History
What wrecked the Roman power? One says vice,
Another indolence, another dice.
Emascle says polygamy. 'Not so,'
Says Impycu-''twas luxury and show.'
The parson, lifting up a brow of brass,
Swears superstition gave the _coup de grace_,
Great Allison, the statesman-chap affirms
'Twas lack of coins (croaks Medico: ''T was worms')
And John P. Jones the swift suggestion collars,
Averring the no coins were silver dollars.
Thus, through the ages, each presuming quack
Turns the poor corpse upon its rotten back,
Holds a new 'autopsy' and finds that death
Resulted partly from the want of breath,
But chiefly from some visitation sad
That points his argument or serves his fad.
They're all in error-never human mind
The cause of the disaster has divined.
What slew the Roman power? Well, provided
You'll keep the secret, I will tell you. I did.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Julius Caesar Augustus: Ancient World Conquest
Julius valiant tall in stature a fair complexion
youth shapely limbs incredibly talented
fair-haired full face keen piercing black eyes
a public speaker trained in rhetoric skilled
hail Octavius Octavian exalted revered Augustus
statesman titled Father of the Fatherland imperator
conqueror destroyer builder Hail Caesar
Julius Augustus Caesar
famous for conquest of Gaul
Roman statesman general emperor
first emperor of the Roman Empire
ruled alone from 27 BC until 14 AD
amassed power sparked a civil war
emerged as sole unrivaled leader
of the Roman world played a critical
role in the gradual transformation of
Roman Republic into the Roman Empire
adopted born Gaius Octavius Thurinus
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Tinker Dick
Good Parson Dickson preached, I'm told,
A sermon-ah, 'twas very old
And very, very, bald!
'Twas all about-I know not what
It was about, nor what 'twas not.
'A Screw Loose' it was called.
Whatever, Parson Dick, you say,
The world will get each blessed day
Still more and more askew,
And fall apart at last. Great snakes!
What skillful tinker ever takes
His tongue to turn a screw?
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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A Coin Of Little Worth
I have seen and liked
silver coins stamped
in ancient Greece Rome
these usually carry the image
of supposedly great men
kings emperors face in profile
but their deeds were often
treacherous harsh cruel
wars these started for more
wealth slaves land to rule
my favourite coin
is a very small coin
tiny of little worth
that a woman with nothing
once gave at the temple
a very very long time ago
My Lord praised her
for giving all her livelihood
for giving more than
all gathered rich worshippers
combined because
proud rich gave a percentage
from all their amassed profit
a percentage calculated
based upon requirements of
law; but a poor woman gave
everything she had
based upon her own giving heart
it is written how Jesus sat down;
with the treasury chests in view
observing how the crowd dropped
money into the treasury chests;
many rich people were dropping in
many coins however a poor
widow woman dropped in only two
small coins which had very little value;
these coins became known as the widow's mite.
Jesus called his disciples and said to them
"Truly I say to YOU that this poor widow
dropped in more than all those dropping
money into the treasury chests; for they
all dropped in out of their surplus,
but she dropped in all of what
she had, her whole living." Mark 12: 41-44.
For the love of God.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Roman Polanski: What is There to Debate? Whether Rape is Rape-Rape?
I know he is great director.
I know that he had great stresses in his life from childhood on.
I know that he had won countless awards for his cinema, his ‘magic’ and his craft.
I know that Roman Polanski is a statutory rape predator.
I know that there was something in his psyche that little girls had done.
I know what rape means, it is control, and it’s been 32 years ago,
- he had control or am I daft.
She said “No, no, I want to go home”
“It’s been so long ago”, his fans do say.
It is sort of like meth head saying,
“I promised you $400 for that guitar I bought you from last year,
But not in future and not today.”
And the infamous Bill Clinton line
-'It depends on what the meaning of the word 'is' is. “
That one still confounds me still to this day.
(But not as much as Caitlin Upton’s response when she was asked a question in a pageant about geography I do recall.)
Roman Polanski is a fugitive from the law.
I know that Roman Polanski is a statutory rape predator
The French blame the US level of justice.
Roman elected to live in the US not France,
Do in Rome what the Romans do.
And if you ‘play’ you have to pay.
And if by chance,
You run afoul of the country’s law pity the fool.
His next stop is a prison cell door.
Especially, when you are a 40+ year old man taking advantage of a 13 year old girl.
I know that Roman Polanski is a statutory rape predator.
Roman Polanski gave her alcohol and Quaaludes,
Consensual sex, hardly it behooves the point,
Someone should lock him up for the next 32 years in the joint.
Roman’s violation of the law is not only against her,
But it is a violation against the People of California,
And consequently, the People of the United States.
I know that Roman Polanski is a statutory rape predator.
If Roman Polanski is not extradited,
- then a part of millennia of common moral law is about to fail.
If Roman Polanski is extradited he will not go free on bail.
If he were Marc Rich and President Clinton was in power,
And if Roman Polanski gave serious money to Clinton’s Library,
Roman, like Marc Rich, could be pardoned, exonerated-either or.
