An Epitaph
Interr'd beneath this marble stone,
Lie saunt'ring Jack and idle Joan.
While rolling threescore years and one
Did round this globe their courses run;
If human things went ill or well;
If changing empires rose or fell;
The morning passed, the evening came,
And found this couple still the same.
They walk'd and eat, good folks: what then?
Why then they walk'd and eat again:
They soundly slept the night away:
They did just nothing all the day:
And having buried children four,
Would not take pains to try for more.
Nor sister either had, nor brother:
They seemed just tallied for each other.
Their moral and economy
Most perfectly they made agree:
Each virtue kept its proper bound,
Nor tresspass'd on the other's ground.
Nor fame, nor censure they regarded:
They neither punish'd nor rewarded.
He cared not what the footmen did:
Her maids she neither prais'd nor chid:
So ev'ry servant took his course;
And bad at first, they all grew worse.
Slothful disorder fill'd his stable;
And sluttish plenty deck'd her table.
Their beer was strong; their wine was port;
Their meal was large; their grace was short.
They gave the poor the remnant-meat
Just when it grew not fit to eat.
They paid the church and parish rate;
And took, but read not the receipt;
For which they claim'd their Sunday's due,
Of slumb'ring in an upper pew.
No man's defects sought they to know;
So never made themselves a foe.
No man's good deeds did they commend;
So never rais'd themselves a friend.
Nor cherish'd they relations poor:
That might decrease their present store:
Nor barn nor house did they repair:
That might oblige their future heir.
They neither added, nor confounded:
They neither wanted, nor abounded.
Each Christmas they accompts did clear;
And wound their bottom through the year.
Nor tear, nor smile did they employ
At news of public grief, or joy.
When bells were rung, and bonfires made,
If asked they ne'er denied their aid:
Their jug was to the ringers carried,
Whoever either died, or married.
Their billet at the fire was found,
Whoever was depos'd or crown'd.
Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise;
They would not learn, nor could advise;
Without love, hatred, joy, or fear,
They led--a kind of--as it were:
Nor wish'd nor car'd, nor laugh'd nor cry'd:
And so they liv'd; and so they died.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Related quotes
The Cross Roads
There was an old man breaking stones
To mend the turnpike way,
He sat him down beside a brook
And out his bread and cheese he took,
For now it was mid-day.
He lent his back against a post,
His feet the brook ran by;
And there were water-cresses growing,
And pleasant was the water's flowing
For he was hot and dry.
A soldier with his knapsack on
Came travelling o'er the down,
The sun was strong and he was tired,
And of the old man he enquired
How far to Bristol town.
Half an hour's walk for a young man
By lanes and fields and stiles.
But you the foot-path do not know,
And if along the road you go
Why then 'tis three good miles.
The soldier took his knapsack off
For he was hot and dry;
And out his bread and cheese he took
And he sat down beside the brook
To dine in company.
Old friend! in faith, the soldier says
I envy you almost;
My shoulders have been sorely prest
And I should like to sit and rest,
My back against that post.
In such a sweltering day as this
A knapsack is the devil!
And if on t'other side I sat
It would not only spoil our chat
But make me seem uncivil.
The old man laugh'd and moved. I wish
It were a great-arm'd chair!
But this may help a man at need;
And yet it was a cursed deed
That ever brought it there.
There's a poor girl lies buried here
Beneath this very place.
The earth upon her corpse is prest
This stake is driven into her breast
And a stone is on her face.
The soldier had but just lent back
And now he half rose up.
There's sure no harm in dining here,
My friend? and yet to be sincere
I should not like to sup.
God rest her! she is still enough
Who sleeps beneath our feet!
The old man cried. No harm I trow
She ever did herself, tho' now
She lies where four roads meet.
I have past by about that hour
When men are not most brave,
It did not make my heart to fail,
And I have heard the nightingale
Sing sweetly on her grave.
