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I grew up in Brooklyn.

quote by Johnny Kelly
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Brooklyn

Brooklyn
Child of freedom still new to this world
Brooklyn
Summer magic my sweet baby sweet girl
All the waiting all the praying
Brought the answer to all of the love weve been saving
All the hoping all the needing
Turned the dream of a vision into a real thing
Mamas happy
Brooklyn
Child of rhythm riding on a moonlit star
Brooklyn
Pretty daughter born with a smile
Daddy felt you fore he saw you
Mommy carried you so long
Mimi saw you fore she felt you
Four is a family so strong
My baby
Brooklyn
Child of children la is your home
Brooklyn
Sweetest princess well grow as you go
All the waiting all the praying
Brought the answer to all of the love weve been saving
All the hoping all the needing
Turned the dream of a vision into the real thing
Brooklyn
Child of music your song is of love
Brooklyn
Came together and I thank God above
Brooklyn
Child of freedom
Baby your daddys so proud of you
Brooklyn
Summer magic
Your sister love you too
Were all going to love you yeah
Mommy loves you too

song performed by Donna Summer
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Last Exit Brooklyn

When the sun crashes into your world
Look around and you try and find your girl
And youre daring, too sick of what you see
Out of town is the only place to be
When your life starts to run out of juice
Feel like dyin and you just want to get loose
Prayin moves dont make much sense to you
Seeing red before your feeling is blue
Last exit brooklyn....last exit brooklyn
Going back, getting out of this town
Stretch it lean and mean, it turns you around
Take your dreams and stretch them out on the street
Take your turn to get back on your feet
Feel the wheels singin over the ridge
Feel the song like oakland take you
All the time you knew you had the itch
All the girls were glad to see you
Last exit brooklyn....last exit brooklyn
Girl in ol v wont pray
Dont give you a hard time
All the girls from brooklyn say
Last exit brooklyn....last exit brooklyn
Do you remember the day you left the block
Your mama said you would live to regret it
Coming home, coming stoned, come in hope, coming ready
Are you holding steady
Last exit brooklyn....last exit brooklyn....last exit brooklyn
(mccafferty, agnew, charlton, sweet)
1984 fool circle music

song performed by Nazareth
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Brooklyn Blues

Words by Bruce Sussman and Jack Feldman
Music By Barry Manilow
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
See I flew in from the West Coast
Just the other day.
Yes, I flew in from the West Coast
and we circled J.F.K.
The movie ended and I pulled up the shade,
looked out the window while the Muzak played.
But in my head I'm singin',
singin' the Brooklyn Blues.
Oh, yea.
When you're growin' up in Brooklyn
the Bridge is like a friend.
Said when you're growin' up in Brooklyn
that Bridge is sure your friend.
Because that river, looks a hundred miles wide
when all your dreams are on the other side,
and th at can start you singin'
singin' the Brooklyn Blues.
Oh, yea.
Now I've got myself some money
a mansion in Bel-aire.
Yes I've spent a lot of money
and I"ve been most ev'ry-where.
But still there's somethin' missin' I"ve got to find,
a part of me I must've left behind,
that makes a guy start feelin',
feelin' those Brooklyn Blues.
My my.
I've sung love songs to a princess
more than once or twice.
I"ve sung rock 'n' roll in Paris,
jazz in paradise.
But there's a song of mine I couldn't have sung,
a tune I started back when I was young.
Now I've come home to finish,
finish my Brooklyn Blues.
My Brooklyn Blues.

song performed by Barry Manilow
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Rosalind and Helen: a Modern Eclogue

ROSALIND, HELEN, and her Child.

SCENE. The Shore of the Lake of Como.

HELEN
Come hither, my sweet Rosalind.
'T is long since thou and I have met;
And yet methinks it were unkind
Those moments to forget.
Come, sit by me. I see thee stand
By this lone lake, in this far land,
Thy loose hair in the light wind flying,
Thy sweet voice to each tone of even
United, and thine eyes replying
To the hues of yon fair heaven.
Come, gentle friend! wilt sit by me?
And be as thou wert wont to be
Ere we were disunited?
None doth behold us now; the power
That led us forth at this lone hour
Will be but ill requited
If thou depart in scorn. Oh, come,
And talk of our abandoned home!
Remember, this is Italy,
And we are exiles. Talk with me
Of that our land, whose wilds and floods,
Barren and dark although they be,
Were dearer than these chestnut woods;
Those heathy paths, that inland stream,
And the blue mountains, shapes which seem
Like wrecks of childhood's sunny dream;
Which that we have abandoned now,
Weighs on the heart like that remorse
Which altered friendship leaves. I seek
No more our youthful intercourse.
That cannot be! Rosalind, speak,
Speak to me! Leave me not! When morn did come,
When evening fell upon our common home,
When for one hour we parted,--do not frown;
I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken;
But turn to me. Oh! by this cherished token
Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown,
Turn, as 't were but the memory of me,
And not my scornèd self who prayed to thee!

