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When the master is absent, the frogs hop into the house.
Lord of the Flies
Oh Master my Master
Oh where have you been
I wallowed in filth and
I drowned in sin
Oh Master my Master
It's my rotten luck
To swim in the decay
And swallow the muck
Oh Master my Master
I stand in the fires
Surrounded by murderers
Thieves, cheaters, and liars
Oh Master my Master
the earth has turned red
Fluid with blood
Of the recently dead
Oh Master my Master
What's wrong with the world
The blackness unfolds
Like a flag that's unfurled
Oh Master my Master
You ignore my cries
And now I'm quite sure
You're the Lord of the Flies
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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Ghost Revisited
No soul is my property other than the one,
No tremors awake the dead when there is life;
My ministry is of the living, and the ghosts are absent,
They work in ways to be known and ways to master.
No godly being is a man, and no holy man contrives ruination
On the ghost or the ghoul that mattered to its hunter,
The very same can be said of the frail master and mistress
Who spend freely over themselves like bosses and ladies.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The City Dead-House
BY the City Dead-House, by the gate,
As idly sauntering, wending my way from the clangor,
I curious pause--for lo! an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute
brought;
Her corpse they deposit unclaim'd--it lies on the damp brick
pavement;
The divine woman, her body--I see the Body--I look on it alone,
That house once full of passion and beauty--all else I notice not;
Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet, nor odors
morbific impress me;
But the house alone--that wondrous house--that delicate fair house--
that ruin!
That immortal house, more than all the rows of dwellings ever built!
Or white-domed Capitol itself, with majestic figure surmounted--or
all the old high-spired cathedrals; 10
That little house alone, more than them all--poor, desperate house!
Fair, fearful wreck! tenement of a Soul! itself a Soul!
Unclaim'd, avoided house! take one breath from my tremulous lips;
Take one tear, dropt aside as I go, for thought of you,
Dead house of love! house of madness and sin, crumbled! crush'd!
House of life--erewhile talking and laughing--but ah, poor house!
dead, even then;
Months, years, an echoing, garnish'd house--but dead, dead, dead.
poem by Walt Whitman
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The Dummy In The House
i leave a note in the house
you keep it by heart
when someone looks for me
tell them that i am away
i am the master of the house
you are the good servant
when i tell lies
you must keep these lies as truths
if i tell you that i am one of the gods
tell them and insist on the truth of my assertion
and when i am dead
and when finally you are free
find another one
for you will always be the dummy of the century
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Black Dog
early morning when
the door of the house is finally opened
the black dog enters
missing his master
the owner of the door of the house
it wants to speak
but since it has no power over the words
it simply wags its tail
puts his head on the lap of the master
and from this gesture
one can see
that everything is well said
by it...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Absent From Routine
Absent but not of mind.
Too protective of precious consciousness,
Peace of mind and happiness.
Absent from nonsense.
Professed and not guessed.
And not seeking any to find.
To torment like the rest.
Absent from routine,
And thoughts of wasting time.
Absent from props used for chaos.
And those creating it to market!
As if this is a goldmine.
And the grease of sleaze,
Is there to slop it not stop it!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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To Fall Ill as One Should, Deliriously
To fall ill as one should, deliriously
Hot, meet everyone again,
To stroll broad avenues in the seashore garden
Full of the wind and the sun.
Even the dead, today, have agreed to come,
And the exiles, into my house.
Lead the child to me by the hand.
Long I have missed him.
I shall eat blue grapes with those who are dead,
Drink the iced
Wine, and watch the gray waterfall pour
On to the damp flint bed.
------
Behind the lake the moon's not stirred
And seems to be a window through
Into a silent, well-lit house,
Where something unpleasant has occured.
Has the master been brought home dead,
The mistress run off with a lover,
Or has a little girl gone missing,
And her shoes found by the creek-bed...
We can't see. But feel some awful thing,
And we don't want to talk.
Doleful, the cry of eagle-owls, and hot
In the garden the wind is blustering.
poem by Anna Akhmatova
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In The Garden At Swainston
NIGHTINGALES warbled without,
Within was weeping for thee:
Shadows of three dead men
Walk'd in the walks with me:
Shadows of three dead men, and thou wast one of the three.
