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Life is an escalator: You can move forward or backward; you can not remain still.

quote by Patricia Russell-McCloud
Added by Lucian Velea
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Bones and Blood

My body may be made of bones and blood
But I shall be needing nutrition as food
That shall be coming from holy land
Popularly and dearly known as mother land

If there is to be something precious
Than it has to be only mother and mother land
We need to take pledge that all brethrens will be friend
We shall protect them till we have life to the end

I can not remain unconcerned for what is happening around
New ideas must be infused in the people's mind and gain ground
Now self has asserted more and put before everything
The nationality, religion and cast has taken over for something

It is good to feel strongly about the nation
It is good to build the harmony and relation
It is equally good to profess the faith any religion
But it is certainly not encouraged to export terrorism in other regions

Let them have their own way of living
It is not our duty to force smaller nations in believing
Create supremacy and hegemony by force
Reduce the status of independence and guide through remote

We shall unearth all the attempts that is against our sovereignty
Side with no such activities that is aimed at sabotaging integrity
We may be poor nation but certainly protect national frontier
Compromise with no principles and create no barriers

Let each individual take an oath of secrecy
To the mother land and assure of adequacy
In the form of food grains and education
That is main burning problem and question

I shall remain vigilant against corruption
That has lead to stoppage of work with interruption
The poor are suffering and farmers are resorting to suicide
Let each one of us take the struggle ahead and spread it wide

Nation needs survival bid with resolution
Power is to shared by people with devolution
It should not be concentrated in few hands
This has given birth to autocratic trend

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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I Can Not Imagine My Life Without You

I can not imagine my life without you.
It's like hopping on one leg...
After I've been using two!
Or kissing with one lip.
I know I wouldn't enjoy it!
And to have no tongue?
My close ties with God,
Would have to be undone!
Until He decided,
I am deserving of another one.
With full lips to kiss.
And two legs to chase you...
When your teasing persists!

I can not imagine my life without you.
Especially when I 'let' you win arguments.
Those I know I have no chance anyway.
So the best I can do is to listen and sit.
Until you get over it...
With whispers in my ear.
To awaken me from a sleep...
When you realize not a word from you I hear.
And that seems to make it clear,
I can not imagine my life without you.
And you know I am the only one,
Who refuses to give you attention...
When you just want to vent!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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You Can Not Tell Me What It Takes

You have no idea what being treated demeanly means.
Or what being the victim of obscenities can do to someone,
On a mission to achieve with bleeding done.

And until you have been in a position to experience pain,
With others caring less how you felt.
You can not tell me what it takes to live my life.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Move Forward

Move forward
Don't turn back
Before the tears crack
And admit your losing heart

Of defeated
Of betrayal 
Of shame

Keep forward
Don't try to turn back
Because behind you there's only dark
That ready to swallow you hard

Of grief
Of failure
Of blame

Stay forward
Don't dare to turn back
Because what's left inside
Is only an ugly mark

Of shadow
Of desire
Of lame

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Life Is Lost In You

Life is difficult as we know it is now
Life is rough as we spiral out of control
Life is mean as the people who make it mean
Life is hard living on your own
Life is scary when you get hurt
Life is real and no can change that
Life is kind when you find your first love
Life is caring when he holds you in his arms
Life is nice and he will protect you in anyway
Life is easy with the help of the ones around you
Life is bold with the ones in it
Life is good when people are good
Life is happy when you are happy
Life is unbearable when you cry
Life is crashing as you know it
Life is holding you down
Life is causing problems
Life is and can be turned around

poem by Marilee Morley
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If You Can Not Complain

Can not complain, but it hurts...
Can not say, but I...
Can not show, but I do not care...

if you can not complain,
how ppl know it,
you hurts and pains,

if you can not say,
but a person guess, know about your feelings (pains) ...

if you can not show
how a person know it all your inside feelings. pain and suffer

if u do not care...
but a person care every time
every time wanna see you,

but it can not be enough
he wanna take to you,

when you sad and going on sadness
he can not understand about she's is life,

i am helpless, i can help
but it is the life.

it is my life, it my life
books is my life, book is my life.♥♥♥
thinking's is my life, thinking is my life.♥♥♥
aloneness is my life, again aloneness is my life.♥♥♥

poem by Khushi throne
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Consider, I Have A Life Like That Of You

Let me wash your woe, pain and sorrow
though now and then I put on my own
as I have a heart like that of you still
get a dose of my love and care
whenever you get a chance
to be together but
do not be
dishearten,

when
I raise and
tighten my eye
brows because of my
shattered hopes: do not be
frighten away when I harden my face
due to the situation, tight, I had to face, I accord
with you I should not shoot arrows and
shows my broken and dark clouds
but I still can not leave
you because of
your warm
presence,

an
essence
of our bonding,
my hiding rather will
bear connotations more notorious:
misunderstanding, so my dear whenever you have
time, come near and sit down I am ready
to bear your depression though
I go the same as I have
a life exactly like
that of
you.

poem by Abdul Wahab
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My Life Is Over With You

(clarke / hicks)
You wanna explain, thats why you called
Save your breath it doesnt matter at all,
Not now, my friend
You played your cards, and you made your choice
I dont wanna listen to your voice,
Not now, my friend
Ive found a new part to play in life
Theres different actors on my stage
Ill set the pace in a world without you
I dont wanna hear the things that you say
cos my life is over with you
Now you know whats on my mind
Dont call again cos you will find
I wont be here
You chose your path to walk along
Now I can sing a different song
I hope thats clear
Chorus
Ive found a new part to play in life
Theres different actors on my stage
Good bye, my love, and dont feel sad
Just because Im feeling glad
That youre not here
Youll go your way and Ill go mine
Maybe well meet some other time
Goodbye, my love
Chorus

song performed by Hollies
Added by Lucian Velea
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You Can Not Have It Both Ways

You can not have it both ways.
You can not market decadence.
And then preach about its ill affects.
Especially when you have enjoyed it the best!

