My Sage Green Robe
I sit on my bed, and look across at my sage green towelling robe,
hanging on the back of the bedroom door.
Does he still 'fancy' me,
when I'm wearing it,
probably not,
it's not 'sexy', rather 'frumpy' really,
not at all an 'exciting' piece of clothing.
A dowdy bird,
dowdy and unheard!
I think that's me!
A 'new' me, must emerge from that robe.
A butterfly from a chrysalis,
A rose from a bud.
I think I need an overhaul, and a new 'robe',
like you see the 'famous' wearing,
in their 'penthouses'.
A glorious creation of satin and silk,
like flowing cream and milk.
Mind you, my towelling robe, hangs next to his towelling robe,
so perhaps we will do the same, and remain side by side,
and perhaps he loves me for other things than just being,
glamorous.
Hanging there, they look at peace with each other,
so I think I'll stick with my sage green towelling robe,
it cuddles me, just like he does!
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Related quotes
The heart, they say, asks pleasure first
A king is a king by his robe;
A priest is a priest by his robe;
A judge is a judge by his robe;
A nun is a nun by her robe.
Naked, they answer their instincts
Which are not different from yours
04.09.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Untitled #2
ROBE d'or, mais rien ne veut
Qu'une rose à ses cheveux.
A golden robe, yet will she wear
Only a rose in her golden hair.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Long Flowing Robe
Cruising makes some people get uptight
But nothing beats a lonely friday night
Friday night, nothing much to do but hang around
Think I might just grab myself a cab and head downtown
And for hours, I hang around the dance hall crowd
I feel like a boor
But then I turned around and cast my eyes to the door
In a long flowing robe
She appeared at the ballroom door
I was hard-pressed to know
What I hoped she was looking for
Coming on at first may not seem right
But nothing beats a lover at first sight
What a sight, nothing can compare with simple grace
Its all right, I see it in the look upon her face
That she wants me the same way that Im wanting her
In fact maybe more
But as I take her hand
She turns and heads for the door
In a long flowing robe
She took off through the ballroom door
I was hard-pressed to know
What did she go and do that for
Friday night, nothing left to do but go to bed
Sleeping tight, when something stirring deep inside my head
Said wake up and cast your eyes to the door.
In a long flowing robe
She appeared at the bedroom door
I was hard-pressed to know
What I knew she was looking for
song performed by by Todd Rundgren
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A White Robe
He is covered with a white robe and,
I really do love him;
She is covered with a white robe and,
I really do love her;
For the muse of love is like,
The wings of the bird that flies up high!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Last Masquerade
A wan new garment of young green
Touched, as you turned your soft brown hair
And in me surged the strangest prayer
Ever in lover's heart hath been.
That I who saw your youth's bright page,
A rainbow change from robe to robe,
Might see you on this earthly globe,
Crowned with the silver crown of age.
Your dear hair powdered in strange guise,
Your dear face touched with colours pale:
And gazing through the mask and veil
The mirth of your immortal eyes.
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Ch 04 On The Advantages Of Silence Story 10
A poet went to an amir of robbers and recited a panegyric but he ordered him to be divested of his robe. As the poor man was departing naked in the world, he was attacked from behind by dogs, whereon he intended to snatch up a stone but it was frozen to the ground and, being unable to do so, he exclaimed: ‘What whore-sons of men are these? They have let loose the dogs and have tied down the stones.’ The amir of the robbers who heard these words from his room laughed and said: ‘O philosopher, ask something from me.’ He replied: ‘I ask for my robe if thou wilt make me a present of it.’
We are satisfied of thy gift by departure.
A man was hoping for the gifts of people.
I hope no gift from thee. Do me no evil.
The robber chief took pity upon him, ordered his robe to be restored to him and added to it a sheepskin jacket with some dirhems.
Night Coming Into A Garden
Roses red and white,
Every rose is hanging her head,
Silently comes the lady Night,
Only the flowers can hear her tread.
All day long the birds have been calling,
Calling shrill and sweet,
They are still when she comes with her long robe falling
Falling down to her feet.
