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They are not royal. They just happen to have me as their aunt.

quote by Elizabeth II
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Tamar

I
A night the half-moon was like a dancing-girl,
No, like a drunkard's last half-dollar
Shoved on the polished bar of the eastern hill-range,
Young Cauldwell rode his pony along the sea-cliff;
When she stopped, spurred; when she trembled, drove
The teeth of the little jagged wheels so deep
They tasted blood; the mare with four slim hooves
On a foot of ground pivoted like a top,
Jumped from the crumble of sod, went down, caught, slipped;
Then, the quick frenzy finished, stiffening herself
Slid with her drunken rider down the ledges,
Shot from sheer rock and broke
Her life out on the rounded tidal boulders.

The night you know accepted with no show of emotion the little
accident; grave Orion
Moved northwest from the naked shore, the moon moved to
meridian, the slow pulse of the ocean
Beat, the slow tide came in across the slippery stones; it drowned
the dead mare's muzzle and sluggishly
Felt for the rider; Cauldwell’s sleepy soul came back from the
blind course curious to know
What sea-cold fingers tapped the walls of its deserted ruin.
Pain, pain and faintness, crushing
Weights, and a vain desire to vomit, and soon again
die icy fingers, they had crept over the loose hand and lay in the
hair now. He rolled sidewise
Against mountains of weight and for another half-hour lay still.
With a gush of liquid noises
The wave covered him head and all, his body
Crawled without consciousness and like a creature with no bones,
a seaworm, lifted its face
Above the sea-wrack of a stone; then a white twilight grew about
the moon, and above
The ancient water, the everlasting repetition of the dawn. You
shipwrecked horseman
So many and still so many and now for you the last. But when it
grew daylight
He grew quite conscious; broken ends of bone ground on each
other among the working fibers
While by half-inches he was drawing himself out of the seawrack
up to sandy granite,
Out of the tide's path. Where the thin ledge tailed into flat cliff
he fell asleep. . . .
Far seaward
The daylight moon hung like a slip of cloud against the horizon.
The tide was ebbing
From the dead horse and the black belt of sea-growth. Cauldwell
seemed to have felt her crying beside him,

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poem by Robinson Jeffers
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It Can Happen

You can fool yourself
You can cheat until youre blind
You can cut your heart
It can happen
You can mend the wires
You can feed the soul apart
You reach
It can happen to you
It can happen to me
It can happen to everyone eventually
Its a constant fight
A constant fight
Youre pushing the needle to the red
Black and white
Who knows whos right
No substitute youre born youre dead
Fly by night
Created out of fantasy
Our destinations call
Look up - look down
Look out - look around
Look up - look down
Theres a crazy world outside
Were not about to lose our pride
It can happen to you
It can happen to me
It can happen to everyone eventually
As you happen to say
It can happen today
As it happens
It happens in every way
This world I like
We architects of life
A song a sigh
Developing words that linger
Through fields of green through open eyes
This for us to see
Look up - look down
Look out - look around
So look up - look down
Theres a crazy world outside
Were not about to lose our pride
It can happen to you
It can happen to me
It can happen to everyone eventually
As you happen to say
It can happen today
As it happens
It happens in every way
As you happen to see

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song performed by Yes
Added by Lucian Velea
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It Can Happen

You can fool yourself
You can cheat until youre blind
You can cut your heart
It can happen
You can mend the wires
You can feed the soul apart
You reach
It can happen to you
It can happen to me
It can happen to everyone eventually
Its a constant fight
A constant fight
Youre pushing the needle to the red
Black and white
Who knows whos right
No substitute youre born youre dead
Fly by night
Created out of fantasy
Our destinations call
Look up - look down
Look out - look around
Look up - look down
Theres a crazy world outside
Were not about to lose our pride
It can happen to you
It can happen to me
It can happen to everyone eventually
As you happen to say
It can happen today
As it happens
It happens in every way
This world I like
We architects of life
A song a sigh
Developing words that linger
Through fields of green through open eyes
This for us to see
Look up - look down
Look out - look around
So look up - look down
Theres a crazy world outside
Were not about to lose our pride
It can happen to you
It can happen to me
It can happen to everyone eventually
As you happen to say
It can happen today
As it happens
It happens in every way
As you happen to see