You can not sit in judgement to condemn.
When every rule and law that is made...
You are the first to be found breaking them!

You can not profess what should be right for others...
When you do what you please,
Wherever you wish to express your druthers.

And you are certainly no example,
To a way of life you defend.
When standards you believe should be followed...
You can not uphold yourself.
If you begged, steal or borrowed.
Without becoming offensive about your whims.

And deceit and stealing...
Are not unfamiliar to you!
In fact...
Did you not teach how,
To succeed using that?
Aren't you the one to climb to heights...
By keeping others back?

Would you like to redo,
Your own tainted tracks?

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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In LIfe...Unless There Is Pain...There Can Not Be Joy

You Are The Pain and The Joy

You are the Pain and the joy
on the stage of life.

You are the pain hunger and the joy
of food on ones table.

You are the pain of the homeless,
and the joy, of the home,
in His heart.

You are the pain on a bitter,
winter day and the joy, in
the warmth of the sun.

You are the pain and joy, in the
solitude, of those moments alone.

You are the pain and joy, that
lingers in ones heart.

You are the pain in music that is bad,
and you are the joy, in my song
of life.

You are the pain, in the tragedies
of the world, and the joy in the
goodness of people.

You are the pain of the orphans of
the street, and the joy, in a
mothers love.

You are the pain, in a sometime unjust
world, and the joy in the spirit
of ones heart.

You are the pain, in the loss of
loved ones, and the joy, when they
are seated at His table.

You are the pain of self destructive
addiction and the joy in redemption.

You are the pain, in the sicknesses of
this world, and the joy in the
hope of recovery.

You are the pain in the misery of the poor,
and disenfranchise, and the joy, in
the parts of society, that attempts to,
raise them up.

You are the pain and you are the joy,
in all things. For you see, in life, there
can not be joy...unless there is pain.

poem by Joe Fazio
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You're Not Me

You think I've got it all
You think I've got it made well
How come my only friends are the ones I pay?
No one understands
What I would do to change my life for just one day
Don't say if I were you (say if I were you)
Or tell me what you'd do
Or things would be if
You were in my shoes
Cuz you're not me
You know what I need
And it's not another serenade
I get so tired of all the things you say
So give me what I want
if you only would
I'd gladly throw this all away
Don't say if I were you (say if I were you)
Or tell me what you'd do
Or things would be if
You were in my shoes (cuz you're not me)
Please take me as I am (take me as I am)
This isn't what I planned
But I don't expect that
You can understand
Cuz you're not me
I know you think you're bein' nice
But spare me all your lame advice
Time to play my hand and role the dice
Everybody's got their price
For far to long I've been denied
I'm makin' my move so just step aside
No one can say I never tried
To do everything to get back my pride
Hey, you were never me
Why can't you see
That you're not me (me, me, me, me, me, me, me)
Don't say if I were you (say if I were you)
Or tell me what you'd do (tell me what you'd do)
Or how things would be if
You were in my shoes (cuz you're not me)
Please help me if you can (help me if you can)
This isn't what I planned (this isn't what I planned)
But I don't expect that
You can understand
Cuz you're not me

song performed by Yu-Gi-Oh
Added by Lucian Velea
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Poet Can

Why a poet can not remain in crowded place?
Catch the pulse of an ordinary man in race
See the drops his labor inform of sweat
How much he struggles to meet ends and eat

There is valid point in conceding
We all need nice feeding
Every moment of great surprise
To grow day by day and feel wise

Humanity breathes in open and shows the class
We just don’t observe it and make casual pass
We find it irrelevant and out dated concept
But makes it so sentimental when openly wept

We hardly move without aim
It has mechanical aspirations to claim
Life is taken as mere compulsion
To be pulled on with or without resumption

Here comes a stage when you want real eruption
Your ideas to come out from heart with assumption
You need some one to read and come out with its consumption
Two words of appreciation and encouragement without disruption

So stage for natural poet is set
It has nothing to do with any kind of stage
Lonely or among people makes no sense
Yes but nature makes easy flow of sentences

Natural poet belongs to all and considers his duty
In red rose he finds fragrance with simple beauty
Flowers catch his fancy and enlighten imagination
How many things come up for revelation?

In morning shadows are just normal in size
They grow short by the time noon seize
Hot sun makes poet to take refuge under shed
Evenings are forcing him to pack up and lead

Nights bring all silvery lines in mind
Beautiful moon at its zenith is very kind
All birds are now quiet and in the nest
Only poet is awake and tries his best

I would love to call him a free bird
As well receiver of lord’s word
Only aim is to spread the lovely message
Whether as boy, youth or in the old age

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Sir Peter Harpdon's End

In an English Castle in Poictou. Sir Peter Harpdon, a Gascon knight in the English service, and John Curzon, his lieutenant.

John Curzon

Of those three prisoners, that before you came
We took down at St. John's hard by the mill,
Two are good masons; we have tools enough,
And you have skill to set them working.

Sir Peter

So-
What are their names?

John Curzon

Why, Jacques Aquadent,
And Peter Plombiere, but-

Sir Peter

What colour'd hair
Has Peter now? has Jacques got bow legs?

John Curzon

Why, sir, you jest: what matters Jacques' hair,
Or Peter's legs to us?