ROSALIND
Is it a dream, or do I see
And hear frail Helen? I would flee
Thy tainting touch; but former years
Arise, and bring forbidden tears;

[...] Read more

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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The Witch of Hebron

A Rabbinical Legend

Part I.
From morn until the setting of the sun
The rabbi Joseph on his knees had prayed,
And, as he rose with spirit meek and strong,
An Indian page his presence sought, and bowed
Before him, saying that a lady lay
Sick unto death, tormented grievously,
Who begged the comfort of his holy prayers.
The rabbi, ever to the call of grief
Open as day, arose; and girding straight
His robe about him, with the page went forth;
Who swiftly led him deep into the woods
That hung, heap over heap, like broken clouds
On Hebron’s southern terraces; when lo!
Across a glade a stately pile he saw,
With gleaming front, and many-pillared porch
Fretted with sculptured vinage, flowers and fruit,
And carven figures wrought with wondrous art
As by some Phidian hand.

But interposed
For a wide space in front, and belting all
The splendid structure with a finer grace,
A glowing garden smiled; its breezes bore
Airs as from paradise, so rich the scent
That breathed from shrubs and flowers; and fair the growths
Of higher verdure, gemm’d with silver blooms,
Which glassed themselves in fountains gleaming light
Each like a shield of pearl.

Within the halls
Strange splendour met the rabbi’s careless eyes,
Halls wonderful in their magnificance,
With pictured walls, and columns gleaming white
Like Carmel’s snow, or blue-veined as with life;
Through corridors he passed with tissues hung
Inwrought with threaded gold by Sidon’s art,
Or rich as sunset clouds with Tyrian dye;
Past lofty chambers, where the gorgeous gleam
Of jewels, and the stainèd radiance

Of golden lamps, showed many a treasure rare
Of Indian and Armenian workmanship
Which might have seemed a wonder of the world:
And trains of servitors of every clime,
Greeks, Persians, Indians, Ethiopians,
In richest raiment thronged the spacious halls.

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Harpur
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The King of the Vasse

A LEGEND OF THE BUSH.

MY tale which I have brought is of a time
Ere that fair Southern land was stained with crime,
Brought thitherward in reeking ships and cast
Like blight upon the coast, or like a blast
From angry levin on a fair young tree,
That stands thenceforth a piteous sight to see.
So lives this land to-day beneath the sun,—
A weltering plague-spot, where the hot tears run,
And hearts to ashes turn, and souls are dried
Like empty kilns where hopes have parched and died.
Woe's cloak is round her,—she the fairest shore
In all the Southern Ocean o'er and o'er.
Poor Cinderella! she must bide her woe,
Because an elder sister wills it so.
Ah! could that sister see the future day
When her own wealth and strength are shorn away,
A.nd she, lone mother then, puts forth her hand
To rest on kindred blood in that far land;
Could she but see that kin deny her claim
Because of nothing owing her but shame,—
Then might she learn 'tis building but to fall,
If carted rubble be the basement-wall.

But this my tale, if tale it be, begins
Before the young land saw the old land's sins
Sail up the orient ocean, like a cloud
Far-blown, and widening as it neared,—a shroud
Fate-sent to wrap the bier of all things pure,
And mark the leper-land while stains endure.
In the far days, the few who sought the West
Were men all guileless, in adventurous quest
Of lands to feed their flocks and raise their grain,
And help them live their lives with less of pain
Than crowded Europe lets her children know.
From their old homesteads did they seaward go,
As if in Nature's order men must flee
As flow the streams,—from inlands to the sea.