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song performed by Yes
Added by Lucian Velea
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Anything Can Happen

Intro:
I got the skully to my face (hardcore)
I got the skully to my face (hardcore)
Cause anything can happen at the carnival
(yo make room, make room, make room, make room, make room)
You cant stop the shining
Yo, dont slip mike
You dont want to go there is all, trust me
I know your girl wit you, but you dont want to get embarassed
Trust me
Chorus:
Yo, when youre rolling to the carnival, anything can happen
What, what, say what, say what, anything can happen
Making love to your girlfriend, anything can happen
What? say what, say what, anything can happen
Shes sleepin wit your best friend cause anything can happen
Wh-a-at? say what, say what, anything can happen
You roll down the block, come back with your gat
And pow, cause anything can happen
Verse one:
Feel this composition, its a brand new dub
First thing I did, was went to the pub
Tequila with worm, lemon, salt, and no rocks
Cause when it hits my chest -- it gots to be hot
Uh haha, stop, clef can I rock, yo
Get out the bathroom, let me go again from the top
Feel this composition, I wrote it in the tub
First thing I did, was went to the pub
Tequila with worm, lemon, salt, and no rocks
Cause when it hits my chest -- it gots to be hot
Ahhh, stop, clef can I rock
Id like to give a shout out to my people on the block
For you silly willy playin thug cartoon
My infrared scope got your movements on zoom
Boom new toon, write songs in my room
Sleeping with the bride, even though I aint the groom
Your husband assume, come back with his goons
Put me in the trunk on your way to your honeymoon
Radio my platoon, wyclef to sev
i hear them playing elvis, they on they way to graceland
But they dont scare me, Im in the trunk, I aint sorry
Natural born killer, who slept with the enemy
Think quick, what should I do, what did double-oh-seven do?
I pulled a bomb from my shoe (hahahahaha)
And exploded the trunk (blaooww) I woke up half drunk
Over looked by a bunch of gypsies wit a bag of skunk
Chorus:
You got the skully to your face, star, anything can happen
What, what, say what, say what, anything can happen
Sellin crack in the corner, man, anything can happen

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song performed by Wyclef Jean
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Second Book

TIMES followed one another. Came a morn
I stood upon the brink of twenty years,
And looked before and after, as I stood
Woman and artist,–either incomplete,
Both credulous of completion. There I held
The whole creation in my little cup,
And smiled with thirsty lips before I drank,
'Good health to you and me, sweet neighbour mine
And all these peoples.'
I was glad, that day;
The June was in me, with its multitudes
Of nightingales all singing in the dark,
And rosebuds reddening where the calyx split.
I felt so young, so strong, so sure of God!
So glad, I could not choose be very wise!
And, old at twenty, was inclined to pull
My childhood backward in a childish jest
To see the face of't once more, and farewell!
In which fantastic mood I bounded forth
At early morning,–would not wait so long
As even to snatch my bonnet by the strings,
But, brushing a green trail across the lawn
With my gown in the dew, took will and way
Among the acacias of the shrubberies,
To fly my fancies in the open air
And keep my birthday, till my aunt awoke
To stop good dreams. Meanwhile I murmured on,
As honeyed bees keep humming to themselves;
'The worthiest poets have remained uncrowned
Till death has bleached their foreheads to the bone,
And so with me it must be, unless I prove
Unworthy of the grand adversity,–
And certainly I would not fail so much.
What, therefore, if I crown myself to-day
In sport, not pride, to learn the feel of it,
Before my brows be numb as Dante's own
To all the tender pricking of such leaves?
Such leaves? what leaves?'
I pulled the branches down,
To choose from.
'Not the bay! I choose no bay;
The fates deny us if we are overbold:
Nor myrtle–which means chiefly love; and love
Is something awful which one dare not touch
So early o' mornings. This verbena strains
The point of passionate fragrance; and hard by,
This guelder rose, at far too slight a beck
Of the wind, will toss about her flower-apples.
Ah–there's my choice,–that ivy on the wall,
That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow

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poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Aunt Tabitha

THE YOUNG GIRL'S POEM

WHATEVER I do, and whatever I say,
Aunt Tabitha tells me that is n't the way;
When she was a girl (forty summers ago)
Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.

Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice!
But I like my own way, and I find it so nice
And besides, I forget half the things I am told;
But they all will come back to me--when I am old.

If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt,
He may chance to look in as I chance to look out;
She would never endure an impertinent stare,--
It is horrid, she says, and I must n't sit there.

A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own,
But it is n't quite safe to be walking alone;
So I take a lad's arm,--just for safety, you know,--
But Aunt Tabitha tells me they did n't do so.

How wicked we are, and how good they were then!
They kept at arm's length those detestable men;
What an era of virtue she lived in!--But stay--
Were the men all such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day?

If the men were so wicked, I 'll ask my papa
How he dared to propose to my darling mamma;
Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! Who knows?
And what shall I say, if a wretch should propose?

I am thinking if Aunt knew so little of sin,
What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been!
And her grand-aunt--it scares me--how shockingly sad
That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad!

A martyr will save us, and nothing else can;
Let me perish--to rescue some wretched young man!
Though when to the altar a victim I go,
Aunt Tabitha 'll tell me she never did so.

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Old Aunt Mary's

Wasn't it pleasant, O brother mine,
In those old days of the lost sunshine
Of youth-- when the Saturday's chores were through,
And the 'Sunday's wood' in the kitchen too,
And we went visiting, 'me and you,'
Out to Old Aunt Mary's?

It all comes back so clear to-day!
Though I am as bald as you are gray--
Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane,
We patter along in the dust again,
As light as the tips of the drops of the rain,
Out to Old Aunt Mary's!

We cross the pasture, and through the wood
Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood,
Where the hammering 'red-heads' hopped awry,
And the buzzard 'raised' in the 'clearing' sky
And lolled and circled, as we went by
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

And then in the dust of the road again;
And the teams we met, and the countrymen;
And the long highway, with sunshine spread
As thick as butter on country bread,
Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

Why, I see her now in the open door,
Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er
The clapboard roof--! And her face-- ah, me!
Wasn't it good for a boy to see--
And wasn't it good for a boy to be
Out to Old Aunt Mary's?

The jelly-- the Jam and the marmalade,
And the cherry and quince 'preserves'' she made!
And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear,
With cinnamon in 'em, and all things rare--!
And the more we ate was the more to spare,
Out to Old Aunt Mary's!

And the old spring-house in the cool green gloom
Of the willow-trees--, and the cooler room
Where the swinging-shelves and the crocks were kept--
Where the cream in a golden languor slept
While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept--
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

And O my brother, so far away,

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poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Growth of Sym

Now Sym was a Glug; and 'tis mentioned so
That the tale reads perfectly plain as we go.
In his veins ran blood of that stupid race
Of docile folk, who inhabit the place
Called Gosh, sad Gosh, where the tall trees sigh
With a strange, significant sort of cry
When the gloaming creeps and the wind is high.

When the deep shades creep and the wind is high
The trees bow low as the gods ride by:
Gods of the gloaming, who ride on the breeze,
Stooping to heaften the birds and the trees.
But each dull Glug sits down by his door,
And mutters, ' 'Tis windy!' and nothing more,
Like the long-dead Glugs in the days of yore.

When Sym was born there was much to-do,
And his parents thought him a joy to view;
But folk not prejudiced saw the Glug,
As his nurse remarked, 'In the cut of his mug.'
For he had their hair, and he had their eyes,
And the Glug expression of pained surprise,
And their predilection for pumpkin pies.