Sir Peter

O! John, John, John!
Throw all your mason's tools down the deep well,
Hang Peter up and Jacques; they're no good,
We shall not build, man.

John Curzon

going.

Shall I call the guard
To hang them, sir? and yet, sir, for the tools,
We'd better keep them still; sir, fare you well.

Muttering as he goes.

What have I done that he should jape at me?
And why not build? the walls are weak enough,
And we've two masons and a heap of tools.

Goes, still muttering.

Sir Peter

To think a man should have a lump like that
For his lieutenant! I must call him back,
Or else, as surely as St. George is dead,
He'll hang our friends the masons—here, John! John!

John Curzon

At your good service, sir.

Sir Peter

Come now, and talk
This weighty matter out; there, we've no stone
To mend our walls with,—neither brick nor stone.

John Curzon

There is a quarry, sir, some ten miles off.

Sir Peter

We are not strong enough to send ten men
Ten miles to fetch us stone enough to build.
In three hours' time they would be taken or slain,
The cursed Frenchmen ride abroad so thick.

John Curzon

But we can send some villaynes to get stone.

Sir Peter

Alas! John, that we cannot bring them back;
They would go off to Clisson or Sanxere,
And tell them we were weak in walls and men,
Then down go we; for, look you, times are changed,
And now no longer does the country shake
At sound of English names; our captains fade
From off our muster-rolls. At Lusac Bridge
I daresay you may even yet see the hole
That Chandos beat in dying; far in Spain
Pembroke is prisoner; Phelton prisoner here;
Manny lies buried in the Charterhouse;
Oliver Clisson turn'd these years agone;
The Captal died in prison; and, over all,
Edward the prince lies underneath the ground;
Edward the king is dead; at Westminster
The carvers smooth the curls of his long beard.
Everything goes to rack - eh! and we too.
Now, Curzon, listen; if they come, these French,
Whom have I got to lean on here, but you?
A man can die but once; will you die then,
Your brave sword in your hand, thoughts in your heart
Of all the deeds we have done here in France-
And yet may do? So God will have your soul,
Whoever has your body.

John Curzon

Why, sir, I
Will fight till the last moment, until then
Will do whate'er you tell me. Now I see
We must e'en leave the walls; well, well, perhaps
They're stronger than I think for; pity though,
For some few tons of stone, if Guesclin comes!

Sir Peter

Farewell, John, pray you watch the Gascons well,
I doubt them.

John Curzon

Truly, sir, I will watch well.

Goes.

Sir Peter

Farewell, good lump! and yet, when all is said,
'Tis a good lump. Why then, if Guesclin comes;
Some dozen stones from his petrariae,
And, under shelter of his crossbows, just
An hour's steady work with pickaxes,
Then a great noise—some dozen swords and glaives
A-playing on my basnet all at once,
And little more cross purposes on earth
For me.
Now this is hard: a month ago,
And a few minutes' talk had set things right
'Twixt me and Alice - if she had a doubt,
As (may Heaven bless her!) I scarce think she had,
'Twas but their hammer, hammer in her ears,
Of 'how Sir Peter fail'd at Lusac Bridge:'
And 'how he was grown moody of late days;'
And 'how Sir Lambert,” (think now!) 'his dear friend,
His sweet dear cousin, could not but confess
That Peter's talk tended towards the French,
Which he' (for instance Lambert) 'was glad of,
Being' (Lambert, you see) “on the French side.'
Well,
If I could but have seen her on that day,
Then, when they sent me off!
I like to think,
Although it hurts me, makes my head twist, what,
If I had seen her, what I should have said,
What she, my darling, would have said and done.
As thus perchance:
To find her sitting there,
In the window-seat, not looking well at all,
Crying perhaps, and I say quietly:
'Alice!' she looks up, chokes a sob, looks grave,
Changes from pale to red; but ere she speaks,
Straightway I kneel down there on both my knees,
And say: “O lady, have I sinn'd, your knight?
That still you ever let me walk alone
In the rose garden, that you sing no songs
When I am by, that ever in the dance
You quietly walk away when I come near?
Now that I have you, will you go, think you?”
Ere she could answer I would speak again,
Still kneeling there:
'What! they have frighted you,
By hanging burs, and clumsily carven puppets,
Round my good name; but afterwards, my love,
I will say what this means; this moment, see!
Do I kneel here, and can you doubt me? Yea,'
(For she would put her hands upon my face),
'Yea, that is best, yea feel, love, am I changed?'
And she would say: “Good knight, come, kiss my lips!'
And afterwards as I sat there would say:
'Please a poor silly girl by telling me
What all those things they talk of really were,
For it is true you did not help Chandos,
And true, poor love! you could not come to me
When I was in such peril.'
I should say:
'I am like Balen, all things turn to blame.
I did not come to you? At Bergerath
The Constable had held us close shut up;
If from the barriers I had made three steps,
I should have been but slain; at Lusac, too,
We struggled in a marish half the day,
And came too late at last: you know, my love
How heavy men and horses are all arm'd.
All that Sir Lambert said was pure, unmix'd,
Quite groundless lies; as you can think, sweet love'.
She, holding tight my hand as we sat there,
Started a little at Sir Lambert's name,
But otherwise she listen'd scarce at all
To what I said. Then with moist, weeping eyes,
And quivering lips, that scarcely let her speak,
She said: 'I love you.'
Other words were few,
The remnant of that hour; her hand smooth'd down
My foolish head; she kiss'd me all about
My face, and through the tangles of my beard
Her little fingers crept
O God, my Alice,
Not this good way: my lord but sent and said
That Lambert's sayings were taken at their worth,
Therefore that day I was to start, and keep
This hold against the French; and I am here,-

Looks out of the window.

