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When there is time to think about cricket, I think but when there is time to be with family, I try to do justice to that aspect of my life as well.

quote by Sachin Tendulkar
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On the Innate Drive For What is Right

As life bled, martyrdom flared its buds.
Repression, red from irritation,
Rendered chinks and cracks; but thuds of
Armament - in cowardice - accomplice of the
Dictatorial blight thro' countless years -
Wreaked its retribution:
Yet hope began to bloom a coloured carapace
Enshrining their allegiance ‘gainst the
Terror in their tears.

And on! Splits yawned - breaches in the junta:
Flesh fought fanatical minds -
Bullets welcomed into open hands
And blessed with yearnings for morality:
Chiselled man-toys of death and mutilation
Couldn't repel the might of freedom
Surging at the bright horizon.

Crepuscular rays of purpose, body,
Flooded pandemonium with
Overwhelming clarity, direction -
Burdened clouds drifting wayward as the
Light channelled out a vision,
Intensifying focus on tomorrow -
Deepen their stride
As they home in to
What is theirs,
Rightfully theirs!

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Justice...

… Slow Justice
Is Better Than No Justice
… I Just Want Justice and Peace

To Feel Justice
It Must Be Real Justice
Not Cut-Deals Or Just A Piece

Full Justice
Not Pull The Wool Justice
She’s Already Been Blindfolded Enough

We Accuse Justice
But To Lose Justice
Is To Unlock Chaos’ Cuffs

Justice …
Is Lustrous
In Pearls Of Conviction Displayed

Justice …
The Huntress
Were Wild-Wily-Wrongs Are Caged

A Cry For Justice
Is Why Justice’s
Scales-Weights Shouldn’t Be In Doubt

Legal Justice
Be Equal Justice
With Rules To Balance It Out

Honest Justice
Promise Justice
Is Right For The Poor and Oppressed

But Even Rich Justice
And Even Quick Justice
Should Be A Standard, Silvered Process

Raw Justice
Shouldn’t Be Flawed Justice
But Free To All Everywhere

The Power Of Justice
Is That The Hour Of Justice
Doesn’t Run Out Of Time Anywhere

Men Must Court Justice
And Support Justice

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poem by MoonBee Canady
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Justice Of The Peace

(ian hunter)
Its such a terrible shame it was only a game
Then her brothers found out seven johnny be goodes
We was only pretending at mummys and daddys
They totally misunderstood
Oh what a terrible plight what a terrible fight
It was too much to bear her father said ere
I think you better sign its a letter designed
To have you married by the first of the year
Get the justice of the peace
Get the justice get the justice of the peace
Oh get the justice of the peace
Get the justice get the justice of the peace
If you want to play with fire
Youll get yourself burned
I was messing with the ashes
But look at how it turned out
Get the justice of the peace
Get the justice get the justice of the peace
Oh what a terrible waste such a shocking disgrace
To give me away Im too young to die
A shotgun wedding heading straight for the sky
And Im shy mary ellen Im shy y y y
Get the justice of the peace
Get the justice Ill get the justice of the peace
Come on!
Get the justice of the peace
Get the justice Ill get the justice of the peace
When your chips go down
You came on the dice
Forget the mississippi
Take some friendly advice
Get the justice of the peace
Ill get the justice Ill get the justice of the peace
(give it to me old chum)
Get the justice of the peace
Get the justice Ill get the justice of the peace
Get the justice of the peace
Get the justice Ill get the justice of the peace
If you want to play with fire
Youll get yourself burned
And I was messing with the ashes
And look at how it turned out
Ill get the justice get the justice of the peace
Ill get the justice Ill get the justice of the peace
Ill get the justice get the justice of the peace
Ill get the justice Ill get the justice of the peace
Ill get the justice get the justice of the peace
Ill get the justice Ill get the justice of the peace
Ill get the justice get the justice of the peace

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song performed by Ian Hunter
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Hammer Of Justice

