Windsor Poetics : Lines Composed On The Occasion Of His Royal Highness The Prince Regent Being Seen Standing Between The Coffins Of Henry VIII And Charles I, In The Royal Vault At Windsor
Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies;
Between them stands another sceptred thing--
It moves, it reigns--in all but name, a king:
Charles to his people, Henry to his wife,
- In him the double tyrant starts to life:
Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain,
Each royal vampire wakes to life again.
Ah, what can tombs avail!--since these disgorge
The blood and dust of both--to mould a George.
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Cavalier Tunes: Give a Rouse
King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse: here's, in Hell's despite now,
King Charles!
Who gave me the goods that went since?
Who raised me the house that sank once?
Who helped me to gold I spent since?
Who found me in wine you drank once?
(Chorus)
King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse: here's, in Hell's despite now,
King Charles!
To whom used my boy George quaff else,
By the old fool's side that begot him?
For whom did he cheer and laugh else,
While Noll's damned troopers shot him?
(Chorus)
King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse: here's, in Hell's despite now,
King Charles!
poem by Robert Browning
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Give a Rouse
I
King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now,
King Charles!
II
Who gave me the goods that went since?
Who raised me the house that sank once?
Who helped me to gold I spent since?
Who found me in wine you drank once?
Chorus. King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now,
King Charles!
III
To whom used my boy George quaff else,
By the old fool's side that begot him?
For whom did he cheer and laugh else,
While Noll's damned troopers shot him?
Chorus. King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now,
King Charles!
poem by Robert Browning from Cavalier Tunes (1842)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Amanda Barker
Henry got me with child,
Knowing that I could not bring forth life
Without losing my own.
In my youth therefore I entered the portals of dust.
Traveler, it is believed in the village where I lived
That Henry loved me with a husband's love,
But I proclaim from the dust
That he slew me to gratify his hatred.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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My Days
My days are but the tombs of buried hours ;
Which tombs are hidden in the piled years ;
But from the mounds there spring up many flowers,
Whose beauty well repays their cost of tears.
Time, like a sexton, pileth mould on mould,
Minutes on minutes till the tombs are high ;
But from the dust there fall some grains of gold,
And the dead corpse leaves what will never die-
It may be but a thought, the nursling seed
Of many thoughts, of many a high desire ;
Some little act that stirs a noble deed,
Like breath rekindling a smouldering fire :
They only live who have not lived in vain,
For in their works their life returns again.
poem by Isaac Rosenberg
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Cool Tombs
When Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs he forgot
the copperheads and the assassin . . . in the dust, in the
cool tombs.
And Ulysses Grant lost all thought of con men and Wall Street,
cash and collateral turned ashes . . . in the dust, in the
cool tombs.
Pocahontas' body, lovely as a poplar, sweet as a red haw in
November or a pawpaw in May, did she wonder? does she
remember? . . . in the dust, in the cool tombs?
Take any streetful of people buying clothes and groceries,
cheering a hero or throwing confetti and blowing tin
horns . . . tell me if the lovers are losers . . . tell me if any
get more than the lovers . . . in the dust . . . in the cool
tombs.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Lines Suggested By A Sight Of Waltham Cross
Time-mouldering crosses, gemmed with imagery
Of costliest work and Gothic tracery,
Point still the spot, to hallowed Wedlock dear,
Where rested on its solemn way the bier
That bore the bones of Edward's Elinor
To mix with Royal dust at Westminster.
Far different rites did thee to dust consign,
Duke Brunswick's daughter, princely Caroline:
A hurrying funeral, and a banished grave,
High-minded Wife, were all that thou couldst have.
Grieve not, great Ghost, nor count in death in losses;
Thou in thy life-time hadst thy share of crosses
poem by Charles Lamb
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Lust's Needs
Who lies in deepest cave
vampire like twisted away from outside sun-swept light
longing for death
blood and love
sucked from marrow's neck?
How deep is Swooning's Need
to suck teeth
from vampire lips
expediting sexual egress
to have all in Swain's Grip;
immortalitites death
love's lust and blood
punctured thus
this must be
life to greet
thereby cheating death lustily
is most
and all to please
in these Seduction of the Vampire
Times
for Lust's Needs
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Purpose is what gives life a meaning.
quote by Charles Henry Parkhurst
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As Time One Day by me did Pass
AS Time one day by me did pass,
Through a large dusky glass
He held, I chanc'd to look,
And spied his curious book
Of past days, where sad Heav'n did shed
A mourning light upon the dead.