Roman should pay for his abuse of a child whatever years ago,
She quite older now but the state doesn’t forget.
Especially when his lawyers instigated the recent events,
-that too do they would soon regret.
But when its all said and done,
I know that Roman Polanski is a statutory rape predator.
10-2-09
poem by Joe Rosochacki
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On Wenlock Edge The Wood's In Trouble
On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger
When Uricon the city stood;
'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.
Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
At yonder heaving hill would stare;
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.
There, like the wind through woods in riot,
Through him the gale of life blew high;
The tree of man was never quiet:
Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone:
Today the Roman and his trouble
Are ashes under Uricon.
poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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Power She Holds
Slowly she'll open her hand
she knows the power she holds
she look him right in the eyes and smile
she know his end will come soon
seense she release the power the she holds
on him
he knows know to look over his shoulder
her ears hears all and she see all
now that he made this enemy the wrath of
the power she holds is released on him
the second he turns his back she'll be there to
remind him what he did wrong
poem by Aiyanna Ortiz
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In the Old Theatre, Fiesole (April, 1887)
I traced the Circus whose gray stones incline
Where Rome and dim Etruria interjoin,
Till came a child who showed an ancient coin
That bore the image of a Constantine.
She lightly passed; nor did she once opine
How, better than all books, she had raised for me
In swift perspective Europe's history
Through the vast years of Caesar's sceptred line.
For in my distant plot of English loam
'Twas but to delve, and straightway there to find
Coins of like impress. As with one half blind
Whom common simples cure, her act flashed home
In that mute moment to my opened mind
The power, the pride, the reach of perished Rome.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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In The Old Theatre, Fiesole.
I traced the Circus whose gray stones incline
Where Rome and dim Etruria interjoin,
Till came a child who showed an ancient coin
That bore the image of a Constantine.
She lightly passed; nor did she once opine
How, better than all books, she had raised for me
In swift perspective Europe's history
Through the vast years of Caesar's sceptred line.
For in my distant plot of English loam
'Twas but to delve, and straightway there to find
Coins of like impress. As with one half blind
Whom common simples cure, her act flashed home
In that mute moment to my opened mind
The power, the pride, the reach of perished Rome.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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The President I Nearly Met
Once, I nearly met a President
It was a very hot morning when we docked in port of Prince. Papa Doc was
in power then, the president of Haiti, a nice man who gave coins to the poor.
Onboard came the usual gang of uniformed official who wanted whisky and
cigarettes before any papers were signed. Amongst them Tonton Macute,
men in slacks, summer shirts concealing side arms, sunglasses worn day or
night; Papa Doc’s men looking after things. One of them offered to take me
ashore show where the best whore was, I declined have an aversion for guns.
It was a long hot night all portholes and doors closed, frantic people trying
to sneak onboard to get away from this sunlit Island. The pilot came at noon
to take us out, an intelligent man with eyes who had seen it all, he spoke
English, I asked him about Papa Doc. He paused and said: “our president is
a very nice man when he visits villages he has bags of coins whish he strew
on the road for the poor to pick up from the dust, and with desperate hearts
they are grateful for what he gives them.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Had I The Power
Had I the power to know and see
The good points and the bad in me
A philosopher I would be instead
Of one who walks around half dead.
Had I the power to understand
And give others a helping hand
And overlook their faults to find
That they too can be good and kind.
Had I the power to spurn hate
to not scorn or discriminate
And have no badness in my heart
Then I would be a man apart.
Outward a person may seem nice
But that doesn't mean he's free of vice
Because he behaves well doesn't mean
That inward he is spotless clean.
There's no human truly perfect
In each of us there's some defect
We merely flatter to deceive
Perfection we cannot achieve.
Had I the power to show my true inside
And not be keeping meaner traits ahide
And show the badness in me with the good
There's no use trying because I never could.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Slander
'Twas but a breath--
And yet the fair, good name was wilted;
And friends once fond grew cold and stilted,
And life was worse than death.
One venomed word,
That struck its coward, poisoned blow,
In craven whispers, hushed and low--
And yet the wide world heard.
'Twas but one whisper--one,
That muttered low, for very shame,
The thing the slanderer dared not name--
And yet its work was done.
A hint so slight,
And yet so mighty in its power,
A human soul in one short hour
Lies crushed beneath its blight.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Titles of honor are like the impressions on coins, which add no value to gold or silver, but only render brass current.
quote by Laurence Sterne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Leading You Astray
Bad people,
Power cuts!
Aspire,
Inspire,
Milk and honey,
Sugar and tea,
Survival of the fittest! !
Strength,
Change, challenge!
And, it took place in her room twice.
The 4th Empire was the Roman Empire!
The 4th Beast was the Roman Empire! !
Drones, thrones, stone;
Like the great sword with eyes all over it,
but, your uncontrolled lust is leading you astray.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Roman Showers
Roman showers pouring on me.
My chest is filled with joy so hotly.
I love this scene so lush and thick just like a dream.