The thrush has sung to his mate,
' She is coming ! hush ! she is coming ! '
She is lifting the latch at the gate,
And the bees have ceased from their humming.
I cannot see her face as she passes
Through my garden of white and red ;
But I know she has walked where the daisies and grasses
Are curtseying after her tread.
She has passed me by with a rustle and sweep
Of her robe (as she passed I heard it sweeping),
And all my red roses have fallen asleep,
And all my white roses are sleeping.
poem by Lord Alfred Douglas
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Legacy of the Purple Robe
The legacy of the purple robe,
Worn by the most powerful of kings, Gods, and highest of lords,
The purple robe of majesty, embedded with diamond galore,
The legacy of the apparel and the creator never seen before,
In correlation with the platinum crown,
The Creator of everything wearing the magic gown,
Beyond the planet Earth, the creator beyond the renowned,
Creator of the nine planets and the galaxy all around,
Beyond the sky, the solar system painted by the creator,
The creator without a name, the universe’s dictator,
Higher than Zeus, God, Allah, something much greater,
The creator with portraits of the universe, the painter,
Wearing the purple gown and the platinum crown, the God of all,
Within the asteroid belt, the universe’s wall,
In the creator’s portrait, the solar system enthralled,
Not a religion, but something higher than the skies,
Something invisible, looking down on the Earth with blue eyes,
Beyond religion, the highest of the power of gods refined,
The artist of the universe’s blueprint that’s intricately designed,
Creator of the moon, the grass, the mountains, and the sun that shines,
The purple robe beyond the stars, worn by the creator in the royal shrine,
The purple robe and the platinum crown, only worn by the most creative of mind,
For this creator was truly a painter, an artist of the universe,
Inflicted by hypergraphia and insanity of mind, the artist’s curse,
That sits above the realm of space when the planets dispersed,
At one point everything was one planet cluttered in space,
Until he created boundaries within the realm that separated planets in a linear trace,
Above the galaxy in the darkened realm beyond the stars the creator’s place,
Until he created the new portrait of the big bang, and the old blueprint was replaced,
Within one shattering boom of the storm, the portraits transformed in haste,
And the cluttered planet was forgotten forever without a trace,
Now separated in the solar system,9 planets are spread in space,
The purple robe, only worn by the artist and the God of everything,
Compulsively observing his portrait sitting on the different sections of the asteroid ring,
The platinum crown, and the purple robe, worn by the ultimate king,
Beyond religion, the highest power humans never seen,
The creator, that painted everything.
poem by Kurt Kacich
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Hymn 20
Spiritual apparel.
Isa. 61:10.
Awake, my heart; arise, my tongue,
Prepare a tuneful voice;
In God, the life of all my joys,
Aloud will I rejoice.
'Tis he adorned my naked soul,
And made salvation mine;
Upon a poor polluted worm
He makes his graces shine.
And lest the shadow of a spot
Should on my soul be found,
He took the robe the Savior wrought,
And cast it all around.
How far the heav'nly robe exceeds
What earthly princes wear
These ornaments, how bright they shine!
How white the garments are!
The Spirit wrought my faith, and love,
And hope, and every grace;
But Jesus spent his life to work
The robe of righteousness.
Strangely, my soul, art thou arrayed
By the great Sacred Three!
In sweetest harmony of praise
Let all thy powers agree.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Mrs O’Hara’s Bathtub (Fun Poem 39)
Rub-a-dub-dub,
Mrs O’Hara’s bathtub,
a towel gone for a drink,
fell into the tub.
What is the poor lady to dry herself with now?
Oh, dear what can she do,
the robe she thought,
give it a tug,
but it fell into the tub.
Now what was she going to do?
Call for her husband.
A yell, a scream is heard,
as he rushes in like a buffalo herd.
“What is the matter, dear? ” he says,
and then slips up on a bar of soap.
Rub-a -dub-dub,
Mrs O’Hara, towel, robe, and hubby all in the tub.