I have past by about that hour
When Ghosts their freedom have,
But there was nothing here to fright,
And I have seen the glow-worm's light
Shine on the poor girl's grave.
There's one who like a Christian lies
Beneath the church-tree's shade;
I'd rather go a long mile round
Than pass at evening thro' the ground
Wherein that man is laid.
There's one that in the church-yard lies
For whom the bell did toll;
He lies in consecrated ground,
But for all the wealth in Bristol town
I would not be with his soul!
Did'st see a house below the hill
That the winds and the rains destroy?
'Twas then a farm where he did dwell,
And I remember it full well
When I was a growing boy.
And she was a poor parish girl
That came up from the west,
From service hard she ran away
And at that house in evil day
Was taken in to rest.
The man he was a wicked man
And an evil life he led;
Rage made his cheek grow deadly white
And his grey eyes were large and light,
And in anger they grew red.
The man was bad, the mother worse,
Bad fruit of a bad stem,
'Twould make your hair to stand-on-end
If I should tell to you my friend
The things that were told of them!
Did'st see an out-house standing by?
The walls alone remain;
It was a stable then, but now
Its mossy roof has fallen through
All rotted by the rain.
The poor girl she had serv'd with them
Some half-a-year, or more,
When she was found hung up one day
Stiff as a corpse and cold as clay
Behind that stable door!
It is a very lonesome place,
No hut or house is near;
Should one meet a murderer there alone
'Twere vain to scream, and the dying groan
Would never reach mortal ear.
And there were strange reports about
That the coroner never guest.
So he decreed that she should lie
Where four roads meet in infamy,
With a stake drove in her breast.
Upon a board they carried her
To the place where four roads met,
And I was one among the throng
That hither followed them along,
I shall never the sight forget!
They carried her upon a board
In the cloaths in which she died;
I saw the cap blow off her head,
Her face was of a dark dark red
Her eyes were starting wide:
I think they could not have been closed
So widely did they strain.
I never saw so dreadful a sight,
And it often made me wake at night,
For I saw her face again.
They laid her here where four roads meet.
Beneath this very place,
The earth upon her corpse was prest,
This post is driven into her breast,
And a stone is on her face.
poem by Robert Southey
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Bredon Hill
In summertime on Bredon
The bells they sound so clear;
Round both the shires they ring them
In steeples far and near,
A happy noise to hear.
Here of a Sunday morning
My love and I would lie,
And see the coloured counties,
And hear the larks so high
About us in the sky.
The bells would ring to call her
In valleys miles away:
'Come all to church, good people;
Good people, come and pray.
But here my love would stay.
And I would turn and answer
Among the springing thyme,
'Oh, peal upon our wedding,
And we will hear the chime,
And come to church in time.
But when the snows at Christmas
On Bredon top were strewn,
My love rose up so early
And stole out unbeknown
And went to church alone.
They tolled the one bell only,
Groom there was none to see,
The mourners followed after,
And so to church went she,
And would not wait for me.
The bells they sound on Bredon,
And still the steeples hum.
'Come all to church, good people,' -
Oh, noisy bells, be dumb;
I hear you, I will come.
poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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English Eclogues I - The Old Mansion-House
STRANGER.
Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty,
Breaking the highway stones,--and 'tis a task
Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours.
OLD MAN.
Why yes! for one with such a weight of years
Upon his back. I've lived here, man and boy,
In this same parish, near the age of man
For I am hard upon threescore and ten.
I can remember sixty years ago
The beautifying of this mansion here
When my late Lady's father, the old Squire
Came to the estate.
STRANGER.
Why then you have outlasted
All his improvements, for you see they're making
Great alterations here.
OLD MAN.
Aye-great indeed!
And if my poor old Lady could rise up--
God rest her soul! 'twould grieve her to behold
The wicked work is here.
STRANGER.