A sprawling lonely gard with rotten walls,
And no one to bring aid if Guesclin comes,
Or any other.
There's a pennon now!
At last.
But not the Constable's: whose arms,
I wonder, does it bear? Three golden rings
On a red ground; my cousin's by the rood!
Well, I should like to kill him, certainly,
But to be kill'd by him-
A trumpet sounds.
That's for a herald;
I doubt this does not mean assaulting yet.

Enter John Curzon.

What says the herald of our cousin, sir?

John Curzon

So please you, sir, concerning your estate,
He has good will to talk with you.

Sir Peter

Outside,
I'll talk with him, close by the gate St. Ives.
Is he unarm'd?

John Curzon

Yea, sir, in a long gown.

Sir Peter

Then bid them bring me hither my furr'd gown
With the long sleeves, and under it I'll wear,
By Lambert's leave, a secret coat of mail;
And will you lend me, John, your little axe?
I mean the one with Paul wrought on the blade,
And I will carry it inside my sleeve,
Good to be ready always—you, John, go
And bid them set up many suits of arms,
Bows, archgays, lances, in the base-court, and
Yourself, from the south postern setting out,
With twenty men, be ready to break through
Their unguarded rear when I cry out “St. George!”

John Curzon

How, sir! will you attack him unawares,
And slay him unarm'd?

Sir Peter

Trust me, John, I know
The reason why he comes here with sleeved gown,
Fit to hide axes up. So, let us go.

They go. Outside the castle by the great gate; Sir Lambert and Sir Peter seated; guards attending each, the rest of Sir Lambert's men drawn up about a furlong off.

Sir Peter

And if I choose to take the losing side
Still, does it hurt you?

Sir Lambert

O! no hurt to me;
I see you sneering, “Why take trouble then,
Seeing you love me not?” Look you, our house
(Which, taken altogether, I love much)
Had better be upon the right side now,
If, once for all, it wishes to bear rule
As such a house should: cousin, you're too wise
To feed your hope up fat, that this fair France
Will ever draw two ways again; this side
The French, wrong-headed, all a-jar
With envious longings; and the other side
The order'd English, orderly led on
By those two Edwards through all wrong and right,
And muddling right and wrong to a thick broth
With that long stick, their strength. This is all changed,
The true French win, on either side you have
Cool-headed men, good at a tilting match,
And good at setting battles in array,
And good at squeezing taxes at due time;
Therefore by nature we French being here
Upon our own big land-

Sir Peter laughs aloud.

Well, Peter! well!
What makes you laugh?

Sir Peter

Hearing you sweat to prove
All this I know so well; but you have read
The siege of Troy?

Sir Lambert

O! yea, I know it well.

Sir Peter

There! they were wrong, as wrong as men could be;
For, as I think, they found it such delight
To see fair Helen going through their town:
Yea, any little common thing she did
(As stooping to pick a flower) seem'd so strange,
So new in its great beauty, that they said:
'Here we will keep her living in this town,
Till all burns up together.' And so, fought,
In a mad whirl of knowing they were wrong;
Yea, they fought well, and ever, like a man
That hangs legs off the ground by both his hands,
Over some great height, did they struggle sore,
Quite sure to slip at last; wherefore, take note
How almost all men, reading that sad siege,
Hold for the Trojans; as I did at least,
Thought Hector the best knight a long way.
Now
Why should I not do this thing that I think,
For even when I come to count the gains,
I have them my side: men will talk, you know,
(We talk of Hector, dead so long agone,)
When I am dead, of how this Peter clung
To what he thought the right; of how he died,
Perchance, at last, doing some desperate deed
Few men would care do now, and this is gain
To me, as ease and money is to you.
Moreover, too, I like the straining game
Of striving well to hold up things that fall;
So one becomes great. See you! in good times
All men live well together, and you, too,
Live dull and happy—happy? not so quick,
Suppose sharp thoughts begin to burn you up.
Why then, but just to fight as I do now,
A halter round my neck, would be great bliss.
O! I am well off.

Aside.

Talk, and talk, and talk,
I know this man has come to murder me,
And yet I talk still.

Sir Lambert

If your side were right,
You might be, though you lost; but if I said:
'You are a traitor, being, as you are,
Born Frenchman.' What are Edwards unto you,
Or Richards?

Sir Peter

Nay, hold there, my Lambert, hold!
For fear your zeal should bring you to some harm,
Don't call me traitor.

Sir Lambert

Furthermore, my knight,
Men call you slippery on your losing side;
When at Bordeaux I was ambassador,
I heard them say so, and could scarce say “Nay.”
He takes hold of something in his sleeve, and rises.

Sir Peter

rising.

They lied—and you lie, not for the first time.
What have you got there, fumbling up your sleeve,
A stolen purse?

Sir Lambert

Nay, liar in your teeth!
Dead liar too; St. Denis and St. Lambert!
Strikes at Sir Peter with a dagger.

Sir Peter

striking him flatlings with his axe.

How thief! thief! thief! so there, fair thief, so there,
St. George Guienne! glaives for the castellan!
You French, you are but dead, unless you lay
Your spears upon the earth. St. George Guienne!
Well done, John Curzon, how he has them now.

In the Castle.

John Curzon

What shall we do with all these prisoners, sir?

Sir Peter

Why, put them all to ransom, those that can
Pay anything, but not too light though, John,
Seeing we have them on the hip: for those
That have no money, that being certified,
Why, turn them out of doors before they spy;
But bring Sir Lambert guarded unto me.