19 April 1979
poem by David Harris
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La Robe A Parasol
trim your dress, trim your dress
trim your dress in the parasol style
if you have hips, if you have hips
trim your dress in the parasol style
trim your dress, trim your dress
trim your dress in the parasol style
go to sleep, go to sleep
go to sleep in your baby's arms
balance yourself, balance yourself
balance yourself in your baby's arms
if you have hips, if you have hips
trim your dress in the parasol style
French version:
tailles ta robe, tailles ta robe,
tailles ta robe la mode a parasol
si t'as des hanches, si t'as des hanches,
tailles la robe la mode a parasol
tailles ta robe, mais tailles ta robe,
tailles ta robe la mode a parasol
sommeillez, sommeillez,
sommeillez dans les bras de ton gars
balancez, balancez,
balancez dans les bras de ton gars
si t'as des hanches, si t'as des hanches,
tailles ta robe la mode a parasol
sommeillez, sommeillez,
sommeillez dans les bras de ton gars
balancez, balancez,
balancez dans les bras de ton gars
tailles ta robe, Mais tailles ta robe,
tailles ta robe la mode a parasol
balancez, sommeillez
sommeillez dans les bras de ton gars
song performed by by 16 Horsepower
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Visit From Diotima lV
D God, what a mess! Everything's soaked!
MM Diotima, this was predictable.
D I'm so sorry. But, if you hadn't said those awful things. Hey,
I'm REALLY sorry.
MM Well, it's a little late for that.
D Where do you think all the water went?
MM Downhill.
D You mean....
(they look down)
MM Never mind. I'll call the insurance company when it gets light.
D Good thing Louise lives upstairs.
MM You can say that, again.
D Good thing Louise lives up-
MM Diotima! Did you have to wear those heels?
D They go with my outfit.
MM What outfit. You're barely wearing anything!
D It's hot. I dress for the weather.
MM On that premise, you should just go naked.
D So, what's YOUR excuse?
MM (realizes he is naked as Adam)
Oh, my God! Diotima, hand me that robe.
D (laughs) Relax. It's only me. This one, you mean?
MM Yes, that one.
(he puts on the robe. The downstairs neighbors pound at the door)
N Michaels, what's the deal? It's raining in our bedroom.
Open the door.
MM Sorry. I can't: company. Our water broke.
N Oh. Why didn't you say so. Should I call an ambulance?
MM I mean the bed's. The waterbed broke.
N What? Are you alright? Everything in our apartment's soaked.
This is not cool.
MM Sorry. I'll explain everything later. After I call insurance. Don't
worry. Everything will be ok.
N It better be. The walls down there are sweating big time.
MM Look, everything will be ok. Just go away.
N Whatever. See you tomorrow. I mean, later!
(he leaves)
MM Thanks alot, Diotima. All because of a dumb love-song.
D Don't be insensitive. Why are you so angry?
MM No particular reason.
D Well, I have to go now. Hong Kong. I'm sponsoring a young
poet, there, named Uli.
MM Is he any good?
D Um, you probably wouldn't like his work. It's very political.
MM Diotima...
D What?
MM Would you lock the door on your way out?
D Sure.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Free Fall
A long while, a long long while it seems:
The bat-winged figure shaking his robe,
The cameras purring.
It is Daedalus the tailor, up on the Eiffel Tower
Ready to fly. The year is 1900;
We watch it, now.
...Shakes at his bat-robe, first to the right,
Then left, then right again, a twitch,
A doubtful gesture.
'Cast thyself from the pinnacle, angels will bear thee up.'
So great a height - the wings will surely beat
And bear me up?
Shaking his robe. A mile of film we are wasting:
Why doesn't he jump? In these long seconds
What is he thinking?
That the plan was crazy, and the careful stitches
Shaped him a shroud? Perhaps he is wondering
How to withdraw.
To pretend a flaw in the work, a change in the wind;
And imagines how it would be to face
The jeering crowd,
Slink back to his trade and live, with nothing to live for.
