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Friar Lubin. (From The French)
To gallop off to town post-haste,
So oft, the times I cannot tell;
To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced,--
Friar Lubin will do it well.
But a sober life to lead,
To honor virtue, and pursue it,
That's a pious, Christian deed,--
Friar Lubin can not do it.
To mingle, with a knowing smile,
The goods of others with his own,
And leave you without cross or pile,
Friar Lubin stands alone.
To say 't is yours is all in vain,
If once he lays his finger to it;
For as to giving back again,
Friar Lubin cannot do it.
With flattering words and gentle tone,
To woo and win some guileless maid,
Cunning pander need you none,--
Friar Lubin knows the trade.
Loud preacheth he sobriety,
But as for water, doth eschew it;
Your dog may drink it,--but not he;
Friar Lubin cannot do it.
ENVOY
When an evil deed 's to do
Friar Lubin is stout and true;
Glimmers a ray of goodness through it,
Friar Lubin cannot do it.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Prior To Whatever The Outcome
Who knows if those decisions we make,
Will achieve and please...
An expected result?
With a certainty known that is already felt.
The ones who take chances,
Eventually learned...
Something about deciding,
Upon which way to turn.
It is easy to reflect upon those experiences,
One gets.
And express whether or not,
A relief to them came with no grieving met.
But those who hesitate in a waiting done...
Are always heard to state they know what will occur,
Prior to whatever the outcome that is shunned...
Comes to ease or wreck havoc on their nerves.
Prior to whatever the outcome,
A shunning...
Prior to whatever the outcome,
Is done!
Prior to whatever the outcome,
A shunning...
Prior to whatever the outcome,
Is done!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Barefooted Friar
I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain,
To search Europe through, from Byzantium to Spain;
But ne'er shall you find, should you search till you tire,
So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar.
Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career,
And is brought home at even-song bunny'd through with a spear;
I confess him in haste - for his lady desires
No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar's.
Your monarch? - Pshaw! many a prince has been known
To barter his robes for our cowl and our gown,
But which of us e'er felt the idle desire
To exchange for a crown the grey hood of a Friar!
The Friar has walk'd out, and where'er he has gone,
The land and its fatness is mark'd for his own;
He can roam where he lists, he can stop when he tires,
For every man's house is the Barefooted Friar's.
He's expected at noon, and no wight till he comes
May profane the great chair, or the porridge of plums
For the best of the cheer, and the seat by the fire,
Is the undenied right of the Barefooted Friar.
He's expected at night, and the pasty's made hot,
They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black pot,
And the goodwife would wish the goodman in the mire,
Ere he lack'd a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar.
Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the cope,
The dread of the devil and trust of the Pope;
For to gather life's roses, unscathed by the briar,
Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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The Headless Friar of Santo Tomas
In my alma mater, Santo Tomas
We had heard of a mysterious tale
Of a gentle, young Spanish friar who was
A sight that turned anyone very pale.
They said he was a handsome novice
And that time, his superior took fancy.
But the events after that were amiss,
When this friar was lost into mystery.
They say he had been beheaded
By civilians the Spanish called 'Indios'
Though no one believed what was said,
And presumed the circumstances - devious.
Through the years the old building there saw
The appearance of a friar without head,
Frightening students in this age and so
There were masses and prayers for this dead.
It seemed the solution was ineffective-
For soon the appearances became many,
The building had seemed quite conducive
And the ghosts there included the nunnery!
At graduation, we avoided that building
For fear the friar will greet us 'Congrats! '
And had sighed much relief at the leaving
Santo Tomas, and its ghostly 'frats'.
-
Copyright Cynthia Buhain-Baello
February 17,2010
Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Monkshood
Most beautiful of poisons,
border-plant,
wearing your small green cowl,
little friar, little murderer,
aconitine flows
from your roots
to your deep purple flowers,
small deceiver,
centerpiece
for a poisonous
feast.
A few leaves
in the salad,
a few seeds
in the soup,
a thick root
to flavor
the stock-
& it is all over.
Let the lover beware
who buys you
for love philters.
The dose is deceptive.
One pinch leads to passion
but two will surely lead
to death.
Yet you twinkle
little blue bell
at the edge
of the garden,
wearing no warning
about your slim green neck.
Wolfsbane, Friar's cap,
Chariot of Venus-
how many may claim
to be poisonous
head to toe?
That honor-
Friar Death-
belongs to you.
poem by Erica Jong
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Shadows Of Wolves
we made an agreement
it was carved in stone to your mind
i agree there must be no changes
without prior notice
but you change it a bit
and so i am canceling the whole of it
that is what it is
carved in stone, put a change
the slightest one
can break the whole of that stone
a little change in temperature
or pressure as the case maybe
can make this world crack
without prior notice
now don't cry foul
for both of us prior to that
have assumed the shadows
of the wolves.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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People hear that and say I'm being modest, but I am not a modest person, but I have to be truthful about what I'm doing and what I'm doing is channeling.
quote by Morgan Freeman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Epitaph Extempore
Nobles and Heralds, by your leave,
Here lies what once was Matthew Prior,
The son of Adam and of Eve;
Can Stuart or Nassau claim higher.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Epitaph - On Himself
Nobles and Heralds, by your leave!
