The Domestic Tudor's Position
A gentle squire would gladly entertain
Into his house some trencher chapelain;
Some willing man that might instruct his sons,
And that would stand to good conditions.
First, that he lie upon the truckle-bed
Whiles his young master lieth o'er his head.
Second that he do on no default
Ever presume to sit above the salt.
Third that he never change his trencher twice.
Fourth that he use all common courtesies:
Sit bare at meals and one half rise and wait.
Last, that he never his young master beat,
But he must ask his mother to define,
How many jerks she would his breech should line.
All these observed, he could contented be,
To give five marks and winter livery.
poem by Joseph Hall
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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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Shallow: Though we are justices and doctors and
Churchmen, Master Page, we have some salt of our
Youth in us; we are the sons of women, Master Page.
line from The Merry Wives of Windsor, Act II, Scene 3 by William Shakespeare (1602)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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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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Messiahs Die Young
All of those things that I wanted to say
Well you can take those things and throw them all away- hey hey
Because he who points the finger well only he gets hung
That's why I don't to be a messiah, messiahs die young
All of those things that I wanted to be
Well you can take those things and throw them back at me- he he
Because he is only just as good as he who is the one
That's why I don't to be a messiah, messiahs die young
Messiahs die young.
Messiahs die young!
They die young,
Messiahs die young!
Messiahs die young.
Messiahs die young!
They die young.
Messiahs!
Why get in line if you don't want to wait
They say that time is money-- sell your watch today, hey hey
And if you've never been to China well the slow boat leaves at one
That's why I don't want to be a messiah, messiahs die
I don't want to be a messiah, messiahs die
I don't want to be a messiah! I just want to have fun
Not die young.
Messiahs die young!
They die young.
Messiahs die young!
Messiahs die young.
Messiahs die young!
Messiahs die young.
Messiahs
song performed by by Men Without Hats
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Master
Master went a-hunting,
When the leaves were falling;
We saw him on the bridle path,
We heard him gaily calling.
'Oh master, master, come you back,
For I have dreamed a dream so black!'
A glint of steel from bit and heel,
The chestnut cantered faster;
A red flash seen amid the green,
And so good-bye to master.
Master came from hunting,
Two silent comrades bore him;
His eyes were dim, his face was white,
The mare was led before him.
'Oh, master, master, is it thus
That you have come again to us?'
I held my lady's ice-cold hand,
They bore the hurdle past her;
Why should they go so soft and slow?
It matters not to master.
poem by Arthur Conan Doyle
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(Mother poems) To his mother the kitchen meit
Mother, Mother
D'you see that there
Beer hall
I don't want to go there
Mother, mother
Do you see those there boys and girls
Into that abandoned house they go
To make babies as if baby making
Is going out of fashion
Protect me mother I don't
Want to run with the wrong crowd
Mother, mother
Do you see that man
He carries death
In the bulging bag slung casually on his
Broad shoulders
He sells drugs and illicit booze
Stand close to me mum I don't want
To fall into the clutches of the bootleggers
And the merchants of death the drug lords
Mother, mother
Do you see that inviting
Jail house
Be with me mother
Give me the tons of your love
I don't want to miss you in jail
Mother, mother
Do you see that silent cemetery
Stand by my side mother
For I am scarred
And the cemetery is so silent
So discouraging for those who don't
Want to die young
poem by Ngaka Motaung
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He who waits for another man's trencher often dines in imagination.
He that waits upon another's trencher, makes many a little dinner.
Change in Me
Why I need change?
for better or for the worst?
Any choices to change or not?
I need change when
There is an opportunity to grow and mature
Things being done the wrong way
Dealing with a world of change
I rediscover change
Change is the law of life
Those who look only
to the past or the present
Are certain to miss the future
I may change anything I want or don't want
But I can't change everything I want
My dilemma is
I hate change and
love it at the same time
Best of all
What I want is
For things to remain the same
but get better.
Lastly,
I need strong courage to change,
To master change;
Be the master of change.