So still he hesitates, and shakes his shroud,
Then, suddenly, jumps.
Not even a flap from the wings. The lens below
Can barely follow the plummeting shape,
So quick his fall,
Hollowing out his own grave.
We are caught between dismay and laughter
Watching it now -
Not in a myth, not a century back, but now.
Ridiculous death. Yet as he stood on the tower,
Shaking, shaking his robe,
He mimed what each man must in private try,
Poised on the parapet of darkness -
Each in that crowd, and you, reader, and I.
poem by Anne Barbara Ridler
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The Past
I fling the past behind me, like a robe
Worn threadbare at the seams, and out of date.
I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep
And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes
Of oriental splendor, or complain
That I must needs discard it? I can weave
Upon the shuttles of the future years
A fabric far more durable. Subdued,
It may be, in the blending of its hues,
Where somber shades commingle, yet the gleam
Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through,
While over all a fadeless luster lies,
And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears,
My new robe shall be richer than the old.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Unsung Psalm
There would be psalms sung by a choir
I would have a white robe a halo newly acquired
Id be at peace and Id have no desire
If Id lived right
There would be cherubs with tiny harps arrows and bows
Id have a halo and a flowing white robe
Id be enfolded by a celestial light
If Id lived right
But Im feeling hot and bothered under the collar
I feel the sweat breaking out on my brow
I feel the heat and I know its the passion
The love I cant disavow
If this is a dream wake me up now
If this is a movie lets edit these scenes out
It would be a pg instead of an x rated life
If Id lived right
Some would call me a cheat call me a liar
Say that Ive been defeated by the basest desired
Yes I have strayed and succumbed to my vices
But I tried to live right
But I have no regrets no guilt in my heart
I only feel sadness for any pain that Ive caused
I guess I wouldnt bother to worry at all
If Id lived right
Do you live by the book do you play by the rules
Do you care what is thought by others about you
If this day is all that is promised to you
Do you life for the future the present the past
If there is one thing I know I know I will die
If anyone cares some stranger my critique my life
I may be revered or defamed and decried
But I tried to live right
There would be psalms sung by a choir
I would have a white robe a halo newly acquired
Id be at peace and Id have no desire
If Id lived right
song performed by by Tracy Chapman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Patience and the mulberry leaf become a silk robe.
Zion
She stood-a hill-ensceptred Queen,
The glory streaming from her ;
While Heaven flashed her rays between,
And shed eternal summer.
The gates of morning opened wide
On sunny dome and steeple;
Noon gleamed upon the mountain-side
'Thronged with a happy people ;
And twilight's drowsy, half closed eyes
Beheld that virgin splendour
Whose orbs were as her darkening skies,
And as her spirit, tender.
Girt with that strength, first-horn of right,
Held fast by deeds of honour,
I ler robe she wove with rays more bright
Than Heaven could rain upon her.
Where is that light-that citadel
That robe with woof of glory ?
She lost her virtue and she fell,
And only left her story.
poem by Isaac Rosenberg
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The Stranger
There’s a stranger in my house
I have seen him mope around
In some fuzzy bedroom slippers
and a faded dressing gown.
He somehow seems familiar
Though I cannot place the face
My memory retrieval seems
lost without a trace
Every time I see him
He is staring back intently
As if he too is searching
for a clue within his memory.
This morning he was back again
In a faded emerald robe-
You know, I have one like it-
Did he steal it, you suppose?
But that can’t be, I’m wearing it
I look up with a start
What a curse are full length mirrors
to a senescent aging fart.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Summertime In England
Can you meet me in the country
In the summertime in england
Will you meet me?
Will you meet me in the country
In the summertime in england
Will you meet me?
Well go riding up to kendal in the country
In the summertime in england.
Did you ever hear about
Did you ever hear about
Did you ever hear about
Wordsworth and coleridge, baby?
Did you ever hear about wordsworth and coleridge?
They were smokin up in kendal
By the lakeside
Can you meet me in the country in the long grass
In the summertime in england
Will you meet me
With your red robe dangling all around your body
With your red robe dangling all around your body
Will you meet me
Did you ever hear about . . .