Nightingales sang in the woods:
The Master was far away:
Nightingales warbled and sang
Of a passion that lasts but a day;
Still in the house in his coffin the Prince of courtesy lay.
Two dead men have I known
In courtesy like to thee:
Two dead men have I loved
With a love that ever will be:
Three dead men have I loved, and thou art last of the three.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Feel Like Talking
“There is a talk about you at the house,
Sit down for it is not a tale but a sad pity;
Your master is a liar, and you have no goal,
So happen like a lad of distress to gain pity,
Like the one lodged in the throat.”
At this snatch was a key to discussion,
For the master was a scoundrel always;
The master refused the lad and so innocence
Arrives, with queer things, queer ways,
Like the pity of a lifetime at the house.
“Flit out of doors so that you arrive,
Feeling able as you do, like a fine lad”;
The keys turn the door to alleviate the suffering
And then knowledge arrives to mock,
Feeling the fire of the mansion and everything.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Donkey, Dog and Master – a very gentle fable
Come, listen all -
listen to a very gentle fable
Of Donkey, Dog and Man
and the friendship
amongst these three
1
Donkey and Dog are loyal servants;
they’ve served the same master
all their lives
It’s night now and
Donkey and Dog sleep
in the courtyard
while Master
snores in the house
A thief sneaks in
through the gate
and donkey whispers
as gently as he can:
Hey, dog…There’s an intruder;
Why don’t you bark and let master know?
And the old Dog growls as
quietly as he can:
Why don’t you bray aloud
and raise the alarm?
Hey, but you’re the dog
and you’re man’s best friend,
Donkey whispers in the dark
Man’s best friend, eh?
says Dog.
But is man the dog’s best friend?
I’ve served the master for ages
and now that I’m old he neglects me
and is talking about taking another dog.
I bet he’ll have you skinned alive
when you’re dead!
To the dogs with him!
You bray if you like.
2
Oh I’ve never seen
a more ungrateful being,
Donkey says.
Master is the best
and though he treats
us harsh
it’s all for our own good.
But your ingratitude offends me
and for the sake of decency and justice
and for all the values I hold dear
I shall have to do
a watchdog’s duty instead.
And with that
the donkey brays aloud
and the cacophony is heard
in all the village
and the thief runs away as quickly as he can;
and the master comes running out with a huge stick
and seeing the donkey braying madly
with no cause but its own stupidity
the master beats the donkey well and proper
till all his own hands ache
and he goes back to bed
And now Dog and Donkey
lie down again together
in the courtyard
and Dog says to the quiet Donkey:
Looks like you just found out
how it feels to be man’s best friend!
poem by Raj Arumugam
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The master's tools will never dismantle the master's house.
quote by Audre Lorde
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pals
Take a hold now
On the silver handles here,
Six silver handles,
One for each of his old pals.
Take hold
And lift him down the stairs,
Put him on the rollers
Over the floor of the hearse.
Take him on the last haul,
To the cold straight house,
The level even house,
To the last house of all.
The dead say nothing
And the dead know much
And the dead hold under their tongues
A locked-up story.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Our Absent Friends
We often speak about
the fun we used to have
whenever we retrace our memories,
remembering our absent friends.
We remember our growing years,
the smiles on our faces
and the funny things we did
with our absent friends.
As the years roll on their way
and age creeps up on us
we sometimes like to reflect
on our long gone absent friends.
The flower of youth has withered,
but the flower never died.
It is still locked in our memory
when we remember our absent friends.
1 July 2012
poem by David Harris
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Mimics in a kitchenette
A spoon in the rack
Beside sugar and salt jars.
Spoon mutters;
'I love both of you and you're like twins
But it complicates me without tasting you
How do I jump to the old Master's
Cup of Tea?
Kettle whistles and the Master still asleep.'
Parrot in the cage whispers;
'On holidays Master won't wake up early.'
Then who poured water into the kettle? '
'Don't you know Master brought a sweet *bride last night.'
[*A job agency has supplied a house-maid from a rural village.]
It is sad to grow old but nice to ripen.