In that far time, from out a Northern land,
With home-ties severed, went a numerous band
Of men and wives and children, white-haired folk:
Whose humble hope of rest at home had broke,
As year was piled on year, and still their toil
Had wrung poor fee from -Sweden's rugged soil.
One day there gathered from the neighboring steads,
In Jacob Eibsen's, five strong household heads,—
Five men large-limbed and sinewed, Jacob's sons,

[...] Read more

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Dienda

How like the fall
To be gone in a day
Just as the leaves had turned gold
I was drawn to the sound
That the wind carried down
From an open window pane
And oh, how like a song
Or a sad melody
To linger long after the end
And the harmony rings
With the promise of spring
On a Brooklyn street
How like the fall to be gone in a day
Just as the trees had turned gold
I was drawn to this sound
That some fingers had found
But now the winter seems to stay too long
How like a song
Or a sad melody
To linger long after it's gone
Though the window is closed
And the questions it posed
On a Brooklyn street
How like the spring
To return in a day
When everything seems to be new
But here's someone who's hoping
The window is open
On that Brooklyn street again
And oh, how like a song
Or a sweet melody
To linger long after it's gone
Let the harmony ring
With the promise of spring
On a Brooklyn street

song performed by Sting
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Hes The Dj....

Artist: dj jazzy jeff & the fresh prince
(put your hands together, welcome fresh prince and jazzy jeff)
Mic check, yall ready to have a party out there?
I cant hear you, is brooklyn ready to have a party out there?
Before we get started here
Id like to pay a couple respects to the people
That made me what I am today
All the people I used to listen to while I was growing up
Put your hands together for grand master caz and mellie mel
Let me hear it back there, for grand master caz and mellie mel
Id like to pay my repsects to mr. magic, dj red alert
You know Im a young boy, Im just coming up, you know, starting to do this
Im 17 years old and gonna do what I wanna do up here, right?
But before I do what I wanna do I wanna know is brooklyn in the place?
Brooklyns out there, bedsty? wheres bedsty at?
Ready, yeah? we gonna get started like this
And you know it, you know it
Everybdoy put your hands in the air
Let me see you put your hands in the air
If you came to have a party right now
Everybody let me hear you say hooooo
Say ho ho
Now all the ladies
All the ladies in the house say owwww
Say owwww
Ya dont stop
Homeboys make some noise
Let me hear you say yeaaa
Say hell ya
Say brooklyn rocks the spot
Let me hear it
Louder, say brooklyn rocks the spot
Let me hear it
And you know it, you know it
Are yall down with the beats
My dj jazzy jeff is throwing on all the def beats
I wanna let yall know this is my dj
Thats going by the code of jazzy jeff
In a little while, yall gonna check out the human lyndrum
Ready rock c, but right now, everybody out there
I want everybody out there thats ugly
All the ugly people be quiet
All the filthy, stinky, nasty people be quiet
All the homeboys that got aids be quiet
All the girls out there that dont like guys, be quiet
Hold on, wait a minute
All the girls that dont like guys be quiet
You know it
Cause see, what we like to do is we perform, right?
We like to see how much noise the people can make, right?

[...] Read more

song performed by Will Smith
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An Open Letter To NYC

Brooklyn, Bronx, Queens and Staten
From the Battery to the top of Manhattan
Asian, Middle-Eastern and Latin
Black, White, New York you make it happen
Brownstones, water towers, trees, skyscrapers
Writers, prize fighters and Wall Street traders
We come together on the subway cars
Diversity unified, whoever you are
We're doing fine on the One and Nine line
On the L we're doin' swell
On the number Ten bus we fight and fuss
'Cause we're thorough in the boroughs and that's a must
I remember when the Duece was all porno flicks
Running home after school to play PIX * 1
At lunch I'd go to Blimpies down on Montague Street
And hit the Fulton Street Mall for the sneakers on my feet
Dear New York I hope you're doing well
I know a lot's happen and you've been through hell
So, we give thanks for providing a home
Through your gates at Ellis Island we passed in droves
Brooklyn, Bronx, Queens and Staten
From the Battery to the top of Manhattan
Asian, Middle-Eastern and Latin
Black, White, New York you make it happen
The L.I.E. the B.Q.E
Hippies at the band shell with the L.S.D.
Get my BVD's from VIM
You know I'm reppin' Manhattan the best I can
Stopped off at Bleeker Bob's got thrown out
Sneakin' in at 4:00 am after going out
You didn't rob me in the park at Dianna Ross
But everybody started looting when the light went off
From the South South Bronx on out to Queens Bridge
From Hollis Queens right down to Bay Ridge
From Castle Hill to the Lower East Side
From 1010 WINS to Live At Five
Dear New York this is a love letter
To you and how you brought us together
We can't say enough about all you do
'Cause in the city were ourselves and electric too
Brooklyn, Bronx, Queens and Staten
From the Battery to the top of Manhattan
Asian, Middle-Eastern and Latin
Black, White, New York you make it happen
Shout out the South Bronx where my mom hails from
Right next to High Bridge across from Harlem
To the Grand Concourse where my mom and dad met
Before they moved on down to the Upper West
I see you're still strong after all that's gone on
Life long we dedicate this song