They've set about it
In right good earnest. All the front is gone,
Here's to be turf they tell me, and a road
Round to the door. There were some yew trees too
Stood in the court.
OLD MAN.
Aye Master! fine old trees!
My grandfather could just remember back
When they were planted there. It was my task
To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me!
All strait and smooth, and like a great green wall!
My poor old Lady many a time would come
And tell me where to shear, for she had played
In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride
To keep them in their beauty. Plague I say
On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have
A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs
And your pert poplar trees;--I could as soon
Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down!
STRANGER.
But 'twill be lighter and more chearful now,
A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road
Round for the carriage,--now it suits my taste.
I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh,
And then there's some variety about it.
In spring the lilac and the gueldres rose,
And the laburnum with its golden flowers
Waving in the wind. And when the autumn comes
The bright red berries of the mountain ash,
With firs enough in winter to look green,
And show that something lives. Sure this is better
Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look
All the year round like winter, and for ever
Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs
So dry and bare!
OLD MAN.
Ah! so the new Squire thinks
And pretty work he makes of it! what 'tis
To have a stranger come to an old house!
STRANGER.
It seems you know him not?
OLD MAN.
No Sir, not I.
They tell me he's expected daily now,
But in my Lady's time he never came
But once, for they were very distant kin.
If he had played about here when a child
In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries,
And sat in the porch threading the jessamine flowers,
That fell so thick, he had not had the heart
To mar all thus.
STRANGER.
Come--come! all a not wrong.
Those old dark windows--
OLD MAN.
They're demolish'd too--
As if he could not see thro' casement glass!
The very red-breasts that so regular
Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs,
Won't know the window now!
STRANGER.
Nay they were high
And then so darken'd up with jessamine,
Harbouring the vermine;--that was a fine tree
However. Did it not grow in and line
The porch?
OLD MAN.
All over it: it did one good
To pass within ten yards when 'twas in blossom.
There was a sweet-briar too that grew beside.
My Lady loved at evening to sit there
And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet
And slept in the sun; 'twas an old favourite dog
She did not love him less that he was old
And feeble, and he always had a place
By the fire-side, and when he died at last
She made me dig a grave in the garden for him.
Ah I she was good to all! a woful day
'Twas for the poor when to her grave she went!
STRANGER.
They lost a friend then?
OLD MAN.
You're a stranger here
Or would not ask that question. Were they sick?
She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs
She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter
When weekly she distributed the bread
In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear
The blessings on her! and I warrant them
They were a blessing to her when her wealth
Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir!
It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen
Her Christmas kitchen,--how the blazing fire
Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs
So chearful red,--and as for misseltoe,
The finest bough that grew in the country round
Was mark'd for Madam. Then her old ale went
So bountiful about! a Christmas cask,
And 'twas a noble one! God help me Sir!
But I shall never see such days again.
STRANGER.
Things may be better yet than you suppose
And you should hope the best.
OLD MAN.
It don't look well
These alterations Sir! I'm an old man
And love the good old fashions; we don't find
Old bounty in new houses. They've destroyed
All that my Lady loved; her favourite walk
Grubb'd up, and they do say that the great row
Of elms behind the house, that meet a-top
They must fall too. Well! well! I did not think
To live to see all this, and 'tis perhaps
A comfort I shan't live to see it long.
STRANGER.
But sure all changes are not needs for the worse
My friend.
OLD MAN.
May-hap they mayn't Sir;--for all that
I like what I've been us'd to. I remember
All this from a child up, and now to lose it,
'Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left
As 'twas;--I go abroad and only meet
With men whose fathers I remember boys;
The brook that used to run before my door
That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt
To climb are down; and I see nothing now
That tells me of old times, except the stones
In the church-yard. You are young Sir and I hope
Have many years in store,--but pray to God
You mayn't be left the last of all your friends.
STRANGER.
Well! well! you've one friend more than you're aware of.