John Curzon

I will, fair sir. He goes.

Sir Peter

I do not wish to kill him,
Although I think I ought; he shall go mark'd,
By all the saints, though! Enter Lambert guarded.
Now, Sir Lambert, now!
What sort of death do you expect to get,
Being taken this way?

Sir Lambert

Cousin! cousin! think!
I am your own blood; may God pardon me!
I am not fit to die; if you knew all,
All I have done since I was young and good,
O! you would give me yet another chance,
As God would, that I might wash all clear out,
By serving you and Him. Let me go now!
And I will pay you down more golden crowns
Of ransom than the king would!

Sir Peter

Well, stand back,
And do not touch me! No, you shall not die,
Nor yet pay ransom. You, John Curzon, cause
Some carpenters to build a scaffold, high,
Outside the gate; when it is built, sound out
To all good folks, 'Come, see a traitor punish'd!'
Take me my knight, and set him up thereon,
And let the hangman shave his head quite clean,
And cut his ears off close up to the head;
And cause the minstrels all the while to play
Soft music and good singing; for this day
Is my high day of triumph; is it not,
Sir Lambert?

Sir Lambert

Ah! on your own blood,
Own name, you heap this foul disgrace? you dare,
With hands and fame thus sullied, to go back
And take the lady Alice-

Sir Peter

Say her name
Again, and you are dead, slain here by me.
Why should I talk with you? I'm master here,
And do not want your schooling; is it not
My mercy that you are not dangling dead
There in the gateway with a broken neck?

Sir Lambert

Such mercy! why not kill me then outright?
To die is nothing; but to live that all
May point their fingers! yea, I'd rather die.

John Curzon

Why, will it make you any uglier man
To lose your ears? they're much too big for you,
You ugly Judas!

Sir Peter

Hold, John!

To Lambert.

That's your choice,
To die, mind! then you shall die—Lambert mine,
I thank you now for choosing this so well,
It saves me much perplexity and doubt;
Perchance an ill deed too, for half I count
This sparing traitors is an ill deed.
Well,
Lambert, die bravely, and we're almost friends.

Sir Lambert

grovelling.

O God! this is a fiend and not a man;
Will some one save me from him? help, help, help!
I will not die.

Sir Peter

Why, what is this I see?
A man who is a knight, and bandied words
So well just now with me, is lying down,
Gone mad for fear like this! So, so, you thought
You knew the worst, and might say what you pleased.
I should have guess'd this from a man like you.
Eh! righteous Job would give up skin for skin,
Yea, all a man can have for simple life,
And we talk fine, yea, even a hound like this,
Who needs must know that when he dies, deep hell
Will hold him fast for ever—so fine we talk,
'Would rather die' - all that. Now sir, get up!
And choose again: shall it be head sans ears,
Or trunk sans head?
John Curzon, pull him up!
What, life then? go and build the scaffold, John.
Lambert, I hope that never on this earth
We meet again; that you'll turn out a monk,
And mend the life I give you, so, farewell,
I'm sorry you're a rascal. John, despatch.

In the French camp before the Castle. Sir Peter prisoner, Guesclin, Clisson, Sir Lambert.

Sir Peter

So now is come the ending of my life;
If I could clear this sickening lump away
That sticks in my dry throat, and say a word,
Guesclin might listen.

Guesclin

Tell me, fair sir knight,
If you have been clean liver before God,
And then you need not fear much; as for me,
I cannot say I hate you, yet my oath,
And cousin Lambert's ears here clench the thing.

Sir Peter

I knew you could not hate me, therefore I
Am bold to pray for life; 'twill harm your cause
To hang knights of good name, harm here in France
I have small doubt, at any rate hereafter
Men will remember you another way
Than I should care to be remember'd. Ah!
Although hot lead runs through me for my blood,
All this falls cold as though I said: 'Sweet lords,
Give back my falcon!'
See how young I am;
Do you care altogether more for France,
Say rather one French faction, than for all
The state of Christendom? a gallant knight,
As (yea, by God!) I have been, is more worth
Than many castles; will you bring this death,
For a mere act of justice, on my head?
Think how it ends all, death! all other things
Can somehow be retrieved; yea, send me forth
Naked and maimed, rather than slay me here;
Then somehow will I get me other clothes,
And somehow will I get me some poor horse,
And, somehow clad in poor old rusty arms,
Will ride and smite among the serried glaives,
Fear not death so; for I can tilt right well,
Let me not say “I could;” I know all tricks,
That sway the sharp sword cunningly; ah you,
You, my Lord Clisson, in the other days
Have seen me learning these, yea, call to mind,
How in the trodden corn by Chartrès town,
When you were nearly swooning from the back
Of your black horse, those three blades slid at once
From off my sword's edge; pray for me, my lord!

Clisson

Nay, this is pitiful, to see him die.
My Lord the Constable, I pray you note
That you are losing some few thousand crowns
By slaying this man; also think: his lands
Along the Garonne river lie for leagues,
And are right rich, a many mills he has,
Three abbeys of grey monks do hold of him,
Though wishing well for Clement, as we do;
I know the next heir, his old uncle, well,
Who does not care two deniers for the knight
As things go now, but slay him, and then see
How he will bristle up like any perch,
With curves of spears. What! do not doubt, my lord,
You'll get the money; this man saved my life,
And I will buy him for two thousand crowns;
Well, five then—eh! what! “No” again? well then,
Ten thousand crowns?

Guesclin

My sweet lord, much I grieve
I cannot please you; yea, good sooth, I grieve
This knight must die, as verily he must;
For I have sworn it, so, men, take him out,
Use him not roughly.