[...] Read more

song performed by Beastie Boys
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Invitation to Miss Marianne Moore

From Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning,
     please come flying.
In a cloud of fiery pale chemicals,
     please come flying,
to the rapid rolling of thousands of small blue drums
descending out of the mackerel sky
over the glittering grandstand of harbor-water,
     pl ease come flying.

Whistles, pennants and smoke are blowing. The ships
are signaling cordially with multitudes of flags
rising and falling like birds all over the harbor.
Enter: two rivers, gracefully bearing
countless little pellucid jellies
in cut-glass epergnes dragging with silver chains.
The flight is safe; the weather is all arranged.
The waves are running in verses this fine morning.
     Please come flying.

Come with the pointed toe of each black shoe
trailing a sapphire highlight,
with a black capeful of butterfly wings and bon-mots,
with heaven knows how many angels all riding
on the broad black brim of your hat,
     please come flying.

Bearing a musical inaudible abacus,
a slight censorious frown, and blue ribbons,
     please come flying.
Facts and skyscrapers glint in the tide; Manhattan
is all awash with morals this fine morning,
     so please come flying.

Mounting the sky with natural heroism,
above the accidents, above the malignant movies,
the taxicabs and injustices at large,
while horns are resounding in your beautiful ears
that simultaneously listen to
a soft uninvented music, fit for the musk deer,
     please come flying.

For whom the grim museums will behave
like courteous male bower-birds,
for whom the agreeable lions lie in wait
on the steps of the Public Library,
eager to rise and follow through the doors
up into the reading rooms,
     please come flying.
We can sit down and weep; we can go shopping,
or play at a game of constantly being wrong

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Grew Up Fast

We grew up fast
And no one seemed to notice
We grew up fast
And we grew up alone
Mom and dad
Were never what we wanted
We grew up fast
And we grew up alone
We grew up along
Well you know who I am
So dont treat me like Im someone else
Well you know what I am
So dont treat me like Im someone else
You never act like that with no one else
We grew up fast
When lies were just a fact of life
We grew up mad
Cause we never had a home
We faced the past
And forgave the revolution
We grew up smashed
And we grew up alone
We grew up alone
Hey my brother
I got no fight with you
I just cant lie down
Hey my brother
I got no fight with you
I just cant lie down
No, I just cant ride down
I just cant ride down
Well you know who I am
So dont treat me like Im someone else
Well you know what I am
So dont act like Im something else
Well you know who I am
So dont treat me like Im someone else
You know where I am
So dont act like Im somwhere else
You never talk like that to no one else
You never scream like that for no one else
You never suck like that for no one else

song performed by Tom Petty
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Canto the Second

I
Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals, never mind the pain:
The best of mothers and of educations
In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,
Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he
Became divested of his native modesty.

II
Had he but been placed at a public school,
In the third form, or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool,
At least, had he been nurtured in the north;
Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
But then exceptions always prove its worth -—
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.

III
I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
If all things be consider'd: first, there was
His lady-mother, mathematical,
A—never mind; his tutor, an old ass;
A pretty woman (that's quite natural,
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
A husband rather old, not much in unity
With his young wife—a time, and opportunity.

IV
Well—well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust,—perhaps a name.