And his parents' claims were a deal denied
By his maiden aunt on his mother's side,
A tall Glug lady of fifty-two
With a slight moustache of an auburn hue.
'Parental blither!' she said quite flat.
'He's an average Glug; and he's red and fat!
And exceedingly fat and red at that!'

But the father, joi, when he gazed on Sym,
Dreamed great and wonderful things for him.
Said he, 'If the mind of a Glug could wake
Then, Oh, what a wonderful Glug he'd make!
We shall teach this laddie to play life's game
With a different mind and a definite aim:
A Glug in appearance, yet not the same.'

But the practical aunt said, 'Fudge! You fool!
We'll pack up his dinner and send him to school.
He shall learn about two-times and parsing and capes,
And how to make money with inches on tapes.
We'll apprentice him then to the drapery trade,
Where, I've heard it reported, large profits are made;
Besides, he can sell us cheap buttons and braid.'

So poor young Sym, he was sent to school,
Where the first thing taught is the Golden Rule.

[...] Read more

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Aunt Imogen

Aunt Imogen was coming, and therefore
The children—Jane, Sylvester, and Young George—
Were eyes and ears; for there was only one
Aunt Imogen to them in the whole world,
And she was in it only for four weeks
In fifty-two. But those great bites of time
Made all September a Queen’s Festival;
And they would strive, informally, to make
The most of them.—The mother understood,
And wisely stepped away. Aunt Imogen
Was there for only one month in the year,
While she, the mother,—she was always there;
And that was what made all the difference.
She knew it must be so, for Jane had once
Expounded it to her so learnedly
That she had looked away from the child’s eyes
And thought; and she had thought of many things.

There was a demonstration every time
Aunt Imogen appeared, and there was more
Than one this time. And she was at a loss
Just how to name the meaning of it all:
It puzzled her to think that she could be
So much to any crazy thing alive—
Even to her sister’s little savages
Who knew no better than to be themselves;
But in the midst of her glad wonderment
She found herself besieged and overcome
By two tight arms and one tumultuous head,
And therewith half bewildered and half pained
By the joy she felt and by the sudden love
That proved itself in childhood’s honest noise.
Jane, by the wings of sex, had reached her first;
And while she strangled her, approvingly,
Sylvester thumped his drum and Young George howled.
But finally, when all was rectified,
And she had stilled the clamor of Young George
By giving him a long ride on her shoulders,
They went together into the old room
That looked across the fields; and Imogen
Gazed out with a girl’s gladness in her eyes,
Happy to know that she was back once more
Where there were those who knew her, and at last
Had gloriously got away again
From cabs and clattered asphalt for a while;
And there she sat and talked and looked and laughed
And made the mother and the children laugh.
Aunt Imogen made everybody laugh.

There was the feminine paradox—that she

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poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Tale VIII

THE MOTHER.

There was a worthy, but a simple Pair,
Who nursed a Daughter, fairest of the fair:
Sons they had lost, and she alone remain'd,
Heir to the kindness they had all obtain'd,
Heir to the fortune they design'd for all,
Nor had th' allotted portion then been small;
And now, by fate enrich'd with beauty rare,
They watch'd their treasure with peculiar care:
The fairest features they could early trace,
And, blind with love saw merit in her face -
Saw virtue, wisdom, dignity, and grace;
And Dorothea, from her infant years,
Gain'd all her wishes from their pride or fears;
She wrote a billet, and a novel read,
And with her fame her vanity was fed;
Each word, each look, each action was a cause
For flattering wonder and for fond applause;
She rode or danced, and ever glanced around,
Seeking for praise, and smiling when she found,
The yielding pair to her petitions gave
An humble friend to be a civil slave,
Who for a poor support herself resign'd
To the base toil of a dependant mind:
By nature cold, our Heiress stoop'd to art,
To gain the credit of a tender heart.
Hence at her door must suppliant paupers stand,
To bless the bounty of her beauteous hand:
And now, her education all complete,
She talk'd of virtuous love and union sweet;
She was indeed by no soft passion moved,
But wished with all her soul to be beloved.
Here, on the favour'd beauty Fortune smiled;
Her chosen Husband was a man so mild,
So humbly temper'd, so intent to please,
It quite distress'd her to remain at ease,
Without a cause to sigh, without pretence to tease:
She tried his patience on a thousand modes,
And tried it not upon the roughest roads.
Pleasure she sought, and disappointed, sigh'd
For joys, she said, 'to her alone denied;'
And she was sure 'her parents if alive
Would many comforts for their child contrive:'
The gentle Husband bade her name him one;
'No--that,' she answered, 'should for her be done;
How could she say what pleasures were around?
But she was certain many might be found.'
'Would she some seaport, Weymouth, Scarborough,