Sir Lambert

coming forward.

Music, do you know,
Music will suit you well, I think, because
You look so mild, like Laurence being grill'd;
Or perhaps music soft and slow, because
This is high day of triumph unto me,
Is it not, Peter?
You are frighten'd, though,
Eh! you are pale, because this hurts you much,
Whose life was pleasant to you, not like mine,
You ruin'd wretch! Men mock me in the streets,
Only in whispers loud, because I am
Friend of the Constable; will this please you,
Unhappy Peter? once a-going home,
Without my servants, and a little drunk,
At midnight through the lone dim lamp-lit streets,
A whore came up and spat into my eyes,
(Rather to blind me than to make me see,)
But she was very drunk, and tottering back,
Even in the middle of her laughter, fell
And cut her head against the pointed stones,
While I lean'd on my staff, and look'd at her,
And cried, being drunk.
Girls would not spit at you.
You are so handsome, I think verily
Most ladies would be glad to kiss your eyes,
And yet you will be hung like a cur dog
Five minutes hence, and grow black in the face,
And curl your toes up. Therefore I am glad.
Guess why I stand and talk this nonsense now,
With Guesclin getting ready to play chess,
And Clisson doing something with his sword,
I can't see what, talking to Guesclin though,
I don't know what about, perhaps of you.
But, cousin Peter, while I stroke your beard,
Let me say this, I'd like to tell you now
That your life hung upon a game of chess,
That if, say, my squire Robert here should beat,
Why, you should live, but hang if I beat him;
Then guess, clever Peter, what I should do then:
Well, give it up? why, Peter, I should let
My squire Robert beat me, then you would think
That you were safe, you know; Eh? not at all,
But I should keep you three days in some hold,
Giving you salt to eat, which would be kind,
Considering the tax there is on salt;
And afterwards should let you go, perhaps?
No, I should not, but I should hang you, sir,
With a red rope in lieu of mere grey rope.
But I forgot, you have not told me yet
If you can guess why I talk nonsense thus,
Instead of drinking wine while you are hang'd?
You are not quick at guessing, give it up.
This is the reason; here I hold your hand,
And watch you growing paler, see you writhe
And this, my Peter, is a joy so dear,
I cannot by all striving tell you how
I love it, nor I think, good man, would you
Quite understand my great delight therein;
You, when you had me underneath you once,
Spat as it were, and said: 'Go take him out,'
(That they might do that thing to me whereat
E'en now this long time off I could well shriek,)
And then you tried forget I ever lived,
And sunk your hating into other things;
While I - St. Denis! though, I think you'll faint,
Your lips are grey so; yes, you will, unless
You let it out and weep like a hurt child;
Hurrah! you do now. Do not go just yet,
For I am Alice, am right like her now,
Will you not kiss me on the lips, my love?-

Clisson

You filthy beast, stand back and let him go,
Or by God's eyes I'll choke you. Kneeling to Sir Peter.
Fair sir knight,
I kneel upon my knees and pray to you
That you would pardon me for this your death;
God knows how much I wish you still alive,
Also how heartily I strove to save
Your life at this time; yea, He knows quite well,
(I swear it, so forgive me!) how I would,
If it were possible, give up my life
Upon this grass for yours; fair knight, although,
He knowing all things knows this thing too, well,
Yet when you see His face some short time hence,
Tell Him I tried to save you.

Sir Peter

O! my lord,
I cannot say this is as good as life,
But yet it makes me feel far happier now,
And if at all, after a thousand years,
I see God's face, I will speak loud and bold,
And tell Him you were kind, and like Himself;
Sir, may God bless you!
Did you note how I
Fell weeping just now? pray you, do not think
That Lambert's taunts did this, I hardly heard
The base things that he said, being deep in thought
Of all things that have happen'd since I was
A little child; and so at last I thought
Of my true lady: truly, sir, it seem'd
No longer gone than yesterday, that this
Was the sole reason God let me be born
Twenty-five years ago, that I might love
Her, my sweet lady, and be loved by her;
This seem'd so yesterday, to-day death comes,
And is so bitter strong, I cannot see
Why I was born.
But as a last request,
I pray you, O kind Clisson, send some man,
Some good man, mind you, to say how I died,
And take my last love to her: fare-you-well,
And may God keep you; I must go now, lest
I grow too sick with thinking on these things;
Likewise my feet are wearied of the earth,
From whence I shall be lifted up right soon.

As he goes.

Ah me! shamed too, I wept at fear of death;
And yet not so, I only wept because
There was no beautiful lady to kiss me
Before I died, and sweetly wish good speed
From her dear lips. O for some lady, though
I saw her ne'er before; Alice, my love,
I do not ask for; Clisson was right kind,
If he had been a woman, I should die
Without this sickness: but I am all wrong,
So wrong, and hopelessly afraid to die.
There, I will go.
My God! how sick I am,
If only she could come and kiss me now.

The Hotel de la Barde, Bordeaux. The Lady Alice de la Barde looking out of a window into the street.