If the Squire's taste don't suit with your's, I warrant
That's all you'll quarrel with: walk in and taste
His beer, old friend! and see if your old Lady
E'er broached a better cask. You did not know me,
But we're acquainted now. 'Twould not be easy
To make you like the outside; but within--
That is not changed my friend! you'll always find
The same old bounty and old welcome there.
poem by Robert Southey
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An Elegy On The Glory Of Her Sex, Mrs Mary Blaize
Good people all, with one accord
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word,—
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor,—
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please
With manners wondrous winning;
And never followed wicked ways,—
Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumbered in her pew,—
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has followed her,—
When she has walked before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead,—
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament in sorrow sore,
For Kent Street well may say
That had she lived a twelvemonth more,—
She had not died today.
poem by Oliver Goldsmith
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Ring Out , Wild Bells
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more,
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Everyday Characters II - Quince
Fallentis semita vit*. — Hor.
Near a small village in the West,
Where many very worthy people
Eat, drink, play whist, and do their best
To guard from evil Church and steeple.
There stood — alas! it stands no more! —
A tenement of brick and plaster,
Of which, for forty years and four,
My good friend Quince was lord and master.
Welcome was he in hut and hall
To maids and matrons, peers and peasants ;
He won the sympathies of all
By making puns, and making presents.
Though all the parish were at strife.
He kept his counsel, and his carriage,
He laughed, and loved a quiet life,
And shrank from Chancery suits — and marriage.
Sound was his claret — and his head;
Warm was his double ale — and feelings;
His partners at the whist club said
That he was faultless in his dealings :
He went to church but once a week ;
Yet Dr. Poundtext always found him
An upright man, who studied Greek,
And liked to see his friends around him.
Asylums, hospitals and schools,
He used to swear, were made to cozen ;
All who subscribed to them were fools, —
And he subscribed to half-a-dozen :
It was his doctrine, that the poor
Were always able, never willing ;
And so the beggar at his door
Had first abuse, and then — a shilling.
Some public principles he had,
But was no flatterer, nor fretter ;
He rapped his box when things were bad.
And said 'I cannot make them better!'
And much he loathed the patriot's snort,
And much he scorned the placeman's snuffle ;
And cut the fiercest quarrels short
With — ' ' Patience, gentlemen — and shuffle ! ' '
For full ten years his pointer Speed
Had couched beneath her master's table ;
For twice ten years his old white steed
Had fattened in his master's stable ;
Old Quince averred, upon his troth,
They were the ugliest beasts in Devon ;
And none knew why he fed them both,
With his own hands, six days in seven.
Whene'er they heard his ring or knock.
Quicker than thought, the village slatterns
Flung down the novel, smoothed the frock,
And took up Mrs. Glasse, and patterns;
Adine was studying baker's bills ;
Louisa looked the queen of knitters ;
Jane happened to be hemming frills ;
And Bell, by chance, was making fritters.
But all was vain ; and while decay
Came, like a tranquil moonlight, o'er him.
And found him gouty still, and gay,
With no fair nurse to bless or bore him,
His rugged smile and easy chair,
His dread of matrimonial lectures,
His wig, his stick, his powdered hair.
Were themes for very strange conjectures.
Some sages thought the stars above
Had crazed him with excess of knowledge;
Some heard he had been crost in love
Before he came away from College ;
Some darkly hinted that his Grace
Did nothing, great or small, without him ;
Some whispered, with a solemn face,
That there was 'something odd about him ! '
I found him, at threescore and ten,
A single man, but bent quite double;
Sickness was coming on him then
To take him from a world of trouble :
He prosed of slipping down the hill.
Discovered he grew older daily ;
One frosty day he made his will, —
The next, he sent for Doctor Bailey.
And so he lived, — and so he died! —
When last I sat beside his pillow
He shook my hand, and 'Ah!' he cried,
'Penelope must wear the willow.