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poem by George Crabbe
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Drop Your Buns Aunt Betty

Drop your buns Aunt Betty,
And that package on your back.
We ate your baked cookies,
And they went rather fast.

Drop your buns Aunt Betty,
We know they are delicious
Since they're made with cinnamon.
We're not a bit suspicious
Of the love that's in them.
Drop your buns Aunt Betty,
And grab a little snack and relax.
You owe us that!

Drop your buns Aunt Betty,
And that package on your back.
We ate your baked cookies,
And they went rather fast.

Drop your buns Aunt Betty.
Would you like a bowl of soup,
To boot that mood that has you pooped.
From all that mixing in the kitchen fixing food that you do.
There's some noodles with onions and peppers in it too!

Drop your buns Aunt Betty,
And that package on your back...
And relax.

Drop your buns Aunt Betty,
We know they are delicious
Since they're made with cinnamon.
We're not a bit suspicious
Of the love that's in them.
Drop your buns Aunt Betty,
And grab a little snack and relax.

You owe us that!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Recollections Of A Faded Beauty

AH! I remember when I was a girl
How my hair naturally used to curl,
And how my aunt four yards of net would pucker,
And call the odious thing, 'Diana's tucker.'
I hated it, because although, you see,
It did for her, it didn't do for me.
(Popkins said I should wear a low corsage,
But this I know was merely badinage.)
I recollect the gaieties of old--
Ices when hot, and punch when we were cold!
Race-balls, and county-balls, and balls where you,
For seven shillings, got dance and supper too.
Oh! I remember all the routs and plays--
'But words are idle,' as Lord Byron says;
And so am I, and therefore can spare time,
To put my recollections into rhyme.
I recollect the man who did declare
When I was at the fair, myself was fair:
(I had it in my album for three years,
And often looked, and shed delicious tears.)
I didn't fall in love, however, then,
Because I never saw that man again.
And I remember Popkins--ah! too well!
And all who once in love with Chloë fell.
They called me Chloë for they said my grace
Was nymph-like; as was also half my face.
My mouth was wide, but then I had a smile
Which might a demon of its tears beguile.--
As Captain Popkins said, or rather swore,
He liked me, (ah! my Popkins!) all the more.
He couldn't bear a little mouth, for when
It laughed, 'twas like a long slit in a pen;
Or button-hole stretched on too big a button;
Or little cut for gravy in boiled mutton.
(Popkins was clever)--but I must proceed
More regularly, that my friends may read.
I didn't marry, for I couldn't get
A man I liked; I havn't got one yet;
But I had handsome lovers by the score:
Alas! alas! I always sighed for more.