No news yet! surely, still he holds his own:
That garde stands well; I mind me passing it
Some months ago; God grant the walls are strong!
I heard some knights say something yestereve,
I tried hard to forget: words far apart
Struck on my heart something like this; one said:
'What eh! a Gascon with an English name,
Harpdon?' then nought, but afterwards: 'Poictou.'
As one who answers to a question ask'd;
Then carelessly regretful came: 'No, no.'
Whereto in answer loud and eagerly,
One said: “Impossible! Christ, what foul play!”
And went off angrily; and while thenceforth
I hurried gaspingly afraid, I heard:
'Guesclin;' 'Five thousand men-at-arms;' 'Clisson.'
My heart misgives me it is all in vain
I send these succours; and in good time there!
Their trumpet sounds, ah! here they are; good knights,
God up in Heaven keep you.
If they come
And find him prisoner—for I can't believe
Guesclin will slay him, even though they storm—
(The last horse turns the corner.)
God in Heaven!
What have I got to thinking of at last!
That thief I will not name is with Guesclin,
Who loves him for his lands. My love! my love!
O, if I lose you after all the past,
What shall I do?
I cannot bear the noise
And light street out there, with this thought alive,
Like any curling snake within my brain;
Let me just hide my head within these soft
Deep cushions, there to try and think it out.

Lying in the window-seat.

I cannot hear much noise now, and I think
That I shall go to sleep: it all sounds dim
And faint, and I shall soon forget most things;
Yea, almost that I am alive and here;
It goes slow, comes slow, like a big mill-wheel
On some broad stream, with long green weeds a-sway,
And soft and slow it rises and it falls,
Still going onward.
Lying so, one kiss,
And I should be in Avalon asleep,
Among the poppies and the yellow flowers;
And they should brush my cheek, my hair being spread
Far out among the stems; soft mice and small
Eating and creeping all about my feet,
Red shod and tired; and the flies should come
Creeping o'er my broad eyelids unafraid;
And there should be a noise of water going,
Clear blue, fresh water breaking on the slates,
Likewise the flies should creep—God's eyes! God help!
A trumpet? I will run fast, leap adown
The slippery sea-stairs, where the crabs fight.
Ah!
I was half dreaming, but the trumpet's true;
He stops here at our house. The Clisson arms?
Ah, now for news. But I must hold my heart,
And be quite gentle till he is gone out;
And afterwards—but he is still alive,
He must be still alive.

Enter a Squire of Clisson's.

Good day, fair sir,
I give you welcome, knowing whence you come.

Squire

My Lady Alice de la Barde, I come
From Oliver Clisson, knight and mighty lord,
Bringing you tidings: I make bold to hope
You will not count me villain, even if
They wring your heart, nor hold me still in hate.
For I am but a mouthpiece after all,
A mouthpiece, too, of one who wishes well
To you and your's.

Alice

Can you talk faster, sir,
Get over all this quicker? fix your eyes
On mine, I pray you, and whate'er you see,
Still go on talking fast, unless I fall,
Or bid you stop.

Squire

I pray your pardon then,
And, looking in your eyes, fair lady, say
I am unhappy that your knight is dead.
Take heart, and listen! let me tell you all.
We were five thousand goodly men-at-arms,
And scant five hundred had he in that hold:
His rotten sand-stone walls were wet with rain,
And fell in lumps wherever a stone hit;
Yet for three days about the barrier there
The deadly glaives were gather'd, laid across,
And push'd and pull'd; the fourth our engines came;
But still amid the crash of falling walls,
And roar of lombards, rattle of hard bolts,
The steady bow-strings flash'd, and still stream'd out
St. George's banner, and the seven swords,
And still they cried: “St.George Guienne!” until
Their walls were flat as Jericho's of old,
And our rush came, and cut them from the keep.

Alice

Stop, sir, and tell me if you slew him then,
And where he died, if you can really mean
That Peter Harpdon, the good knight, is dead?

Squire

Fair lady, in the base-court -

Alice

What base-court?
What do you talk of? Nay, go on, go on;
'Twas only something gone within my head:
Do you not know, one turns one's head round quick,
And something cracks there with sore pain? go on,
And still look at my eyes.

Squire

Almost alone,
There in the base-court fought he with his sword,
Using his left hand much, more than the wont
Of most knights now-a-days; our men gave back,
For wheresoever he hit a downright blow,
Some one fell bleeding, for no plate could hold
Against the sway of body and great arm;
Till he grew tired, and some man (no! not I,
I swear not I, fair lady, as I live!)
Thrust at him with a glaive between the knees,
And threw him; down he fell, sword undermost;
Many fell on him, crying out their cries,
Tore his sword from him, tore his helm off, and—

Alice

Yea, slew him: I am much too young to live,
Fair God, so let me die!
You have done well,
Done all your message gently; pray you go,
Our knights will make you cheer; moreover, take
This bag of franks for your expenses.

The Squire kneels.

But you do not go; still looking at my face,
You kneel! what, squire, do you mock me then?
You need not tell me who has set you on,
But tell me only, 'tis a made-up tale.
You are some lover may-be, or his friend;
Sir, if you loved me once, or your friend loved,
Think, is it not enough that I kneel down
And kiss your feet? your jest will be right good
If you give in now; carry it too far,
And 'twill be cruel: not yet? but you weep
Almost, as though you loved me; love me then,
And go to Heaven by telling all your sport,
And I will kiss you then with all my heart,
Upon the mouth; O! what can I do then
To move you?

Squire

Lady fair, forgive me still!
You know I am so sorry, but my tale
Is not yet finish'd:
So they bound his hands,
And brought him tall and pale to Guesclin's tent,
Who, seeing him, leant his head upon his hand,
And ponder'd somewhile, afterwards, looking up—
Fair dame, what shall I say?

Alice

Yea, I know now,
Good squire, you may go now with my thanks.