Tell her I hugged her rosy chain
While life was flickering in the socket;
And say, that when I call again,
I '11 bring a licence in my pocket.
'I've left my house and grounds to Fag, —
I hope his master's shoes will suit him ;
And I've bequeathed to you my nag,
To feed him for my sake, — or shoot him,
The Vicar's wife will take old Fox, —
She '11 find him an uncommon mouser, -
And let her husband have my box,
My Bible, and my Assmanshauser.
' Whether I ought to die or not.
My Doctors cannot quite determine ;
It 's only clear that I shall rot.
And be, like Priam, food for vermin.
My debts are paid : — but Nature's debt
Almost escaped my recollection :
Tom! — we shall meet again; — and yet
I cannot leave you my direction ! '
poem by Winthrop Mackworth Praed
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Ever-Present Ring
Ever-Present Ring
==================
My Father Lost A Wedding Ring
The One Cherished For 42 Years
It Was Replaced By What I Bought Him
I Bought Him A New Wedding Band
An Ever-Present Of What Was Present
A Marriage Lasting Longer Than Most
What Was Most Important
Was The Symbol Of That New Ring
It Was The Thought That Counted
And What's Counted Was The Years
He Was Married For 44 Years
He Died This Year
From 1968 To 2012 The Marriage Thrived
After Being Married For 44 Years
He Told His Wife, My Mother
That She Was The Only One
The Entire Time He Stayed Faithful
And In Faith Was His Love
As Parting Souvenir, I Will Keep That Ring
Which I Gave Him Last Year
Because The Symbol Of Union
Between Man And Wife
For All Those Blessed Years
Is What Counts
And Now What's Counted Are The Days
Since His Passing On The 27th Of May
A Day Begun In Mourning In The Early Morning
In May Of Heart Break Mourn
I Will Cherish That Ring
That Ever-Present Ring
And I'll Wear It Every Single Day
To Mourn His Passing
A Bond Between Father And Son
In What May Be My Heart
Will Never Break The Mourn.
poem by Ricardo Antunes
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Morningside
Written by: neil diamond
Morningside
The old man died
And no one cried
They simply turned away
And when he died
He left a table made of nails and pride
And with his hands he carved these words inside
For my children
Morning light
Morning bright
I spent the night
With dreams that make you weep
Morning time
Wash away the sadness from these eyes of mine
For I recall the words the old man signed
For my children
And the legs were shaped with his hands
And the top made of oaken wood
And the children sat around this table
Touched with their laughter
Ah, and that was good
Morningside
An old man died
And no one cried
He surely died alone
And truth is sad
For not a child would claim the gift he had
The words he carved became his epitath
For my children
song performed by by Neil Diamond
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ring Out, Solstice Bells
Now is the solstice of the year,
Winter is the glad song that you hear.
Seven maids move in seven time.
Have the lads up ready in a line.
Ring out these bells.
Ring out, ring solstice bells.
Ring solstice bells.
Join together beneath the mistletoe.
By the holy oak whereon it grows.
Seven druids dance in seven time.
Sing the song the bells call, loudly chiming.
Ring out these bells.
Ring out, ring solstice bells.
Ring solstice bells.
Praise be to the distant sister sun,
Joyful as the silver planets run.
Seven maids move in seven time.
Sing the song the bells call, loudly chiming.
Ring out those bells.
Ring out, ring solstice bells.
Ring solstice bells.
Ring on, ring out.