First came young Minton, of the ninth Hussars,
His eyes were bright and twinkling as the stars.
There was, indeed, a little little cast,
But he assured me that it would not last;
And only came, when he, one cold bivouac,
Gazed on the foe, and could not turn it back--
The chill was so intense! Poor Minton, I
Really did think he certainly would die.
He gave me of himself a little print;

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poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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The Victories Of Love. Book II

I
From Jane To Her Mother

Thank Heaven, the burthens on the heart
Are not half known till they depart!
Although I long'd, for many a year,
To love with love that casts out fear,
My Frederick's kindness frighten'd me,
And heaven seem'd less far off than he;
And in my fancy I would trace
A lady with an angel's face,
That made devotion simply debt,
Till sick with envy and regret,
And wicked grief that God should e'er
Make women, and not make them fair.
That he might love me more because
Another in his memory was,
And that my indigence might be
To him what Baby's was to me,
The chief of charms, who could have thought?
But God's wise way is to give nought
Till we with asking it are tired;
And when, indeed, the change desired
Comes, lest we give ourselves the praise,
It comes by Providence, not Grace;
And mostly our thanks for granted pray'rs
Are groans at unexpected cares.
First Baby went to heaven, you know,
And, five weeks after, Grace went, too.
Then he became more talkative,
And, stooping to my heart, would give
Signs of his love, which pleased me more
Than all the proofs he gave before;
And, in that time of our great grief,
We talk'd religion for relief;
For, though we very seldom name
Religion, we now think the same!
Oh, what a bar is thus removed
To loving and to being loved!
For no agreement really is
In anything when none's in this.
Why, Mother, once, if Frederick press'd
His wife against his hearty breast,
The interior difference seem'd to tear
My own, until I could not bear
The trouble. 'Twas a dreadful strife,
And show'd, indeed, that faith is life.
He never felt this. If he did,
I'm sure it could not have been hid;
For wives, I need not say to you,

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poem by Coventry Patmore
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Tale VI

THE FRANK COURTSHIP.

Grave Jonas Kindred, Sybil Kindred's sire,
Was six feet high, and look'd six inches higher;
Erect, morose, determined, solemn, slow,
Who knew the man could never cease to know:
His faithful spouse, when Jonas was not by,
Had a firm presence and a steady eye;
But with her husband dropp'd her look and tone,
And Jonas ruled unquestion'd and alone.
He read, and oft would quote the sacred words,
How pious husbands of their wives were lords;
Sarah called Abraham Lord! and who could be,
So Jonas thought, a greater man than he?
Himself he view'd with undisguised respect,
And never pardon'd freedom or neglect.
They had one daughter, and this favourite child
Had oft the father of his spleen beguiled;
Soothed by attention from her early years,
She gained all wishes by her smiles or tears;
But Sybil then was in that playful time,
When contradiction is not held a crime;
When parents yield their children idle praise
For faults corrected in their after days.
Peace in the sober house of Jonas dwelt,
Where each his duty and his station felt:
Yet not that peace some favour'd mortals find,
In equal views and harmony of mind;
Not the soft peace that blesses those who love,
Where all with one consent in union move;
But it was that which one superior will
Commands, by making all inferiors still;
Who bids all murmurs, all objections, cease,
And with imperious voice announces--Peace!
They were, to wit, a remnant of that crew,
Who, as their foes maintain, their Sovereign slew;
An independent race, precise, correct,
Who ever married in the kindred sect:
No son or daughter of their order wed
A friend to England's king who lost his head;
Cromwell was still their Saint, and when they met,
They mourn'd that Saints were not our rulers yet.
Fix'd were their habits; they arose betimes,
Then pray'd their hour, and sang their party-

rhymes:
Their meals were plenteous, regular and plain;
The trade of Jonas brought him constant gain;
Vender of hops and malt, of coals and corn -
And, like his father, he was merchant born:

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poem by George Crabbe
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At My Aunt's Unveiling

AT MY AUNT’S UNVEILING

At my aunt’s unveiling
There were five of us
Only five
One was a woman
A friend of hers
Not the closest one
But someone who knew her
And wanted to be a friend.

Thousands of people had known my aunt
Hundreds had worked with or for her
She was born into a large family
But all of them were gone
Or out of it.

My sister and I were the relatives
My aunt had been very generous to us
And difficult for my sister
Who cared for her.

I had only been a taker all the years.

My aunt worked so hard for so many years
And she was ‘somebody’ in her world

There were five of us there
And the ceremony short
No minyan.