You see me but I'm not there
Like the calm before the storm
You hear me, I'm everywhere
In the wind and in the rain
Feel me in every breeze
I'm the chill inside your spine
I'm burning you start to freeze
As you slowly turn around
And down in your hole
Solitary darkness rule
You are forlorn
Cause justice will be mine
Prowling the night
Justice calling - We'll track you down
Justice calling - Ready to strike
Justice calling - Breaking the chains
Hammer of Justice seeking his revenge
Dead man walking by
There's a void inside his eyes
Judgement, a final sigh
Here the screams electrified
As the mirror turns blank
And your essence fades away
Your chapter's closed
Sealed with thunderbolts
Prowling the night
Justice calling - We'll track you down
Justice calling - Ready to strike
Justice calling - Breaking the chains
Strike with the Hammer of Justice
Justice calling - We'll track you down
Justice calling - Ready to strike
Justice calling - Breaking the chains
Hammer of Justice seeking his revenge
I see the injustice everywhere I go
I search for tomorrow and I know you will be there
The hammer of justice holds the key to the future
The bringer of sorrow is the last you'll see
Justice calling - We'll track you down
Justice calling - Ready to strike
Justice calling - Breaking the chains
Strike with the Hammer of Justice
Justice calling - We'll track you down
Justice calling - Ready to strike
Justice calling - Breaking the chains
Hammer of Justice seeking his revenge

song performed by Hammerfall
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Butterfly Flutterby

The butterfly was young
Her vibrant wings of delicate lace
Such grace such poise
A hcarming butterfly
The cricket was slick thicket
Moving quick but swift
Yet smart somewhat wise
Proud of his chirp
Hopping through the grass
Butterfly fluttered by till upon a rose
Spreading her wings a dainty show
Slowly sipping sweet
Hopping skipping
Cricket saw
Butterfly glanced
The cricket saw butterfly
The butterfly looked yonder
Cricket hopped and chirped
A jumpety crickety song
Butterfly sighed
And rolled her eyes
Cricket hopped closer
Butterfly laughed
Silly cricket trying hard
Butterfly cared less
Poor cricket hopped and hopped
Butterfly sipping nectar sweet
Cricket sang sonfter sweeter
Butterfly stopped
A song so sweet
Too lovely than nectar
Cricket hopped upon a rose
Butterfly jumped
Almost to fly away
Cricket song too lovely to fly away
Butterfly in a trance
Fluttering her wings lovely
Too charming
Too tempting
Crickect sang
Butterfly in a spell
Too late to break
Lovers forever
Strange couple though
Yet lovely
Yet happy
Suave cricket, Princess Butterfly
Flutterby, flutterby.......

poem by Bella Ravenstar
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

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poem by Robert Browning (1871)
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Lara

LARA. [1]

CANTO THE FIRST.

I.

The Serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain, [2]
And slavery half forgets her feudal chain;
He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord —
The long self-exiled chieftain is restored:
There be bright faces in the busy hall,
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall;
Far chequering o'er the pictured window, plays
The unwonted fagots' hospitable blaze;
And gay retainers gather round the hearth,
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth.

II.

The chief of Lara is return'd again:
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main?
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know,
Lord of himself; — that heritage of woe,
That fearful empire which the human breast
But holds to rob the heart within of rest! —
With none to check, and few to point in time
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime;
Then, when he most required commandment, then
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men.
It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace
His youth through all the mazes of its race;
Short was the course his restlessness had run,
But long enough to leave him half undone.

III.

And Lara left in youth his fatherland;
But from the hour he waved his parting hand
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall.
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare,
'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there;
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew
Cold in the many, anxious in the few.
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name,
His portrait darkens in its fading frame,
Another chief consoled his destined bride,
The young forgot him, and the old had died;
"Yet doth he live!" exclaims the impatient heir,
And sighs for sables which he must not wear.

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poem by Byron
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Lara. A Tale

The Serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain,
And slavery half forgets her feudal chain;
He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord--
The long self-exiled chieftain is restored:
There be bright faces in the busy hall,
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall;
Far chequering o'er the pictured window, plays
The unwonted fagots' hospitable blaze;
And gay retainers gather round the hearth,
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth.

