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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Related quotes
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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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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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 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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The Young Friar
When leaves broke out on the wild briar,
And bells for matins rung,
Sorrow came to the old friar
– Hundreds of years ago it was! –
And May came to the young.
The old was ripening for the sky,
The young was twenty-four.
The Franklin's daughter passed him by,
Reading a painted missal-book,
Beside the chapel door.
With brown cassock and sandalled feet,
And red Spring wine for blood;
The very next noon he chanced to meet
The Franklin's daughter, in a green May twilight,
Walking through the wood.
Pax vobiscum – to a maid
The crosiered ferns among!
But hers was only the Saxon,
And his the Norman tongue;
And the Latin taught by the old friar
Made music for the young.
And never a better deed was done
By Mother Church below
Than when she made old England one,
– Hundreds of years ago it was! –
Hundreds of years ago.
Rich was the painted page they read
Before that sunset died;
Nut-brown hood by golden head,
Murmuring Rosa Mystica,
While nesting thrushes cried.
A Saxon maid with flaxen hair,
And eyes of Sussex grey;
A young monk out of Normandy: –
'May is our Lady's month,' he said,
'And O, my love, my May!'
Then over the fallen missal-book
The missel-thrushes sung
Till – Domus Aurea – rose the moon
And bells for vespers rung.
It was gold and blue for the old friar,
But hawthorn for the young.
For gown of green and brown hood,
Before that curfew tolled,
Had flown for ever through the wood
– Hundreds of years ago it was! –
But twenty summers old.
And empty stood his chapel stall,
Empty his thin grey cell,
Empty her seat in the Franklin's hall;
And there were swords that searched for them
Before the matin bell.
And, crowders tell, a sword that night
Wrought them an evil turn,
And that the may was not more white
Than those white bones the robin found
Among the roots of fern.
But others tell of stranger things
Half-heard on Whitsun eves,
Of sweet and ghostly whisperings –
Though hundreds of years ago it was –
Among the ghostly leaves: –
Sero te amavi –
Grey eyes of sun-lit dew! –
Tam antiqua, tam nova –
Augustine heard it, too.
Late have I loved that May, Lady,
So ancient, and so new!
And no man knows where they were flown,
For the wind takes the may:
But white and fresh the may was blown
– Though hundreds of years ago it was –
As this that blooms to-day.
And the leaves break out on the wild briar,
And bells must still be rung;
But sorrow comes to the old friar,
For he remembers a May, a May,
When his old heart was young.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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Deciver Of Fools
He told the tale so many times
About the dream not meant to be
In a world of the free
He plays with your mind
As faith for the future faded fast
He grows strong with their displeasure
It sets him free
Deceiver of hearts
Deceiver of fools
He rules with fear
Deceiver of hearts
Deceiver of fools
He rules again
He feeds on fear
Poisons the truth
To gain their faith
To lead the way
To a world of decay
He rules your heart
He will sell your soul to the grave
No hesitation he'll make
He belongs to the dark
Please awake
And see the truth
He can only be
If you believe what he tells you
Remember who you are
What you stand for
And there will always be a way
In my heart there is a place
In my heart there is a trace
Of a small fire burning
A sheltering ray shines through this night
Although it 's small, it's bright
But darkness is lurking
He will sell your soul to bitterness and cold
Fear him
Deceiver of hearts
Deceiver of fools
He rules with fear
Deceiver of hearts
Deceiver of fools
Shall he rule again?