There was no sign of my aunt’s smile
Or her nervous energy or her superabundant love
‘Moll ‘as my mother called her
was not there.

I see her so clearly in my mind now
‘What does it all mean? ’ my father would ask my mother
after reading of the death of another person they knew

‘What does it all mean’

When my sister and I go
The memory of my aunt
Will be gone forever.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Added by Poetry Lover
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WHY DOES THIS ALWAYS HAPPEN TO ME?

I was watching my TV one night when they broke in with a special report
About some devastating earthquake in Peru
There were thirty thousand crushed to death, even more were buried alive
On the Richter scale it measured 8.2
And I said, "God, please answer me one question...
Why'd they have to interrupt The Simpsons just for this?"
What a drag, 'cause I was taping it and everything
And now I'll have to wait for the rerun to see the part of the show I missed
Why does this always happen...
Why does this always happen to me?
Why does this always happen...
Why does this always happen to me?
I was driving down the highway when all the traffic slowed to a crawl
There was a 12-car pile-up, everybody dead
And I saw brains and guts and vital organs splattered everywhere
As well as my friend Robert's disembodied head
And I thought - Poor Rob, I just had lunch with him
Hey, wait a minute, he still owes me money . what a jerk
Well, there's five bucks that I'm never gonna see again
Plus now, on top of everything else, it looks like I'm gonna be late to work
Oh, why does this always happen...
Why does this always happen to me?
Why does this always happen...
Why does this always happen to me?
Oh, the other day my boss said we were running low on toner
And he told me I should buy another case
Well, I told him I was busy, but he still just kept on asking
So I turned around and stabbed him in the face
Oh, and wouldn't you know it?
My knife got stuck
I guess that's probably bound to happen now and then
But I'm afraid I may have bent the tip a little
And I know the blade will never ever be quite as sharp again
Oh tell me, why does this always happen...
Why does this always happen to me?
Why does this always happen...
Why does this always happen to me?
Why does this always happen to me?
Why does this always happen to me?

song performed by Weird Al Yankovic
Added by Lucian Velea
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It Can Happen

Now that it has been approved...
You have been declared the keeper,
With power to independently think.
You have shown you can.
And allowed to express an opinion...
Without feeling you should shrink.
Into a corner and sink!
Your own mind will you now command!

It can happen! If you want it!
It can happen! And it will!
If you let it!

You 'assume' you and I,
Have something in common now?
Perhaps from your limited point of view...
That 'common-ness' you believe is true.
And shared between me and you.

It can happen! If you want it!
It can happen! And it will!
If you let it!

Remember you had asked,
Why there is a breeze when you hear me speak?
And why I seemed to be near,
Whenever you dared to peek?
You are still blossoming...
And yet to fly,
Like I have flown!
Many times have I watched you from afar...
To explore adventures I have known.

It can happen! If you want it!
It can happen! And it will!
If you let it!

You will develop your wings as well.
Your consciousness will expand...
To broaden thoughts and excell.
And 'your' breeze will release,
Into winds to expel debris!
You will learn to clear your path of obstacles.
Like I had to learn!
This you will see.

It can happen! If you want it!
It can happen! And it will!
If you let it!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Things Happen For Their Reasons

Things happen for their reasons.
And there is no need to make excuses,
For the obviousness...
Of those mistakes made.

Things happen for their reasons.
And,
What is there to say...
That can excuse mistakes away.

Stop that need to medicate.
Things happen for their reasons.
Why waste time in prolonged debates.
Thing happen for their reasons.
What is the purpose for seeking escapes.
Things happen for their reasons.
Acceptance eases,
The facing of one's fate.

Things happen for their reasons.
They happen for their reasons.

Stop that need to feed on grief.
Things happen for their reasons.
Why squeeze a healing wound to bleed.
Things happen for their reasons
They happen for their reasons.

And aging doesn't make one safe.
Or offer escapades as a gateway to charade.
Things happen for their reasons.
They happen for their reasons.