II.
The chief of Lara is return'd again:
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main?
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know,
Lord of himself;--that heritage of woe,
That fearful empire which the human breast
But holds to rob the heart within of rest!--
With none to check, and few to point in time
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime;
Then, when he most required commandment, then
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men.
It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace
His youth through all the mazes of its race;
Short was the course his restlessness had run,
But long enough to leave him half undone.

III.
And Lara left in youth his fatherland;
But from the hour he waved his parting hand
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall.
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare,
'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there;
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew
Cold in the many, anxious in the few.
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name,
His portrait darkens in its fading frame,
Another chief consoled his destined bride,
The young forgot him, and the old had died;
'Yet doth he live!' exclaims the impatient heir,
And sighs for sables which he must not wear.
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place;
But one is absent from the mouldering file,
That now were welcome to that Gothic pile.

IV.
He comes at last in sudden loneliness,
And whence they know not, why they need not guess;

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poem by Byron
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Wandering Justice

Wandering Justice
O! Dear, have I hit a miss?
With wandering justice

When society systems fail
And someone goes to jail
Without any chance of bail
Or ever setting out again on sea to sail
For something they did not do; it is a sad tale

When there is war instead of peace
And dignified people are looking for ass to kiss
Where is justice?

Countries are suffering in health and poverty
Whilst others are enjoying wealth and property
Where is justice?

O! Dear, have I hit a miss?
With wandering justice

When someone you love
Is taken away to the skies above
Where is the justice?

When you read endlessly to take exams
Another passes it with some fraudulent scam
Where is the justice?

When all your life you work so hard
Doesn’t it get you viciously mad?
When the jackpot hits another who is bad
Where is the justice?

When life takes away your child
Because you ignored health symptoms as mild
Where is the justice?

At work when your original innovations
Reward your boss with a standing ovation
Followed by a double or triple promotion
And all you get from the boss is a caution
Where is the justice?

When living a healthy life is nothing but a trick
As destiny picks on you for the sake of a kick
With illnesses for the unhealthy and the weak
All the same you are the one who ends up sick
Where is the justice?

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poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Cricket

Reaching peak is a dream
Cricket is viamedia
To reach the peak
Cricket is a dream.

Reaching peak is a dream
Life is a dream
And dream comes true
Cricket is true.

Reaching peak is a dream
Dream is real
Pursue the dream
To enjoy life.

Reaching peak is a dream
Dream is cricket
Cricket sings the song
That enlightened life.

Reaching peak is a dream
Dream comes true
And in truth only
life becomes sincere and fluent.

Everything is cricket
And cricket that makes
both happy and sad
is the mixture that is life.

Life is cricket
Enjoy it
Sing it
And make hurrah.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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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,

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Wicket Cricket Critic

If the cricket critics' nagging
Merits stern official gagging
Which I doubt
How would critical ascetics,
With their prosy homiletics,
Shut it out?
And the question then arises:
If more cricketing surprises,
Such as bodyline, begin to threaten cricket,
And another stunt, when sprung,
Call for clicking of the tongue,
Should a cricket critic critically click it?

When the barrackers grow lyric
In a manner most satiric
And profane,
How, one ventures still to wonder,
May the clamor be kept under?
How restrain?
For one barbaric larrik-
In can do a lot of barrack-
In', and cause a lot of worry at the wicket.
But would sportsmen be abusing
Cricket canons in refusing
To supply that cricket critic with a ticket?