When it comes it fills a need.
A deep desire on which I feed.
It's quite beautiful but so taboo.
Why don't you come and join me too?
Let us pass in roman showers,
spilling all that we've devoured.
Sharing this will give such power.
Though some will say that it's so dour.
Don't listen to them for they are sour.
When it pours down on your face.
For everythingelse you'll lose your taste.
It gives you a feeling of such delight.
You're washed away of judging spite.
So let us partake of it this night.
Roman showers showing us brand new heights.
poem by Michael McParland
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The Roman Road
The Roman Road runs straight and bare
As the pale parting-line in hair
Across the heath. And thoughtful men
Contrast its days of Now and Then,
And delve, and measure, and compare;
Visioning on the vacant air
Helmeted legionnaires, who proudly rear
The Eagle, as they pace again
The Roman Road.
But no tall brass-helmeted legionnaire
Haunts it for me. Uprises there
A mother's form upon my ken,
Guiding my infant steps, as when
We walked that ancient thoroughfare,
The Roman Road.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Body Of God!
forgive me, i erred,
i thought God contained
in the wind.... but twas
only one breath of infinity!
i thought i saw God
in the starving child's eyes,
but twas only one heartbeat
of compassion!
i thought i heard God
in the cries of the dying
on the battlefields of greed...
but twas human despair!
i thought i found God
down in the homeless shelter,
but twas only the faces
of my brothers and sisters!
so i walked away,
thinking God didnt care....
then a voice startled me...
'but you're my body! '
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Empires
Empires
On the ancient road I hear roman soldiers’ footsteps, all roads lead back to an empire;
and nothing has changed the poor die in the service of their masters. The Romans took
the elites sons of country they wanted to dictate sent them to Rome trained and sent
them back and they had vassal state. It didn’t always work, loyalty became resentment
and uprising, the kept kings demanded more power. The new empire is doing the same,
sends sons and daughters of the elite, in countries they want to control, to Harvard, we
get the royal household of Jordan. Sometime it backfires and we get Osama Bin Laden.
All empires must fall it’s written in the stars, their outpost Israel, is a sacrilege, losing her
humanity. I hear tired Roman soldiers marching on roads their foes will take when they
come to crush them. Iraq is a civil war waiting to happen, Afghanistan is a lost cause and
Pakistan will never submit to foreign dominance. I hear the footsteps, the new empires’
soldiers, the urban poor, have been promised glory, and shiny medals, as always they die
for a dream not theirs. The ghosts of roman soldiers marches on through the centuries,
nothing has changed in two thousand years.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Queen And Clown.
Cleopatra: Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there, that kills and
pains not?
Clown: Truly I have him; but I would not be the party that should
desire you to touch him, for his biting is immortal: those that do die of it
do seldom or never recover.
* * * * *
Asps in a basket for the Queen!
The pretty worm of Nile
Will charm her from what might have been,
And make Death smile.
So soft an end for one so fair,
Her Roman lying low —
The other Roman finds her there,
Beyond him so!
poem by Robert Crawford
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Have you Really ever understood yourself?
Life is a journey of lessons
But we get lost in recess
on the way
Homework forgotten and neglected
far too much time
spent in play
We became followers and shirkers
Too lazy to put effort in
Where we could have made ourselves
brilliant
We just struggled with no depth within
Religion was made for the lazy
the ones who lost touch long ago
The Bible a book packed with lessons
that most of the world didn't know
A misunderstood work used in error
Wars caused through Man's ignorance
of the word
Left a world struggling in terror
long buried truth never heard
Religion was born out of fears
a lost time with nothing to hold
superstition was ripe and compelling
It caused man to become violent and bold
The truth is that man is but spirit
here on this earth as his school
a place where trial an error
have made religion the work of a fool
Spirit was given a place here
to have faith in a God it can trust
Believing in him is the answer
accepting this fact is a must
We need to get rid of religions
Cults that man now seeks for power
get back to the truth in our system
for this is the time and the hour
We have a mind so amazing
we can be anything that we think
without superstition and religion
our spirit fills with wisdom to the brink
Nothing holds back a true spirit
No religion or cult formed by man
Control by those people not Gods will
Certainly was not part of God's plan
Within us we hold all the power
That was given to us for our own
We just have to think it to receive it
The power of this not well known
Man may never learn his lessons
and have to return over again
but during the time of his schooling
he will have to start using his brain.
poem by Janice M Pickett
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Sonnet: When Money Becomes God!
When man believes that pelf is everything,
And goes after money with planning, wise,
From pauper soon, he rises to be king,
He lands up quickly, playing dice, in vice!
From big money, he can make bigger sums,
And forgets God and trusts in his own power;
Big ideas, his mind and heart welcomes;
For his new love, He builds a high tower!
Then money turns to be his master prime;
His virtues disappear without a trace;
For spiritual needs, he cannot find the time;
His moral values fall in rapid pace!
The heart of rich turns godless to the core;
The wrath of God shuts firmly heaven's door!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 24-07-12
poem by John Celes
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