V
I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz -—
A pretty town, I recollect it well -—
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel),
And such sweet girls—I mean, such graceful ladies,
Their very walk would make your bosom swell;
I can't describe it, though so much it strike,
Nor liken it—I never saw the like:

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
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The Parish Register - Part III: Burials

THERE was, 'tis said, and I believe, a time
When humble Christians died with views sublime;
When all were ready for their faith to bleed,
But few to write or wrangle for their creed;
When lively Faith upheld the sinking heart,
And friends, assured to meet, prepared to part;
When Love felt hope, when Sorrow grew serene,
And all was comfort in the death-bed scene.
Alas! when now the gloomy king they wait,
'Tis weakness yielding to resistless fate;
Like wretched men upon the ocean cast,
They labour hard and struggle to the last;
'Hope against hope,' and wildly gaze around
In search of help that never shall be found:
Nor, till the last strong billow stops the breath,
Will they believe them in the jaws of Death!
When these my Records I reflecting read,
And find what ills these numerous births succeed;
What powerful griefs these nuptial ties attend;
With what regret these painful journeys end;
When from the cradle to the grave I look,
Mine I conceive a melancholy book.
Where now is perfect resignation seen?
Alas! it is not on the village-green: -
I've seldom known, though I have often read,
Of happy peasants on their dying-bed;
Whose looks proclaimed that sunshine of the breast,
That more than hope, that Heaven itself express'd.
What I behold are feverish fits of strife,
'Twixt fears of dying and desire of life:
Those earthly hopes, that to the last endure;
Those fears, that hopes superior fail to cure;
At best a sad submission to the doom,
Which, turning from the danger, lets it come.
Sick lies the man, bewilder'd, lost, afraid,
His spirits vanquish'd, and his strength decay'd;
No hope the friend, the nurse, the doctor lend -
'Call then a priest, and fit him for his end.'
A priest is call'd; 'tis now, alas! too late,
Death enters with him at the cottage-gate;
Or time allow'd--he goes, assured to find
The self-commending, all-confiding mind;
And sighs to hear, what we may justly call
Death's common-place, the train of thought in all.
'True I'm a sinner,' feebly he begins,
'But trust in Mercy to forgive my sins:'
(Such cool confession no past crimes excite!
Such claim on Mercy seems the sinner's right!)
'I know mankind are frail, that God is just,
And pardons those who in his Mercy trust;

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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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.

[...] Read more

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;

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
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No One Questioned the Reek

When behavior they 'then' expressed,
Was not addressed...
But to some questionable?
Those of responsibility could have stood up,
To the plate.
No one did this.
But many bit down to chew!
And...
Instead,
An appreciation for that was shown.
With a bowing to lower eyes and heads.

Mixed signals were sent.
And deceit and devilment...
Were given carte blanche signals,
Not to slow down with caution...
But to move like blinded bulls,
Charging through halls...
Where precious crystal and china were used.
And no one confused a 'no' with a 'go'!
In fact...
Honors were given.
And some medals bestowed.

Some folks were given carte blanche signals.
For more of this to be exposed.
And it showed.

And they did...go!
Taking 'everything' with them,
To an humongous cellpool!
A deepened hole...
Where rooms were added.
And pretensions glowed!

With a renovation to extend the existing stench.

Guests were invited and asked to adorn masks.
No one questioned the reek.
It was as if an acceptance grew.

No one questioned the reek.
It was as if an acceptance grew.

No one questioned the reek.
It was as if an acceptance grew.

No one questioned the reek.
It was as if an acceptance grew.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Peter Bell The Third

BY MICHING MALLECHO, Esq.

Is it a party in a parlour,
Crammed just as they on earth were crammed,
Some sipping punch-some sipping tea;
But, as you by their faces see,
All silent, and all-damned!

Peter Bell, by W. Wordsworth.

Ophelia.-What means this, my lord?
Hamlet.-Marry, this is Miching Mallecho; it means mischief.
~Shakespeare.

PROLOGUE
Pet er Bells, one, two and three,
O'er the wide world wandering be.-
First, the antenatal Peter,
Wrapped in weeds of the same metre,
The so-long-predestined raiment
Clothed in which to walk his way meant
The second Peter; whose ambition
Is to link the proposition,
As the mean of two extremes-
(This was learned from Aldric's themes)
Shielding from the guilt of schism
The orthodoxal syllogism;
The First Peter-he who was
Like the shadow in the glass
Of the second, yet unripe,
His substantial antitype.-
Then came Peter Bell the Second,
Who henceforward must be reckoned
The body of a double soul,
And that portion of the whole
Without which the rest would seem
Ends of a disjointed dream.-
And the Third is he who has
O'er the grave been forced to pass
To the other side, which is,-
Go and try else,-just like this.
Peter Bell the First was Peter
Smugger, milder, softer, neater,
Like the soul before it is
Born from that world into this.
The next Peter Bell was he,
Predevote, like you and me,
To good or evil as may come;
His was the severer doom,-