As a critic analytic
Of the cricket critics' critic
I would say,
When we criticise their cricket,
Then the players have to stick it,
Come what may.
No specific soporific
May be used; for it is diffic-
Ult to strike a critic partly paralytic.
So there's nothing gained in seeking,
As I know; and I am speaking
As a critic of the cricket critic's critic.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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...And Justice For All

Halls of Justice Painted Green
Money Talking
Power Wolves Beset Your Door
Hear Them Stalking
Soon You'll Please Their Appetite
They Devour
Hammer of Justice Crushes You
Overpower

The Ultimate in Vanity
Exploiting Their Supremacy
I Can't Believe the Things You Say
I Can't Believe
I Can't Believe the Price You Pay
Nothing Can Save You

Justice Is Lost
Justice Is Raped
Justice Is Gone
Pulling Your Strings
Justice Is Done
Seeking No Truth
Winning Is All
Find it So Grim
So True
So Real

Apathy Their Stepping Stone
So Unfeeling
Hidden Deep Animosity
So Deceiving
Through Your Eyes Their Light Burns
Hoping to Find
Inquisition Sinking You
With Prying Minds

The Ultimate in Vanity
Exploiting Their Supremacy
I Can't Believe the Things You Say
I Can't Believe
I Can't Believe the Price You Pay
Nothing Can Save You

Justice Is Lost
Justice Is Raped
Justice Is Gone
Pulling Your Strings
Justice Is Done
Seeking No Truth
Winning Is All

[...] Read more

song performed by Metallica from ...And Justice For All
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... & Justice For All

Halls of justice painted green
Money talking
Power wolves beset your door
Hear them stalking
Soon youll please their appetite
They devour
Hammer of justice crushes you
Overpower
The ultimate in vanity
Exploiting their supremacy
I cant believe the things you say
I cant believe
I cant believe the price you pay
Nothing can save you
Justice is lost
Justice is raped
Justice is gone
Pulling your strings
Justice is done
Seeking no truth
Winning is all
Find it so grim
So true
So real
Apathy their stepping stone
So unfeeling
Hidden deep animosity
So deceiving
Through your eyes their light burns
Hoping to find
Inquisition sinking you
With prying minds
The ultimate in vanity
Exploiting their supremacy
I cant believe the things you say
I cant believe
I cant believe the price you pay
Nothing can save you
Justice is lost
Justice is raped
Justice is gone
Pulling your strings
Justice is done
Seeking no truth
Winning is all
Find it so grim
So true
So real
Lady justice has been raped
Truth assassin

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song performed by Metallica
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Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, and William of Cloudesly

Part the First

Mery it was in the grene forest
Amonge the leves grene,
Wheras men hunt east and west,
Wyth bowes and arrowes kene,

To ryse the dere out of theyr denne,
Suche sightes hath ofte bene sene,
As by thre yemen of the north countrey,
By them it is I meane.

The one of them hight Adam Bel,
The other Clym of the Clough,
The thyrd was William of Cloudesly,
An archer good ynough.

They were outlawed for venyson,
These yemen everychone;
They swore them brethren upon a day,
To Englyshe-wood for to gone.

Now lith and lysten, gentylmen,
That of myrthes loveth to here:
Two of them were single men,
The third had a wedded fere.

Wyllyam was the wedded man,
Muche more then was hys care:
He sayde to hys brethren upon a day,
To Carleile he would fare,

For to speke with fayre Alyce his wife,
And with hys chyldren thre.
'By my trouth,' sayde Adam Bel,
'Not by the counsell of me.

'For if ye go to Carleile, brother,
And from thys wylde wode wende,
If the justice may you take,
Your lyfe were at an ende.'

'If that I come not to-morrowe, brother,
By pryme to you agayne,
Truste you then that I am 'taken,'
Or else that I am slayne.'