Squire

Yet, lady, for your own sake I say this,
Yea, for my own sake, too, and Clisson's sake:
When Guesclin told him he must be hanged soon,
Within a while he lifted up his head
And spoke for his own life; not crouching, though,
As abjectly afraid to die, nor yet
Sullenly brave as many a thief will die;
Nor yet as one that plays at japes with God:
Few words he spoke; not so much what he said
Moved us, I think, as, saying it, there played
Strange tenderness from that big soldier there
About his pleading; eagerness to live
Because folk loved him, and he loved them back,
And many gallant plans unfinish'd now
For ever. Clisson's heart, which may God bless!
Was moved to pray for him, but all in vain;
Wherefore I bring this message:
That he waits,
Still loving you, within the little church
Whose windows, with the one eye of the light
Over the altar, every night behold
The great dim broken walls he strove to keep!
There my Lord Clisson did his burial well.
Now, lady, I will go; God give you rest!

Alice

Thank Clisson from me, squire, and farewell!
And now to keep myself from going mad.
Christ! I have been a many times to church,
And, ever since my mother taught me prayers,
Have used them daily, but to-day I wish
To pray another way; come face to face,
O Christ, that I may clasp your knees and pray
I know not what; at any rate come now
From one of many places where you are,
Either in Heaven amid thick angel wings,
Or sitting on the altar strange with gems,
Or high up in the dustiness of the apse;
Let us go, You and I, a long way off,
To the little damp, dark, Poitevin church;
While you sit on the coffin in the dark,
Will I lie down, my face on the bare stone
Between your feet, and chatter anything
I have heard long ago, what matters it
So I may keep you there, your solemn face
And long hair even-flowing on each side,
Until you love me well enough to speak,
And give me comfort; yea, till o'er your chin,
And cloven red beard the great tears roll down
In pity for my misery, and I die,
Kissed over by you.
Eh Guesclin! if I were
Like Countess Mountfort now, that kiss'd the knight,
Across the salt sea come to fight for her;
Ah! just to go about with many knights,
Wherever you went, and somehow on one day,
In a thick wood to catch you off your guard,
Let you find, you and your some fifty friends,
Nothing but arrows wheresoe'er you turn'd,
Yea, and red crosses, great spears over them;
And so, between a lane of my true men,
To walk up pale and stern and tall, and with
My arms on my surcoat, and his therewith,
And then to make you kneel, O knight Guesclin;
And then—alas! alas! when all is said,
What could I do but let you go again,
Being pitiful woman? I get no revenge,
Whatever happens; and I get no comfort,
I am but weak, and cannot move my feet,
But as men bid me.
Strange I do not die.
Suppose this has not happen'd after all?
I will lean out again and watch for news.
I wonder how long I can still feel thus,
As though I watch'd for news, feel as I did
Just half-an-hour ago, before this news.
How all the street is humming, some men sing,
And some men talk; some look up at the house,
Then lay their heads together and look grave:
Their laughter pains me sorely in the heart,
Their thoughtful talking makes my head turn round;
Yea, some men sing, what is it then they sing?
Eh? Launcelot, and love and fate and death;
They ought to sing of him who was as wight
As Launcelot or Wade, and yet avail'd
Just nothing, but to fail and fail and fail,
And so at last to die and leave me here,
Alone and wretched; yea, perhaps they will,
When many years are past, make songs of us;
God help me, though, truly I never thought
That I should make a story in this way,
A story that his eyes can never see.

One sings from outside.

Therefore be it believed
Whatsoever he grieved,
Whan his horse was relieved,
This Launcelot,
Beat down on his knee,
Right valiant was he
God's body to see,
Though he saw it not.
Right valiant to move,
But for his sad love
The high God above
Stinted his praise.
Yet so he was glad
That his son, Lord Galahad,
That high joyaunce had
All his life-days.
Sing we therefore then
Launcelot's praise again,
For he wan crownès ten,
If he wan not twelve.
To his death from his birth
He was muckle of worth,
Lay him in the cold earth,
A long grave ye may delve.
Omnes homines benedicite!
This last fitte ye may see,
All men pray for me
Who made this history
Cunning and fairly.

poem by William Morris
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To Move Forward

The laws of peace,
The joy of love,
Care for one another!
And, be in unity always to move forward.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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You Can Not Keep My Yeast From Rising

You can not keep my yeast from rising.
You can try!
But once it is kneaded, mixed and heated...
Cooled and seated,
With my love attached to it?
It will be served...
Eatened and treated!
To be clearly observed and witnessed.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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At least you can not

Who knows true love
At least you can not
If you know
Will you return my love
Will you return my hurt
Will you return my pain
No you can not
You do not know reality
You can not digest truth
You can not perceive truth
At least directly.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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You can not

Who knows true love
At least you can not
If you know
Will you return my love
Will you return my hurt
Will you return my pain
No you can not
You do not know reality
You can not digest truth
You can not perceive truth
At least directly.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Life Sucks And Then You Die

but mom thats not fare.mom please.mom im begging you.
havent you gotten tired of begging your parents? well then stop doing so.its as simple as that because life isnt fair so get over it.i stopped begging my parents a long time ago.life sucks and then you die.

poem by Trevor Adams
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I Can Not Teach You How To Get It

Yes, I have my issues.
With each I have admitted.
There are struggles I've been through.
And some I still have that I deal with.

I have my days when my flaws loudly speak.
With blemishes I wear and carry,
Exposed publicly.
And accepting 'me' as I've done.

I know I feel a freedom.
That seems to conflict with no one...
But you!
And I can not teach you how to get it.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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That You Can Not Do

The only way you can walk in my shoes,
Is when I am finished wearing them.
And to you they are donated.
To then retrace the steps where I have been.

And even then the wearing of them would not fit.
Since what they have been through,
You wouldn't be able to tolerate it.
How do I know this?

You see them as just shoes.
But I used them as tools.
And sometimes as weapons.
And that you can not do.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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