Always I want change,
To get where I want to be,
Be the change I want to have.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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Lover Man
Babys in the back seat, its so real
Gotta love the feel of the automobile
You get a certain style when youre so mobile
And responsibility you can avoid that trial
Walkin on the wild side
Lookin at the down side
Just a little crazy
Got a kind of strange pride
Standin at the back door, mercy me
Aint no place for the man to be
Its a private love, no publicity
And the woman that hes waitin for is bad news, hell see
Goin to a go-go
Slippin to a life low
Goin for the fake tan
Dreamin up a fashion plan
loverman
Hes a very superficial man
He likes the girls that go there
Hes a dude with a master plan
So young but why should he care?
Drivin into downtown right on time
Smokin like a pistol aimed on line
Waitin for the tingles in his back
All those dangerous feelings getting ready to attack
Walkin on the barbed wire
Playin with desire
Goin for the night plan
Breakin any heart he can
loverman
Hes a very superficial man
He likes the girls that go there
Hes a dude with a master plan
So young but why should he care?
Babys in the back seat
Gotta love the feel
Babys in the back seat
Gotta love the feel
Hes a very superficial man
He likes the girls that go there
Hes a dude with a master plan
So young but why should he care?
Hes a very superficial man
He likes the girls that go there
Hes a dude with a master plan
So young but why should he care?
Hes a very superficial man
His suit is ten years older than his last flame
Hes the dude with the master plan
Hes a very superficial man
He likes the girls that go there
Hes a dude with a master plan
song performed by by Nazareth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hawk And Buckle
Where is the landlord of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of Master Straddler this hot summer weather?
He's along in the tap-room with broad cheeks a-chuckle,
And ten bold companions all drinking together.
Where is the daughter of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of Mistress Jenny this hot summer weather?
She sits in the parlour with smell of honeysuckle,
Trimming her bonnet with red ostrich feather.
Where is the ostler of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of Willy Jakeman this hot summer weather?
He is rubbing his eyes with a slow and lazy knuckle
As he wakes from his nap on a bank of fresh heather.
Where is the page boy of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of our young Charlie this hot summer weather?
He is bobbing for tiddlers in a little trickle-truckle,
With his line and his hook and his breeches of leather.
Where is the grey goat of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of pretty Nanny this hot summer weather?
She stays not contented with little or with muckle,
Straining for daisies at the end of her tether.
For this is our motto at old Hawk and Buckle,
We cling to it close and we sing all together,
'Every man for himself at our old Hawk and Buckle,
And devil take the hindmost this hot summer weather.'
poem by Robert Graves
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What Am I Doing Here
(Justin Hayward)
Pale the young squire who goes to fight
To die at his master's side
Living is just a dream inside
You ask me why he cried
"What am I doin' here?"
"What am I doin' here?"
Beautiful princess, fair and pale
Stares out across the sea
Alone in her castle dark and grey
Her love she'll never see
"What am I doin' here?"
"What am I doin' here?"
Tenderly bury the fair young dead
Place a wooden cross at his head
All the words you can say
Have been said
It's for you my tears are shed
What can be done, you won't believe
Listen and you may see
Everyone's dream is deep within
Find it and you'll be free
"What am I doin' here?"
"What am I doin' here?"
Tenderly bury the fair young dead
Place a wooden cross at his head
All the words you can say
Have been said
It's for you my tears are shed
Tenderly bury the fair young dead
Place a wooden cross at his head
All the words you can say
Have been said
It's for you my tears are shed
*************************************************************
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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He who waits for another man's trencher often dines in imagination (or with Duke Humphrey).
Contentment
Bed and bread are all I need
In my happy day;
Love of Nature is my creed,
Unto her I pray;
Sun and sky my spirit feed
On my happy way.
To no man I bow the head,
None may master me;
I will eat my crust of bread
Lauding liberty;
And upon my truckle bed
Glory to be free.
You who grab for sordid gold,
You who fight for fame,
Shiny dross your fingers hold,
Empty is your aim.
--Soon we fatten graveyard mould,
Rich and poor the same.