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poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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The Manuscript of Saint Alexius

There came a child into the solemn hall
where great Pope Innocent sat throned and heard
angry disputings on Free-Will in man,
Grace, Purity, and the Pelagian creed--
an ignorantly bold poor child, who stood
shewing his rags before the Pope's own eyes,
and bade him come to shrive a beggar man
he found alone and dying in a shed,
who sent him for the Pope, "not any else
but the Pope's self." And Innocent arose
and hushed the mockers "Surely I will go:
servant of servants, I." So he went forth
to where the man lay sleeping into death,
and blessed him. Then, with a last spurt of life,
the dying man rose sitting, "Take," he said,
and placed a written scroll in the Pope's hand,
and so fell back and died. Thus said the scroll:

Alexius, meanest servant of the Lord,
son of Euphemianus, senator,
and of Aglaia, writes his history,
God willing it, which, if God so shall will,
shall be revealed when he is fallen asleep.
Spirit of Truth, Christ, and all saints of Heaven,
and Mary, perfect dove of guilelessness,
make his mind clear, that he write utter truth.

That which I was all know: that which I am
God knows, not I, if I stand near to Him
because I have not yielded, or, by curse
of recreant longings, am to Him a wretch
it needs Such grace to pardon: but I know
that one day soon I, dead, shall see His face
with that great pity on it which is ours
who love Him and have striven and then rest,
that I shall look on Him and be content.

For what I am, in my last days, to men,
'tis nothing; scarce a name, and even that
known to be not my own; a wayside wretch
battening upon a rich lord's charity
and praying, (some say like the hypocrites),
a wayside wretch who, harboured for a night,
is harboured still, and, idle on the alms,
prays day and night and night and day, and fears
lest, even praying, he should suddenly
undo his prayer and perish and be great
and rich and happy. Jesu, keep me Thine.

Father and mother, when ye hear of me,

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poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Grew To Believe

I did not awaken with dreams to write.
Or decide I was creative.
I awakened each day trying to fight it,
This appetite I had.
Especially when I thought that I had,
Something I should not want to have.

Few people I knew were encouraged to express,
An acceptance of their gifts.
I grew up in the projects.
And those who were 'different' were made to feel it.

Few people I knew were encouraged to express,
A happiness with talents they possessed.
With a gladness from others...
Who did not address an envy with a jealousness.

But a showing of a knowing that I knew,
Grew...
Inside of me.
Yes,
A showing of a knowing that I knew...
Grew!

A showing of a knowing that I knew,
Grew...
Inside of me.
Yes,
A showing of a knowing that I knew...
Grew,
To believe.

I did not awaken with dreams to write.
Or decide I was creative.
I awakened each day trying to fight it,
This appetite I had.
But...
A showing of a knowing that I knew,
Grew...
Inside of me.
Yes,
A showing of a knowing that I knew...
Grew,
To believe.

A showing of a knowing that I knew,
Grew...
Inside of me.

A showing of a knowing that I knew...

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Dads Cherry Tree

There was a large cherry tree in my yard
This tree t’was my dad ‘s favorite
And as the cherry tree grew up to thy sky
He did have a decision

whether or not to chop the tree down
Or risk it falling and killing him
For you see this old cherry tree did
Stand right over his bed

So if the wind kick up or lightning did strike
Would be his end for
The tree would fall and he would go
So unfortunately with the tree

So he would make great decision
And hopefully make it right
It took him many years and many a time
He thought’s the did spite

Him for the year’s went by and the cherry tree
Got more demised, nearer to the bed
As he would lay and begin to wonder
Will this take off my head

So as the year the did expire
Then He finally said
I will take the old tree down
Above my own bed

And the so alas the cherry fell
The tree would breathe its last
And be cut down to stump and be
Safe for dad once again

The tree was made low and the branches did go
Right into the meat smoker
But out of the ash cloud grew another
through the thorns and choker

the tree did live on in another a tree that grew
and so the tree was reborn
from a cherry, the trees great fruit
and so this little sapling grew and it grew

and it grew 1,2,3 foot by the crowing of the year
and so it grew and it got taller
as a little sapling then might or would do
and the tree got no smaller

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poem by Timothy Young
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