-Brigitte Bardot
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Carpenter's Song
My lot grew lighter day by day;
The children grew apace;
I built a little house last May--
No palace like that place.
And--"Father," said she, "sure you know
That once we ate dry bread?
Into our own house now we go!"--
The mother, she is dead!
Her house the undertaker made,
And not the carpenter;
My grace unsaid, the pastor prayed
In loud tones over her.
The day that's spent with merriment,
'Mid blossoms blue and red,
No music lent--my heart was rent!--
The mother, she is dead.
We pulled together many a year;
Like old bird-mates were we;
But who e'er thinks of dying here
While both together be?
Fast barred is every window-blind--
I care not what is said;
Yes, sell the house! I do not mind--
The mother, she is dead!
poem by Carmen Sylva
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Nasrudin's donkeys
1
it’s graduation day
and the teacher gives awards
to each:
a book to one
a staff to another
silk or precious stones;
and to Nasrudin
the teacher
gives a donkey
2
It is some years
and the teacher
hears of Nasrudin’s fame
and comes to visit
the House of Prayer Nasrudin oversees
and to pay homage to the Saint
buried just beside
3
O Nasrudin,
says the teacher -
how great your fame
and vast your following
Tell me, which Eminent Saint
is buried in the mound
beside the House of Prayer
you oversee?
O Master,
says Nasrudin
It’s the donkey
you gave me
It died just 4 years after
and I buried him here
And everyone wants a Saint
so I have not disabused people
of their faith
4
The teacher nods with a smile
and Nasrudin continues:
But tell me Master –
which Eminent Saint is buried in the mound
beside the House of Prayer
you oversee?
Ah, Nasrudin, says the teacher
though people believe it’s a Saint
it’s really your dead donkey’s mother
poem by Raj Arumugam
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Kill In The Spirit World
Theres something wrong theres a chill in the air
And the blood in my veins running colder
The eastern sky is beginning to silver
And the words that you speak start to falter
The seal is broken, the oath has been crossed
In the house of the dead theres a taker
Some say that this is the ultimate sin
When the spirit world turns to the alter
Theres been a kill in the spirit world
Theres been a kill in the spirit world
Behold the dead clutching at fading hands, out of reach forever
In glory die calls the voice of the void
Your assassin has cursed every spectre
The seal is broken, the oath has been crossed
And the house of the dead seeks a master
Stretching every muscle, I wait for the end
And a kiss on the wind whispers murder, murder
Theres been a kill in the spirit world
Theres been a kill in the spirit world
When heaven is closer, its pleasure and pain
Kill in the spirit world
Did you see another in black
Is the blood in your veins running colder
If you did then theres no turning back
As the spirit world turns to the alter
The seal is broken, the oath has been crossed
And the house of the dead seeks the master
Stretching every muscle, I wait for the end
And a kiss on the wind whispers murder, murder
Theres been a kill in the spirit world
Theres been a kill in the spirit world
Oh here it comes, oh no
The seal is broken, the eastern sky is beginning to silver
Theres something wrong, theres a chill in the air
I feel the evil, I feel the evil
Somebody whispers murder
A kiss on the wind whispers murder
song performed by by Black Sabbath
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Song Of The Dedicated Househelp
in London
and in Italy
the domestic
housekeeper
(euphemism
for Filipino maid)
sings
her song:
cleaning another
person's house
taking care of
another mother's kids
cooking for
the master
mopping their lawns
dusting their
carpets
wiping their
furniture
washing their
dirty clothes
all for the money
in her home country
her son has become
a drug addict,
her house sinks
in the water
there is no food in
the refrigerator
her husband is living
with another younger
woman
her papa is sick with
cancer
her mama is dead
she sends money
for the casket and
the wake
she prays some more
for her daughter
in school
in London
in Italy
she is not
a human being
in Hongkong
and in Singapore
some of them
become crazy
and kill their
master's kids
(who knows?)
the news headlines
says
Pinoy househelp
hangs herself
in the bathroom
another one jumps
from the 15th floor
crashing to the
ground
like a crushed
watermelon
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You need the House, you need the Senate and you need the administration. And absent one of them, you're not going to get a heck of a lot done.
quote by John Chafee
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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