He toke hys leave of hys brethren two,
And to Carleile he is gon;

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Take Me Home

you know the irony of life is that you have like
this big dream to get where you wanna be
but once you get there you start to dream about where you came from.
I guess thats the part of the circle of our lives
like the hands of a clock going round.
if only we could wind them back and return to a time where the dream began.
its all too soon thats all will be is a dream in someones mind.
Look at me I'm famous on top of the world,
I finally reached up in time (im a superstar)
stand up, step back and take a look
is this really whut I had in mind? (i dont really think so)
I guessed them goals that we set in the day,
they actually came to be. (yup yup)
but now I'm lookin at a black white paper,
and with a whole book of memories (but we never read)
seven deep in the jeep with the camel top,
everybody and they drunk as hell,
?? and awesome dre and anybody by the right would see us
(cause we always went there)
songs were long and polution strong, and the faygo always warm and flat
(thats nasty)
but if now if this supposed to be heaven for me, then just give me my own
hell back
so take me home
(to my empty refridgerator)
cmon and take me home
(to a life in which I understand)
so take me home
(to my old school down in delray)
cmon and take me home
??
(cmon cmon) lets go yall
theres another festival down town,
take some bottles back up to the store
(i found two of em)
that would get us bus money down there
to get back we have to find some more
(might as well get drunk)
hangin our flyers up everywhere,
we coulda sworn we was makin noise,
(everybody knew us)
finally we had everyone in southwest
representin with the jj boys (everybody)
I stole to eat (i stole)
I stole to live (i stole)
I stole only to survive (if yous a hoodlum)
just like j said in 'ghetto zone' I stole a car with my tape inside
all we did was try to talk to hoes,
and none of them was tryin to hear (not 1 hoe)
it woulda meant so much more back then

[...] Read more

song performed by Insane Clown Posse
Added by Lucian Velea
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V. Count Guido Franceschini

Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
Needs must the Court be slow to understand
How this quite novel form of taking pain,
This getting tortured merely in the flesh,
Amounts to almost an agreeable change
In my case, me fastidious, plied too much
With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)
To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,
And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.
Four years have I been operated on
I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—
My self-respect, my care for a good name,
Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just
A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,
That looked up to my face when days were dim,
And fancied they found light there—no one spot,
Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.
That, and not this you now oblige me with,
That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!
The poor old noble House that drew the rags
O' the Franceschini's once superb array
Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—
Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out
And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!
Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence
Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,
The father I have some slight feeling for,
Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends
Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,
Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,
Properly push his child to wall one day!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Why Can't Family Be Family Again

why can't family be family again
we used to always be friends
we used to huddle together
whenever we got scared
we felt the warmth in one anothers arms
because we knew the love was there

we used to build forts out of whatever we had in our rooms
and wage sars
throwing pillows, books, and brooms

we used to have mini mosh pits
with just the four of us
we headbanged and pushed
we screamed and pretended to cuss

we used to protect eachother
we used to defend one another
we used to stand together like brothers and sister
when mom punished us we would all resist her

we used to be a family
a family that would always care
we used to be a family with more happiness than despair
we used to be a family that never hogged food or air
we used to be a family that told eachother we were there

we used to be a family
a family that sat down toghether and ate
we used to be a family full of our own ideas that we create
we used to be a family that got along without debate
we used to be a family with more love than hate

so why can't family be family again
and remember why those times were so good
why can't family be family again
and treat eachother the way we should

why can't family be family again
and throw the hate away
why can't family be family again
and invite the love to stay

poem by Marco Jimenez
Added by Poetry Lover
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Why Can't We Be A Family

why can't family be family again
we used to always be friends
we used to huddle together
whenever we got scared
we felt the warmth in one anothers arms
because we knew the love was there

we used to build forts out of whatever we had in our rooms
and wage sars
throwing pillows, books, and brooms

we used to have mini mosh pits
with just the four of us
we headbanged and pushed
we screamed and pretended to cuss

we used to protect eachother
we used to defend one another
we used to stand together like brothers and sister
when mom punished us we would all resist her

we used to be a family
a family that would always care
we used to be a family with more happiness than despair
we used to be a family that never hogged food or air
we used to be a family that told eachother we were there

we used to be a family
a family that sat down toghether and ate
we used to be a family full of our own ideas that we create
we used to be a family that got along without debate
we used to be a family with more love than hate

so why can't family be family again
and remember why those times were so good
why can't family be family again
and treat eachother the way we should

why can't family be family again
and throw the hate away
why can't family be family again
and invite the love to stay

poem by Ricky Baker
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!