Ring on, ring out.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Good Love
Everytime I get to see you
I get this feelin
Its so fuzzy inside
And as soon as I walk away from you
Im still tasting your kiss
Saving it in my mind
Its not everyday I find
A guy that makes me smile all the time
Not the way that you do
All the guys I thought I used to love
Compared to you they dont match up
They got nothing on you
I think I found a good good good love
The kind that will put it on you
The kind that you wanna hold on to
I think I found a good good good love
We can be lovers and friends too
And theyll do anything for you
A good love
Baby you got somethin special
That has me thinking of settling down
Youre the one my mama told me
Would sooner or later one day finally come around
I think I found a good good good love
The kind that will put it on you
The kind that you wanna hold on to
I think I found a good good good love
We can be lovers and friends too
And theyll do anything for you
A good love
I think I found a good good good love
The kind that will put it on you
The kind that you wanna hold on to
I think I found a good good good love
We can be lovers and friends too
And theyll do anything for you
A good love
You bring me joy
And you bring me much pleasure
I could never see myself leaving you ever
Your soft touch is good and it cant get no better
You have got my mind so caught up
Im drunk off of your good love
I think I found a good good good love
The kind that will put it on you
The kind that you wanna hold on to
I think I found a good good good love
We can be lovers and friends too
And theyll do anything for you
A good love
I think I found a good good good love
The kind that will put it on you
The kind that you wanna hold on to
I think I found a good good good love
We can be lovers and friends too
And theyll do anything for you
A good love
I think I found a good good good love
The kind that will put it on you
The kind that you wanna hold on to
I think I found a good good good love
We can be lovers and friends too
And theyll do anything for you
A good love
I think I found a good good good love
The kind that will put it on you
The kind that you wanna hold on to
I think I found a good good good love
We can be lovers and friends too
And theyll do anything for you
A good love
I think I found a good good good love
The kind that will put it on you
The kind that you wanna hold on to
I think I found a good good good love
We can be lovers and friends too
And theyll do anything for you
A good love
song performed by by TLC
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No Thugs In Our House
Cast of characters
Graham, a teenager
Mother, a busy housewife
Father, a conservative husband
Policeman, a young constable
Scene: a kitchen in suburbia, one bright saturday morning
Act one
Narrator: the insect-headed worker-wife will hang her waspies on the
Line. her husband burns his paper, sucks his pipe while studying
Their cushion-floor, his viscous poly-paste breath comes out. their
Wall-paper world is shattered by his shout. a boy in blue is busy
Banging out a headache on the kitchen door. all the while graham
Slept on, dreaming of a world where he could do just what he wanted
To.
Mother and father (in unison): no thugs in our house, are there dear?
We made that clear, we made little graham promise us he'd be a good
Boy. no thugs in our house, are there dear? we made that clear, we
Made little graham promise us he'd be a good boy.
Act two
Narrator: the young policeman who just can't grow a moustache will
Open up his book, and spoil their breakfast with reports of asians who
Have been so badly kicked.
Policeman: is this your son's wallet i've got here? he must have
Dropped it after too much beer!
Mother: oh, officer, we can't believe our little angel is the one
You've picked.
Narrator: and all the while graham slept on, dreaming of a world
Where he could do just what he wanted to.
Mother and father (in unison): no thugs in our house, are there dear?
We made that clear, we made little graham promise us he'd be a good
Boy. no thugs in our house, are there dear? we made that clear, we
Made little graham promise us he'd be a good boy.
Narrator: they never read those pamphlets in his bottom drawer.
Policeman: they never read that tattoo on his arm.
Narrator: they thought that was just a boys club badge he wore.
Policeman: they never thought he'd do folks any harm.
Act three
Narrator: the insect-headed worker-wife will hang her waspies on the
Line. she's singing something stale and simple now this business has
Fizzled out. her little tune is such a happy song. her son is
Innocent, he can't do wrong, 'cos dad's a judge and knows exactly what
The job of judging's all about. and all the while graham slept on,
Dreaming of a world where he could do just what he wanted to.
Mother and father (in unison): no thugs in our house, are there dear?
We made that clear, we made little graham promise us he'd be a good
Boy. no thugs in our house, are there dear? we made that clear, we
Made little graham promise us he'd be a good boy.
Mother: no thugs in our house!
Father: no thugs in our house!
Complete cast (in unison): no thugs in our house, dear!