So from world of want and woe
I retreat with dread;
Tuned to Nature glad I go
With my bite of bread:
Praising God I lay me low
On my truckle bed.
poem by Robert William Service
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At The Veranda
her hair is black and curly
and she is so tight
and young and you
do not speak to her
as she waits for
her lover at
the veranda of
this house
you stand on a door
half open where your
eyes take the
luxury of looking
at her
she blushes and
pretends
that she is scrolling
a name in her
cell phone
you pretend you
look at the stars
crowding a black
cloud up
the silent sky
she steals a look at you
she wants you
but she is here
at the master's
bedroom
and her name
has always been
fear
he looks at her again
and winks
in the mirror beside
her
'she is fast asleep' he said.
she has no answer
she smiles.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Changes
Seasons may change, we stay the same.
We always stay the same.
We always stay the same.
Winter brings snow, when no, no flowers grow.
They wait for the spring.
Yes, they wait til the spring.
In the spring, young men grow.
til theyre old enough to know,
Better.
Better.
Leaves have turned green, now spring has been
And gone
Summers here.
The autumn trees swing to and fro.
Their leaves turn brown,
Now young men know
Better.
Better.
[just let me listen to that.]
Evryone one feels good
And I knew they would.
Its been quite a good year.
Its been quite a good year.
Its been quite a good year.
song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I am sorry it is winter now
I am sorry it is winter now,
And you can't hear mosquitoes in the house,
But you reminded yourself
Of the frivolous straw.
The dragonflies hover in the blue sky,
And fashion twirls like a swallow;
A basket on the head,
Or a bombastic ode?
I don't presume to give advice
And useless excuses,
But the taste of whipped cream
And the smell of oranges is forever.
You define everything without thinking,
And things are the worse for it.
What can you do? The most sensitive mind
Is put wholly on the surface.
You try to beat the yolk
With an angry spoon.
It grew white, it succumbed.
Yet just a little more.
In you everything teases, everything sings
Like an Italian roulade,
And a small cherry mouth
Demands some dry grapes.
Don't try so hard to be smart,
In you everything is whimsy, fleeting,
And in the shadow from your cap,
A Venetian bautta.
poem by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
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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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Yet I Am A Mother
18years is all I am and yet I am a mother
A mother so young
A mother so immature
A mother who can't take care of the responsibilities
But yet I am a mother
A mother who bergs from parents when she's in need
But what was I doing not thinking about the consequences of my action leaving todays and not tomorrow's satisfaction.
One visit to his house and now I am a mother
A mother so young
A mother still in school
A mother so immature.
poem by Nomusa Promise Ndimande
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Two Idylls From Bion The Smyrnean
I
Once a fowler, young and artless,
To the quiet greenwood came;
Full of skill was he and heartless
In pursuit of feathered game.
And betimes he chanced to see
Eros perching in a tree.
'What strange bird is that, I wonder?'
Thought the youth, and spread his snare;
Eros, chuckling at the blunder,
Gayly scampered here and there.
Do his best, the simple clod
Could not snare the agile god!
Blubbering, to his aged master
Went the fowler in dismay,
And confided his disaster
With that curious bird that day;
'Master, hast thou ever heard
Of so ill-disposed a bird?'
'Heard of him? Aha, most truly!'
Quoth the master with a smile;
'And thou too, shall know him duly-
Thou art young, but bide awhile,
And old Eros will not fly
From thy presence by and by!
'For when thou art somewhat older
That same Eros thou didst see,
More familiar grown and bolder,
Shall become acquaint with thee;
And when Eros comes thy way
Mark my word, he comes to stay!'
II
Once came Venus to me, bringing
Eros where my cattle fed-
'Teach this little boy your singing,
Gentle herdsman,' Venus said.
I was young-I did not know
Whom it was that Venus led-
That was many years ago!
In a lusty voice but mellow-
Callow pedant! I began
To instruct the little fellow
In the mysteries known to man;
Sung the noble cithern's praise,
And the flute of dear old Pan,
And the lyre that Hermes plays.
But he paid no heed unto me-
Nay, that graceless little boy
Coolly plotted to undo me-
With his songs of tender joy;
And my pedantry o'erthrown,
Eager was I to employ
His sweet ritual for mine own!
Ah, these years of ours are fleeting!
Yet I have not vainly wrought,
Since to-day I am repeating
What dear lessons Eros taught;
Love, and always love, and then-
Counting all things else for naught-
Love and always love again!
poem by Eugene Field
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