Many disorder'd lives I saw,
And foul records, which thaw
My kind eyes still, but in
A fair, white page of thin
And ev'n, smooth lines, like the sun's rays,
Thy name was writ, and all thy days.
O bright and happy kalendar !
Where youth shines like a star
All pearl'd with tears, and may
Teach age the holy way ;
Where through thick pangs, high agonies,
Faith into life breaks, and Death dies.
As some meek night-piece which day quails,
To candle-light unveils :
So by one beamy line
From thy bright lamp, did shine
In the same page thy humble grave,
Set with green herbs, glad hopes and brave.
Here slept my thought's dear mark ! which dust
Seem'd to devour, like rust ;
But dust—I did observe—
By hiding doth preserve ;
As we for long and sure recruits,
Candy with sugar our choice fruits.
O calm and sacred bed, where lies
In death's dark mysteries
A beauty far more bright
Than the noon's cloudless light ;
For whose dry dust green branches bud,
And robes are bleach'd in the Lamb's blood.
Sleep, happy ashes !—blessed sleep !—
While hapless I still weep ;
Weep that I have outliv'd
My life, and unreliev'd
Must—soullesse shadow !—so live on,
Though life be dead, and my joys gone.
poem by Henry Vaughan
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The Life Of Mary O’Henry & Simon Le Frankie
Is life chance, or pre-ordained
Is life chance, or pre-ordained
Mary O’Henry,
Was born in a time when the world was at war
Nobody saw
Grew up an orphan
Struggling through life never knowing there’s more
Than being wretchedly poor
Oh life can hold so much pain
You wonder why it should be so
There but for the grace of God, walks another
In sullen steps that could have been you
Is life chance, or pre-ordained
(The life of Mary O’Henry & Simon Le Frankie)
Is life chance, or pre-ordained
(The life of Mary O’Henry & Simon Le Frankie)
Simon Le Frankie,
was born with a headline in the Times
a paradigm
he grew up wealthy
living his life to the full, life can be so good, I guess as it should
Oh life can be endless champagne
You wonder why it should be so
There but for the grace of God walks another
In graceful steps that could have been you
Is life chance, or pre-ordained
(The life of Mary O’Henry & Simon Le Frankie)
Is life chance, or pre-ordained
(The life of Mary O’Henry & Simon Le Frankie)
Mary O’Henry - Grew into a woman, working wherever she could
In places no woman should, luckless in Hollywood
Simon Le Frankie – wondered the world on a wave that trebled in size
Until he died – they died the same time
Atlas in turmoil
Life is choices made in a game
Who moves the pieces
Is life chance or pre-ordained
Is life chance, or pre-ordained
(The life of Mary O’Henry & Simon Le Frankie)
Is life chance, or pre-ordained
(The life of Mary O’Henry & Simon Le Frankie)
poem by Colin Coplin
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Please, Mrs. Henry
Well, i've already had two beers
I'm ready for the broom
Please, missus henry, won't you
Take me to my room?
I'm a good ol' boy
But i've been sniffin' too many eggs
Talkin' to too many people
Drinkin' too many kegs
Please, missus henry, missus henry, please!
Please, missus henry, missus henry, please!
I'm down on my knees
An' i ain't got a dime
Well, i'm groanin' in a hallway
Pretty soon i'll be mad
Please, missus henry, won't you
Take me to your dad?
I can drink like a fish
I can crawl like a snake
I can bite like a turkey
I can slam like a drake
Please, missus henry, missus henry, please!
Please, missus henry, missus henry, please!
I'm down on my knees
An' i ain't got a dime
Now, don't crowd me, lady
Or i'll fill up your shoe
I'm a sweet bourbon daddy
An' tonight i am blue
I'm a thousand years old
And i'm a generous bomb
I'm t-boned and punctured
But i'm known to be calm
Please, missus henry, missus henry, please!
Please, missus henry, missus henry, please!
I'm down on my knees
An' i ain't got a dime
Now, i'm startin' to drain
My stool's gonna squeak
If i walk too much farther
My crane's gonna leak
Look, missus henry
There's only so much i can do
Why don't you look my way
An' pump me a few?
Please, missus henry, missus henry, please!
Please, missus henry, missus henry, please!