William blake
T. s. eliot
In the summer
In the countryside
They were smokin
Summertime in england
Wont you meet me down bristol
Meet me along by bristol
Well go ridin down
Down by avalon
Down by avalon
Down by avalon
In the countryside in england
With your red robe danglin all around your body free
Let your red robe go.
Goin ridin down by avalon
Would you meet me in the country
In the summertime in england
Would you meet me?
In the church of st. john . . .
Down by avalon . . . .
Holy magnet
Give you attraction
Yea, I was attracted to you.
Your coat was old, ragged and worn
And you wore it down through the ages
Ah, the sufferin did show in your eyes as we spoke
And the gospel music
The voice of mahalia jackson came through the ether
Oh my common one with the coat so old
And the light in the head
Said, daddy, dont stroke me
Call me the common one.
I said, oh, common one, my illuminated one.
Oh my high in the art of sufferin one.
Take a walk with me
Take a walk with me down by avalon
Oh, my common one with the coat so old
And the light in her head.
And the sufferin so fine
Take a walk with me down by avalon
And I will show you
It aint why, why, why
It just is.
Would you meet me in the country
Can you meet me in the long grass
In the country in the summertime
Can you meet me in the long grass
Wait a minute
With your red robe . . .
Danglin all around your body.
Yeats and lady gregory corresponded . . .
And james joyce wrote streams of consciousness books . . .
T.s. eliot chose england . . .
T.s. eliot joined the ministry . . .
Did you ever hear about . . .
Wordsworth and coleridge?
Smokin up in kendal
They were smokin by the lakeside . . .
Let your red robe go . . .
Let your red robe dangle in the countryside in england
Well go ridin down by avalon
In the country
In the summertime
With you by my side
Let your red robe go . . .
Youll be happy dancin . . .
Let your red robe go . . .
Wont you meet me down by avalon
In the summertime in england
In the church of st. john . . .
Did you ever hear about jesus walkin
Jesus walkin down by avalon?
Can you feel the light in england?
Can you feel the light in england?
Oh, my common one with the light in her head
And the coat so old
And the sufferin so fine
Take a walk with me
Oh, my common one,
Oh, my illuminated one
Down by avalon . . .
Oh, my common one . . .
Oh, my storytime one
Oh, my treasury in the sunset
Take a walk with me
And I will show you
It aint why . . .
It just is . . .
Oh, my common one
With the light in the head
And the coat so old
Oh, my high in the art of sufferin one . . .
Oh, my common one
Take a walk with me
Down by avalon
And I will show you
It aint why . . .
It just is.
Oh, my common one with the light in her head
And the coat so fine
And the sufferin so high . . .
All right now.
Oh, my common one . . .
It aint why . . .
It just is . . .
Thats all
Thats all there is about it.
It just is.
Can you feel the light?
I want to go to church and say.
In your soul . . .
Aint it high?
Oh, my common one
Oh, my storytime one
Oh, my high in the art of sufferin one
Put your head on my shoulder . . .
And you listen to the silence.
Can you feel the silence?
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Most Beautiful Woman In The World
She is the most beautiful woman in the world.
Yet! She doesn’t have fancy clothes, or makeup.
She doesn’t even have a first name, nor does she speak.
But people come from all over the world just to see
Our beautiful MISS LIBERTY.
She sits in our harbor and greets all human race
From the air, land, or from the sea
She has become a part of me.
She fills every heart with a warm glow
And day to day she puts on a show.
She stands on a mound with her arm held high
Holding freedoms torch to the sky.
Her robe is the robe of justice
And she wears it quite well
Look at her closely and you can tell.
Freedom is not really free - for you may
Have to fight for liberty
Just open your eyes and look around
Communist nations have fallen to the ground
Arab countries are fighting for their rights
And it is a long and perilous flight
But freedoms bell will forever ring
it is the one and only lasting thing.
poem by Louis Rams
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