song performed by by Within Temptation
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ivy (Novelinee)
Seen by druids as have magical properties
as dark green woody vines upward it grows
it covers walls and climbs up upon trees
and to where it is growing no one knows,
its fruit are poisonous small smooth berries
and it protects walls from some weathering
make children ill if they eat them like cherries,
but this plant makes some great green covering
usually looks delightful during spring.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Illegal and Forbidden (2nd revision)
Changed chameleon-like into my
purple-pink office regalia - symbolised
by fleece, blanket and flowers in pink,
changed to blue by windscreen shade
held in place by green cool drink
bottles and blue dictionaries to block
icy air-flow from our Siberian air-con
wearing a man's blue jacket illegally
negates attempts to blend purple
and gold; chilled I drank illicit coffee,
ate forbidden chocolate; showed my
pink, purple, violet and green note-
book to my friends, Ulrike, Hanlie,
Winston, a waitress and Alet
blue aura amends to Tinker Bell green
but pink fleece vanishes into indigo
sheen - after mind enriched tooth
brushing I'm ready to tackle menacingly
illegible arrest warrants advising
heinous criminality tho' delinquency
like mine remains unnoticed
Thank God for that…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Deceiver Of Fools
He told the tale so many times
About the dream not meant to be
In a world of the free
He plays with your mind
As faith for the future faded fast
He grows strong with their displeasure
It sets him free
Deceiver of hearts
Deceiver of fools
He rules with fear
Deceiver of hearts
Deceiver of fools
He rules again
He feeds on fear
Poisons the truth
To gain their faith
To lead the way
To a world of decay
He rules your heart
He will sell your soul to the grave
No hesitation he'll make
He belongs to the dark
Please awake
And see the truth
He can only be
If you believe what he tells you
Remember who you are
What you stand for
And there will always be a way
In my heart there is a place
In my heart there is a trace
Of a small fire burning
A sheltering ray shines through this night
Although it 's small
song performed by by Within Temptation from Mother Earth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wattlebirds Kept Busy All The Day
The wattlebirds kept busy all the day
From flowering gum trees chasing them away
But wattlebirds though big are not so fleet
And they can't catch purple crowned lorikeet.
Green neck and back and shoulder patch green brown
And reddish face and purple patch on crown
And orange patch on neck and undersides light blue
They live in small flocks as most small lories do.
These lorikeets in many places rare
But in You Yangs park one sees them everywhere
They feed in groups and fly from tree to tree
And make much noise and prove quite hard to see.
Gregarious birds they spend their daylight hours
Taking nectar from the eucalyptus flowers
And wattlebirds kept busy all the day
From flowering gum trees chasing them away.
poem by Francis Duggan
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[My Little Green Plant]
I have a plant in my house.
Not a tree a shrub ore a shrew.
But a plant.
It's green and red and sparkle blue.
Healthy clean and sticky like glue.
Bold beautifully and fragrant to.
My little green plant, how I love you.
I love my plant all stretched out high.
When it's flowers open it reveals a surprise
Just imagine it as you close you're eyes.
My little green plant, always on my mind.
My plant is thirsty it needs special care.
Nutrients and light, without it would die.
Like a child growing up ill always be there.
12 weeks to grow, and not a care.
3 feed tall and producing air.
My little green plant with little red hairs.
The time has come that I must say good by,
my little green plant has grown up right.
I'll trim it nice and hold on tight,
my little green plant makes me happiest tonight.
I'll sow the seed and sign the deed,
my little green plants one hell of a weed.
Come on now people get your minds out of the gutter..... I'm just talking about sage! :)
poem by Seth Morrow
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Carmelite
As Death was a-riding out one day,
Across Mount Carmel he took his way,
Where he met a mendicant monk,
Some three or four quarters drunk,
With a holy leer and a pious grin,
Ragged and fat and as saucy as sin,
Who held out his hands and cried:
'Give, give in Charity's name, I pray.
Give in the name of the Church. O give,
Give that her holy sons may live!'
And Death replied,
Smiling long and wide:
'I'll give, holy father, I'll give thee-a ride.'
With a rattle and bang
Of his bones, he sprang
From his famous Pale Horse, with his spear;
By the neck and the foot
Seized the fellow, and put
Him astride with his face to the rear.
The Monarch laughed loud with a sound that fell
Like clods on the coffin's sounding shell:
'Ho, ho! A beggar on horseback, they say,
Will ride to the devil!' -and thump
Fell the flat of his dart on the rump
Of the charger, which galloped away.
Faster and faster and faster it flew,
Till the rocks and the flocks and the trees that grew
By the road were dim and blended and blue
To the wild, wide eyes
Of the rider- in size
Resembling a couple of blackberry pies.
Death laughed again, as a tomb might laugh
At a burial service spoiled,
And the mourners' intentions foiled
By the body erecting
Its head and objecting
To further proceedings in its behalf.
Many a year and many a day
Have passed since these events away.
The monk has long been a dusty corse,
And Death has never recovered his horse.
For the friar got hold of its tail,
And steered it within the pale
Of the monastery gray,
Where the beast was stabled and fed
With barley oil and bread
Till fatter it grew than the fattest friar,
And so in due course was appointed Prior.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Deep In Nature
Green everywhere and as far as the eye could see
Green plants, green leaves
A small river, with a boulder or two
And the sky so beautiful with blue
I lay back and let myself dream
It's so quiet and peaceful i never want to leave this stream
That is my idea of peace in nature, do you not agree?
poem by Jonathan Kjaer
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Will O' The Wisp
Follow me, follow me,
Over brake and under tree,
Thro' the bosky tanglery,
Brushwood and bramble!
