversation you cant even finish it.
Youre talkin a lot, but youre not sayin anything.
When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed.
Say something once, why say it again?
Psycho killer,
Quest que cest
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away
Psycho killer
Quest que cest
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away
(* spoken interlude in french *)
Psycho killer,
Quest que cest
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away
Psycho killer,
Quest que cest
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away
Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh....

song performed by Talking Heads
Added by Lucian Velea
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Happiness?

Afar I found my happiness,
a place where I could be my best.
Far away from what caused my distress,
I finally conquered my life-long quest.
The quest to find pure happiness,
that was the quest that I've been blessed.
But what you ask is pure happiness? ..
Honestly, I'm not really sure..
just take a guess.

Being happy as what I see,
is something we always want to be.
But how you ask can we always be,
very happy for eternity?

In our days, this happiness,
it's something we just risk to mess.
But happiness where can we find?
I want to know.. what's on your mind?

We got all the needs but more of the wants,
sometimes we even want more pairs of pants.
Like all other things,
I think this happiness is just temporary.
All these things I've been saying,
honestly, I feel it's very contrary.

I guess this quest that I've been blessed,
hasn't really been conquered just yet..
'cause I feel a bit haggard about this quest,
I think for a while I need to take a rest.

So, all of you who also got this quest,
come, please help me, I'm in such a big mess.
Come on,
just tell me..
is it east or west..
where did you find this so called
'happiness'?

poem by Cookie Matzii
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Less Tolerant of Your Success

Tolerant?
I am accused of not being tolerant?
This has got to be something filmed,
On a candid camera.
It is...
Isn't it?

I guess you will soon accusing me,
Of preventing your success?
How about this one...
Holding you back,
From promotions you were not qualified to get,
Even though I place higher scores...
On all of the recent tests.

Oh...
And yesI
How could I forget?
Forgive me for introducing race,
To profile you based upon the color of your skin.
And not consider your efforts made,
To improve your life and protect your assets.

And excuse all of the people I represent.
You know the ones enjoying the act,
Of suppressing themselves.
With the love of stress,
Lived under constant duress.

You are most correct.
I guess I have been less tolerant of your success.
When I should be more grateful to know,
My own people are thrilled to show suppression expressed...
In urban ghettos wherever across this country,
Anyone goes.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I'm not sure Kinsey has changed in these first twelve books. I think the reader learns more about her, but from Kinsey's perspective, only three years have passed while the rest of us have been getting older at a much faster clip.

quote by Sue Grafton
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Jack McGuire

They would have lynched me
Had I not been secretly hurried away
To the jail at Peoria.
And yet I was going peacefully home,
Carrying my jug, a little drunk,
When Logan, the marshal, halted me,
Called me a drunken hound and shook me,
And, when I cursed him for it, struck me
With that Prohibition loaded cane --
All this before I shot him.
They would have hanged me except for this:
My lawyer, Kinsey Keene, was helping to land
Old Thomas Rhodes for wrecking the bank,
And the judge was a friend of Rhodes
And wanted him to escape,
And Kinsey offered to quit on Rhodes
For fourteen years for me.
And the bargain was made. I served my time
And learned to read and write.

poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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The Spooniad

[The late Mr. Jonathan Swift Somers, laureate of Spoon River, planned The Spooniad as an epic in twenty-four books, but unfortunately did not live to complete even the first book. The fragment was found among his papers by William Marion Reedy and was for the first time published in Reedy's Mirror of December 18th, 1914.]

Of John Cabanis' wrath and of the strife
Of hostile parties, and his dire defeat
Who led the common people in the cause
Of freedom for Spoon River, and the fall
Of Rhodes' bank that brought unnumbered woes
And loss to many, with engendered hate
That flamed into the torch in Anarch hands
To burn the court-house, on whose blackened wreck
A fairer temple rose and Progress stood --
Sing, muse, that lit the Chian's face with smiles,
Who saw the ant-like Greeks and Trojans crawl
About Scamander, over walls, pursued
Or else pursuing, and the funeral pyres
And sacred hecatombs, and first because
Of Helen who with Paris fled to Troy
As soul-mate; and the wrath of Peleus' son,
Decreed to lose Chryseis, lovely spoil
Of war, and dearest concubine.
Say first,
Thou son of night, called Momus, from whose eyes
No secret hides, and Thalia, smiling one,
What bred 'twixt Thomas Rhodes and John Cabanis
The deadly strife? His daughter Flossie, she,
Returning from her wandering with a troop
Of strolling players, walked the village streets,
Her bracelets tinkling and with sparkling rings
And words of serpent wisdom and a smile
Of cunning in her eyes. Then Thomas Rhodes,
Who ruled the church and ruled the bank as well,
Made known his disapproval of the maid;
And all Spoon River whispered and the eyes
Of all the church frowned on her, till she knew
They feared her and condemned.
But them to flout
She gave a dance to viols and to flutes,
Brought from Peoria, and many youths,
But lately made regenerate through the prayers
Of zealous preachers and of earnest souls,
Danced merrily, and sought her in the dance,
Who wore a dress so low of neck that eyes
Down straying might survey the snowy swale
Till it was lost in whiteness.
With the dance
The village changed to merriment from gloom.
The milliner, Mrs. Williams, could not fill
Her orders for new hats, and every seamstress
Plied busy needles making gowns; old trunks

[...] Read more

poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Accepting To Protect False Beliefs

The telling of lies told and sold,
To deny in a hiding of one's insecurities...
Does not prevent,
An increasing mental instability...
As witnessed by those,
Not only experiencing buyer's remorse...
But shows the ones who have lied,
Responsible for much that has gone...
Misunderstood most of their lives,
While fighting against denials.