Things happen for their reasons.
And there is no need to make excuses,
For the obviousness...
Of those mistakes made.

Even while one ages,
With a life reminisced played on many stages...
Try their best to gracefully accept,
Things happen for their reasons.
And those experienced,
Eventually see this.

Things happen for their reasons.
And in the living of one's life...
A discovery reveals,
Those reasons with insight.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Royal princess

She was just waiting for me to come
With eyes wide open in disbelief to welcome
It was unusual to call me at little odd hours
I took it as special invitation and honor

She was from royal family and surrounded by loyalists
But fallen for me with unknown qualities as an artists
It was not done in royal circles as they were considered
Special class born to rule and for others to obey as ordered

The mass contacts were essential and so was the conduction of tours
As populist measures the relations were not allowed to sour
Their grievances were heard and addressed on the spot
All culprits and thieves were pursued and definitely caught

It was honor to be part of royal family
There might have been no dearth to accompany
There was tested loyalty and no doubts for integrity
This was taken as strict law and confirmed as very good quality

I used to accompany royal family as a trusted lieutenant
It was high honor to present the show when dignitaries were present
I was real star when court room was flooded with guests
Many artists may come on stage to perform with their best

I was not be enjoyed with royal hospitality for days to come
The water had flown over head and took different turn
It was feared that I will be done away with or deported
Certainly the royal decree was in disfavor and reported

Royal princess was adamant and not willing to surrender
She had expressed her strong resolve and defined with anger
Now I feared the royal forces may follow me and hunt
This was the last with on earth I really wished or wanted

She called me for patch up and offered royal hand
I senses trouble and had to return it with loyalty band
“I was not to do thing which may spell doom for her future”
She appreciated the sentiments and took the gesture for sure

I get shiver in spine when that memory surfaces
It gives me enough of astonishment with her kind face
She never faltered in her stand and stood firm
She was real royal blood and I proudly confirm

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Added by Poetry Lover
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Palamon And Arcite; Or, The Knight's Tale. From Chaucer. In Three Books. Book III.

The day approached when Fortune should decide
The important enterprise, and give the bride;
For now the rivals round the world had sought,
And each his number, well appointed, brought.
The nations far and near contend in choice,
And send the flower of war by public voice;
That after or before were never known
Such chiefs, as each an army seemed alone:
Beside the champions, all of high degree,
Who knighthood loved, and deeds of chivalry,
Thronged to the lists, and envied to behold
The names of others, not their own, enrolled.
Nor seems it strange; for every noble knight
Who loves the fair, and is endued with might,
In such a quarrel would be proud to fight.
There breathes not scarce a man on British ground
(An isle for love and arms of old renowned)
But would have sold his life to purchase fame,
To Palamon or Arcite sent his name;
And had the land selected of the best,
Half had come hence, and let the world provide the rest.
A hundred knights with Palamon there came,
Approved in fight, and men of mighty name;
Their arms were several, as their nations were,
But furnished all alike with sword and spear.

Some wore coat armour, imitating scale,
And next their skins were stubborn shirts of mail;
Some wore a breastplate and a light juppon,
Their horses clothed with rich caparison;
Some for defence would leathern bucklers use
Of folded hides, and others shields of Pruce.
One hung a pole-axe at his saddle-bow,
And one a heavy mace to stun the foe;
One for his legs and knees provided well,
With jambeux armed, and double plates of steel;
This on his helmet wore a lady's glove,
And that a sleeve embroidered by his love.

With Palamon above the rest in place,
Lycurgus came, the surly king of Thrace;
Black was his beard, and manly was his face
The balls of his broad eyes rolled in his head,
And glared betwixt a yellow and a red;
He looked a lion with a gloomy stare,
And o'er his eyebrows hung his matted hair;
Big-boned and large of limbs, with sinews strong,
Broad-shouldered, and his arms were round and long.
Four milk-white bulls (the Thracian use of old)
Were yoked to draw his car of burnished gold.

[...] Read more

poem by John Dryden
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