Follow me, follow me,
Laugh and leap and scramble!
Follow, follow,
Hill and hollow,
Fosse and burrow,
Fen and furrow,
Down into the bulrush beds,
'Midst the reeds and osier heads,
In the rushy soaking damps,
Where the vapours pitch their camps,
Follow me, follow me,
For a midnight ramble!
O! what a mighty fog,
What a merry night O ho!
Follow, follow, nigher, nigher -
Over bank, and pond, and briar,
Down into the croaking ditches,
Rotten log,
Spotted frog,
Beetle bright
With crawling light,
What a joy O ho!
Deep into the purple bog -
What a joy O ho!
Where like hosts of puckered witches
All the shivering agues sit
Warming hands and chafing feet,
By the blue marsh-hovering oils:
O the fools for all their moans!
Not a forest mad with fire
Could still their teeth, or warm their bones,
Or loose them from their chilly coils.
What a clatter,
How they chatter!
Shrink and huddle,
All a muddle!
What a joy O ho!
Down we go, down we go,
What a joy O ho!
Soon shall I be down below,
Plunging with a grey fat friar,
Hither, thither, to and fro,
Breathing mists and whisking lamps,
Plashing in the shiny swamps;
While my cousin Lantern Jack,
With cook ears and cunning eyes,
Turns him round upon his back,
Daubs him oozy green and black,
Sits upon his rolling size,
Where he lies, where he lies,
Groaning full of sack -
Staring with his great round eyes!
What a joy O ho!
Sits upon him in the swamps
Breathing mists and whisking lamps!
What a joy O ho!
Such a lad is Lantern Jack,
When he rides the black nightmare
Through the fens, and puts a glare
In the friar's track.
Such a frolic lad, good lack!
To turn a friar on his back,
Trip him, clip him, whip him, nip him.
Lay him sprawling, smack!
Such a lad is Lantern Jack!
Such a tricksy lad, good lack!
What a joy O ho!
Follow me, follow me,
Where he sits, and you shall see!
poem by George Meredith
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0377 Should be, but
I should be writing a poem
about those small wisps of white cloud
moving unusually fast across a blue blue sky
on their way to somewhere else
as if they're late for an appointment.
I should be writing a poem
about the way the breeze is so gentle
that it seems to have a secret plan with the sun
and the new green leaves
to do something quite extraordinary.
I should be writing a poem
about the way that the trailing geranium leaves
are giving out a scent more white than green
more heavenly than any thought.
I should be writing a poem
about the way that the purple and blue and yellow and white flowers
seem to say nothing but beauty.
I should be writing a poem
but all I can do is gaze in amazement
at what I've seen before
and never seen before.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Cravat Or Turkey Neck
The visible signs of ageing
the bald head
I've been nearly bald
since my early
twenties
the Friar Tuck grey hair
the last remnant
of a great teenage
Elvis pompadour
the turkey neck
I could disguise
with a cravat
but that's not me.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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Blue Wall / Green Wall
What comes to my mind when I see a green wall?
A green wall reminds me of the grass so green
And the emerald most rarely seen
A green wall reminds me of the leaves so green
And a forest where I have never been
A green wall reminds me of trees with a lot of shade
And the fresh vegetables kept for trade.
What comes to my mind when I see a blue wall?
It reminds me of the sea so blue
I feel like jumping in it too
A blue wall reminds me of the blue sky
You can’t touch it cause it’s very high
A blue wall reminds me of the deep blue bear
It is very dangerous so beware
A blue wall reminds me of a blue whale
To reach it from the shore you have to sail.
poem by Risha Ahmed
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Motive
The green garden and the blue lover!
The love of your blues over the flowers;
But wash yourself separately for the first time.
Look beyond personality and learn a lot,
For the first time can change many things!
And like your sweet muse in the green garden.
Measure yourself by the things you value in this life,
For there is a difference between abuse and discipline;
And like the motive of your love in this garden.
The right choice is now with your integrity,
So do make sure that he or she is a moral person;
And like the muse of your sweet love in the green garden.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Wild Pink Roses
There laying hidden against a late summer hue
With green trees shutting out most of their view
Yon can feel the color of wild roses where they lie
As if they were following with a pentrating pink eye
There roots grow in red dirt which is always bright
There leaves become small beacons of a green light
Their feelings can be felt from your head to your toes
There's nothing more beautiful than a wild pink rose
poem by John McCornack
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