And today...
There is no way of escaping,
With a possibility on either side of truth...
To correct relationships destroyed to redo,
By accepting to protect false beliefs as done.
Or can fix to mend anyone's heart broken,
Of those victimized who have forgiven.
Since they will never be able to erase in time,
From their minds...
The effects of what has happened to them.

Accepting to protect,
False beliefs...
Doesn't shadow,
A truth that's known.

Accepting to protect,
False beliefs...
Doesn't shadow,
A truth that's known.

Accepting to protect,
False beliefs...
Doesn't shadow,
A truth that's known...
To keep those from being aware,
With a clearing of polluted air.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The non-existent truth

The defined and undefined truth,
Endowed with knowledge or without knowledge,
Sometimes real or unreal,
Certainly including being and non-being,

Accepting that being is true,
Accepting the non-existence of being,

When the absence of existence means the negation of being,

Accepting that truth did not exist,
And it would have been true that it did not exist, at the same time,
Understanding that truth is eternal,

Imagining the idea of a non-existing world,
Before its own existence,

Accepting the universal and immortal truth,
So interchangeable with being,
While the universal never ceases of itself,

Recognizing the truth always existing in an eternal intellect,
While the created truth is not existing,

Understanding the created truth as not existing,
Remaining truth, when the true things have been destroyed,
Or remaining truth, when all true things can be destroyed,
Or remaining truth, when our minds can not see the truth itself,

Truth, being in sense, always as a consequence of its act.
Truth, not being in sense because
The sense does not know the truth it truly judges,
Even it judges truly about things,

The existent and non-existent truth.......

Copyright © ® Marieta Maglas. All rights reserved.

A philosophical poem about truth.(references: The Lankavatara Sutra, Mulamadhyamaka, The Vedanta-Sutras and Spinoza.)

poem by Marieta Maglas
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Request Line

Pick up the phone call up the line
Call up the re-quest line
Call up the line
Call up the re-quest line
Nana nana nananana na na nana nana
So call up the line
Get down wit, down wit us
(chorus) (macy gray)
This is a re-quest mr. radio man
Just one desire from a hip-hop fan
Hey dj (your on the line girl)
Hey dj (on the request line girl)
Play the record by my favorite band
I like to hear my favorite song on the radio
So I called and requested on the radio
Tell the dj spin it on the mix show
Make a brother feel like Im down at the disco
And we gonna keep it going like crisco
Cuz the dj grab the record by the fist full
By the crate full, and we greatful
When you hear the stuff of records get a tasteful
(last night the dj saved my life)
Cuz of the collection of the records he saved
To the direction of the record we swayed
And all night through the session we stayed
(hook)
Cuz you know you got the feeling
(all right)
Good God got the feeling
(all right)
Touch the ceiling when Im feelin
(all right now)
And I be feelin
(all right)
Dont stop keep it goin now come on
(chorus) (macy gray)
This is a re-quest mr. radio man
Just one desire from a hip-hop fan
Hey dj (your on the line girl)
Hey dj (on the request line girl)
Play the record by my favorite band
Turn table lets bless me on my stereo
Play my favorite song on my stereo
Like macy gray, roots, and dangelo
Mos def, les nubians, and de la soul
I like them cuts with the soul and original
Never afraid to be creative on your radio
Spin my jam when Im cruisin down the bario
Turn my audio up, create a party yo
(hey dj would you play ma song)

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song performed by Black Eyed Peas
Added by Lucian Velea
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Beowulf

LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings
of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,
we have heard, and what honor the athelings won!
Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,
from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,
awing the earls. Since erst he lay
friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him:
for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve,
till before him the folk, both far and near,
who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate,
gave him gifts: a good king he!
To him an heir was afterward born,
a son in his halls, whom heaven sent
to favor the folk, feeling their woe
that erst they had lacked an earl for leader
so long a while; the Lord endowed him,
the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown.
Famed was this Beowulf: far flew the boast of him,
son of Scyld, in the Scandian lands.
So becomes it a youth to quit him well
with his father's friends, by fee and gift,
that to aid him, aged, in after days,
come warriors willing, should war draw nigh,
liegemen loyal: by lauded deeds
shall an earl have honor in every clan.
Forth he fared at the fated moment,
sturdy Scyld to the shelter of God.
Then they bore him over to ocean's billow,
loving clansmen, as late he charged them,
while wielded words the winsome Scyld,
the leader beloved who long had ruled….
In the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel,
ice-flecked, outbound, atheling's barge:
there laid they down their darling lord
on the breast of the boat, the breaker-of-rings,
by the mast the mighty one. Many a treasure
fetched from far was freighted with him.
No ship have I known so nobly dight
with weapons of war and weeds of battle,
with breastplate and blade: on his bosom lay
a heaped hoard that hence should go
far o'er the flood with him floating away.
No less these loaded the lordly gifts,
thanes' huge treasure, than those had done
who in former time forth had sent him
sole on the seas, a suckling child.
High o'er his head they hoist the standard,
a gold-wove banner; let billows take him,
gave him to ocean. Grave were their spirits,
mournful their mood. No man is able

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poem by Charles Baudelaire
Added by Poetry Lover
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Quest

If my quest was to be the best...
I could not sit,
Until I sat in 'research' quick.
Before I grabbed a walking stick...
To adorn this climbing crusade!

I want to be dressed for the part!

If my quest was to be the best.
BS and all the rest of that nonsense,
Would be left behind...
With the ignorance that it swallows.

If my quest was to be the best.
I would need to learn how to be uncomfortable...
Sometimes.
And in my discomfort I think of what's been left behind.
And I find myself in my mind feeling at home!
Glued like a magnet to the ignorance that comforts!

If my quest was to be the best...
I would find a way to excavate this 'home'
Decorated with my heart and soul within me!
And 'that' would be the best of my quest.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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