Here lie the bones of Matthew Prior;
A son of Adam and Eve:
Let Bourbon or Nassau go higher.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Mr. Attlee is a very modest man. Indeed he has a lot to be modest about.
quote by Winston Churchill
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mr Attlee is a very modest man. Indeed he has a lot to be modest about.
quote by Winston Churchill
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cancelled Flights
The tourist that no longer dreams
Sees his destination prior to arrival
Or prior to the inception of his journey—
The sharp futility of steel structures
And glass shards, crystal rain
Tearing through the sapphire sky,
Leaving a tear,
A hole in his
Celestial tarpaulin.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Is modesty a virtue?
She is modest, who hides her beauty.
It is she who hides her defects too.
She is modest, who conceals her love.
It is she who buries her infidelity too.
01.05.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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As Broad As It's Long
MODEST men must needs endure,
And the bold must humbly bow;
Thus thy fate's the same, be sure,
Whether bold or modest thou.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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The Gardener XXVI: What Comes From Your Willing Hands
"What comes from your willing
hands I take. I beg for nothing
more."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest
mendicant, you ask for all that one
has."
"If there be a stray flower for me
I will wear it in my heart."
"But if there be thorns?"
"I will endure them."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest
mendicant, you ask for all that one
has."
"If but once you should raise your
loving eyes to my face it would make
my life sweet beyond death."
"But if there be only cruel
glances?"
"I will keep them piercing my
heart."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest
mendicant, you ask for all that one
has."
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Nun in FRiar Small-Bro's Grave... Yard
The midnight clings to dwarfish kings
While robot drones, adorning thrones,
Kneel, bowing to the Old...Guard.
Arrhythmic clocks and wooden box
Grace FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
The diplohacks, in melting wax,
Are swept along, a thriving throng,
Just dying for a life...guard.
And Nun, alone, has beached their bones
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
Beyond the streams, a raven screams
At loser fish that swarm and swish;
Nun gently drips her dreams...jarred.
There are no thanks along the banks
Of FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
While FRiar smiles and prowls the aisles
The hierarch obeys his bark;
His maw is oozing pure...lard.
He tells you who and what to do
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
Well, FRiar's pets are in a sweat;
He calls the tunes near burning dunes
And taps his cloven feet...charred.
They roast in rooms within the tombs
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
His myrmidons, they drool and fawn
While chanting verse near FRiar's hearse -
Extolling, wild, the van...guard.
Remote controls promote the trolls
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
With faces straight, in bent debate,
They compromise their empty lies
With any passing re...tard.
Grey zombies groom white flies in bloom
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
With ghouls, unlearned, no stone's unturned,
They burnish blame with Nun's proud name
And leave the midnight sky... scarred.
They raise their hats to copy cats
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
The rumours spread amongst the dead -
Nun marks the place with saving grace,
And phantoms keep their face...marred.
The sinner digs with twisted twigs
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
In tempests strong, Nun rang the gong
But failed to rise in vacant eyes -
He gouged the one-eyed trump...card.
Nun sets her sail, to no avail
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
Nun asked him why a bird can't fly.
His mouth, a slut, replied "tut, tut",
With conscience painted white...tarred.
A mushroom mold has taken hold
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
"To get ahead", his mouth, it said
"Lay bare your breast! I'll do the rest,
I'll bless you in the church...yard".
The golden rules are made for fools
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
When day's undone, and night's begun,
Nun stirs a cup and turns face up,
A feeling that she's ill...starred.
'Tis such a crime to waste her prime
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
Nun planned to dine with sparkling wine
But sips instead a bitter red
Served with a crystal glass...shard,
Behind the bog, beneath the fog
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
Well, minstrels fight beyond the night
And demons wait behind the gate,
While silence chokes the host...bard.
An angel sings with broken wings
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
A web waits, spun neath dying sun.
And caught ensnared, her flight impaired,
Nun's thoughts are how they'd die...hard.
The puppet people storm the stee-
pled FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
And voices wail beyond the pale,
"The old taboo - it echoes true -
Nun's bound to have her way...barred".
The schemes are strange and minds deranged
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
Ms.! Cast your nets, but hedge your bets -
There are no odds, where purple gods
And hungry idle ghosts...sparred.
The morning foams amongst the gnomes
In FRiar Small-Bro's grave...yard.
poem by Terry O'Leary
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The modest vs. the immodest
A modest woman differs from an
Immodest one in that the modest one
Withdraws the moment she feels her
Passion for a man is detected by him
Whereas the immodest one prolongs her Affairs till others also detect it.
25.02.2004
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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It Is Possible
It is possible that you
From each word of love,
May derive thousand of meanings,
And then your yourself refute them.
It is possible My Dear
That its charm may make you paralyzed,
And you finding yourself
In the lonely dark cave of heart
May confess, express reality of love.
But who will guarantee?
You never write 'No' prior to 'Yes',
And you never write 'Yes' prior to 'No'.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The lion's share of what I hear right now are people who, intentional or accidental, have avoided all jazz prior to 1960. And all the musicians who were successful in the '60s spent their entire lives, prior to 1960, listening to all the musicians these people avoid.
quote by Branford Marsalis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Outlook
As your thoughts, so your outlook..
Ponder prior within deep
Right thought, taste..right lookout
And vice versa
Ponder prior within
Outlook up to the brim
Right thing, action, person...
Ripe the fruit
Family, society
Outlook, attitude...
Quality, ability, unity, utility
Yes for the betterment alone
poem by Indira Renganathan
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