I'm down on my knees
An' i ain't got a dime
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lamian Lamentations
There is no such thing as innocence
To an addict
Like a vampire who craves the blood not the bite
It keeps them medicated
It keeps them warm
It makes them innocent
There is no right from wrong
Only pain from which to deliver oneself
Evil is not a consequence considered
Righteous are they who seek to punish the avenger
For they will be forgiven
There is no such thing as innocence
Only justice served cold with revenge and a drink
And Justice is a vampire
poem by Ted Sheridan
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A Man Alone Is Only His Own Death
A MAN ALONE IS ONLY HIS OWN DEATH
A man alone is only his own death
Who gives nothing to the generations to come
What does he give?
What has his life been for?
A man alone as far he goes
Goes nowhere.
Even if they worship his dust
His dust is just dust,
And his life has been death also.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Nightfall In The Rose-Garden
Ashes to ashes,
Meal to roots of roses:
One-way street in petals falling,
Dust to dust.
The lowering sun sucks
From blown blossoms,
Their colours that go
At last to dust.
Death is in the seed
Bud, root and leaf
Which have no choice
But dust.
From death to death,
The cycle onward blindly
Rolls its endless way
From dust to death.
I, in the falling dusk
Go slowly blind to all.
And shall too, eventually,
Be dust.
poem by Roy William Gotaas
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Elizabeth Childers
Dust of my dust,
And dust with my dust,
O, child who died as you entered the world,
Dead with my death!
Not knowing Breath, though you tried so hard,
With a heart that beat when you lived with me,
And stopped when you left me for Life.
It is well, my child. For you never traveled
The long, long way that begins with school days,
When little fingers blur under the tears
That fall on the crooked letters.
And the earliest wound, when a little mate
Leaves you alone for another;
And sickness, and the face of Fear by the bed;
The death of a father or mother;
Or shame for them, or poverty;
The maiden sorrow of school days ended;
And eyeless Nature that makes you drink
From the cup of Love, though you know it’s poisoned;
To whom would your flower-face have been lifted?
Botanist, weakling? Cry of what blood to yours?—
Pure or foul, for it makes no matter,
It’s blood that calls to our blood.
And then your children—oh, what might they be?
And what your sorrow? Child! Child!
Death is better than Life!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters from Spoon River Anthology
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Dialogue
Children
Pray dearest mother if you please
Cut up your double-curded cheese,
The oldest of the brotherhood.
It's ripe, no doubt and nicely good!
Your reputation will rise treble
As we the lucious morsel nibble.
Praise will flow from each partaker
Both on the morsel and the maker!
Madame
Your suit is vain,--upon my word,
You taste not yet my double-curd;
I know the hour,--the very minute
In which I'll plunge my cutteau in it;
Am I to learn of witless bairns
How I must manage my concerns?
As yet the fervid dog-star reigns
And gloomy Virgo holds the reigns.
Be quiet chicks, sedate and sober
And house your stomachs till October;
Then for a feast! Upon my word,
I'll really cut my double curd.
poem by Major Henry Livingston Jr.
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Curiouser and Curiouser
From King George we'll independance win
Revolution justice will restore,
Our liberty remains life's only law,
More freedom and less tax on tea, less war.
Good riddance George, for dynasty is sin!
Except, what happens if time's wheels should spin
On for two hundred years and then two score,
Revenge upon the people Time might draw
George - one replacing with another's grin!
Each must decide if present joy chagrin
Unfortunate may bring, with struggles sore
Plucked from danger's jaws, worse than before?
The words I RACK, I RAN might thus begin
One cycle all regret, where kith and kin
Ground zero start again, returning flaw
Errors paid with blood, toil, tears, and, more,
Outraged at treason, lies none can ignore.
Rue we one George, to one more George elect?
Good bye to lies, yet more war lies expect?
End this discussion, future risks reject!
© Jonathan Robin July 31 2007
Acrostic From George to George
poem by Jonathan Robin
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King Henry: Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
line from Henry IV, Act III, Scene 1, script by William Shakespeare (1597)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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If that for which the Spanish Empire has stood since the days of Charles V is right, then everything for which the United States stands and has always stood is wrong.
quote by Henry Cabot Lodge
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ash to ash
Hide yourself and sit and cry
you had no time to say goodbye
priorities were always there
now there's no one left to care
it seemed like a perfect morning
then disaster without warning
try to think of all that's been
looking through an endless stream
of photographs you thought were trash
dust to dust and ash to ash.
poem by Charles M. Moore
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