Set design by andy partridge with co-ordination by ken ansell.
Stage and scenery by art dragon
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No Thugs In Our House
Cast of characters
Graham, a teenager
Mother, a busy housewife
Father, a conservative husband
Policeman, a young constable
Scene: a kitchen in suburbia, one bright saturday morning
Act one
Narrator: the insect-headed worker-wife will hang her waspies on the
Line. her husband burns his paper, sucks his pipe while studying
Their cushion-floor, his viscous poly-paste breath comes out. their
Wall-paper world is shattered by his shout. a boy in blue is busy
Banging out a headache on the kitchen door. all the while graham
Slept on, dreaming of a world where he could do just what he wanted
To.
Mother and father (in unison): no thugs in our house, are there dear?
We made that clear, we made little graham promise us he'd be a good
Boy. no thugs in our house, are there dear? we made that clear, we
Made little graham promise us he'd be a good boy.
Act two
Narrator: the young policeman who just can't grow a moustache will
Open up his book, and spoil their breakfast with reports of asians who
Have been so badly kicked.
Policeman: is this your son's wallet i've got here? he must have
Dropped it after too much beer!
Mother: oh, officer, we can't believe our little angel is the one
You've picked.
Narrator: and all the while graham slept on, dreaming of a world
Where he could do just what he wanted to.
Mother and father (in unison): no thugs in our house, are there dear?
We made that clear, we made little graham promise us he'd be a good
Boy. no thugs in our house, are there dear? we made that clear, we
Made little graham promise us he'd be a good boy.
Narrator: they never read those pamphlets in his bottom drawer.
Policeman: they never read that tattoo on his arm.
Narrator: they thought that was just a boys club badge he wore.
Policeman: they never thought he'd do folks any harm.
Act three
Narrator: the insect-headed worker-wife will hang her waspies on the
Line. she's singing something stale and simple now this business has
Fizzled out. her little tune is such a happy song. her son is
Innocent, he can't do wrong, 'cos dad's a judge and knows exactly what
The job of judging's all about. and all the while graham slept on,
Dreaming of a world where he could do just what he wanted to.
Mother and father (in unison): no thugs in our house, are there dear?
We made that clear, we made little graham promise us he'd be a good
Boy. no thugs in our house, are there dear? we made that clear, we
Made little graham promise us he'd be a good boy.
Mother: no thugs in our house!
Father: no thugs in our house!
Complete cast (in unison): no thugs in our house, dear!
Set design by andy partridge with co-ordination by ken ansell.
Stage and scenery by art dragon
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sorrowful Love
A boy and a girl,
the best of friends.
From elementary to high school,
from beginning to end.
Through all those years,
their friendship grew.
They both felt the same,
but neither knew.
Each waking moment,
since the day they met,
They both loved each other,
sunrise to sunset.
He was all she had,
in her terrible life.
He was the one,
who kept her from her knife.
She was his angel,
she made him smile.
Though life threw him curves,
she made it all worth while.
Then one day,
things went terribly wrong.
The next few weeks
were like a very sad song.
He made her jealous,
on purpose he tried.
When the girl asked, 'Do you love her? '
on purpose he lied.
He played with jealousy,
like it was a game.
Little did he know,
things would never be the same.
His plan was working,
but he had no clue.
How wrong things would go,
the damage he would do.
One night she broke down,
feeling very alone.
Just her and the blade,
no one else home.
She dialled his number,
he answered, 'Hello'
She told him she loved him,
and hung up the phone.
He raced to her house,
just a minute too late.
Found her lying in blood,
her heart had no rate.
Beside her was a note,
in it her confession.
Her love for this boy,
her only obsession.
As he read the note,
he knelt down and cried.
He grabbed her knife,
that night they both died.
She was found in his arms,
both of them dead.
Under her note
his handwriting said:
I loved her so,
she never knew.
All this time
I loved her too
poem by Tiana Webb
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Bronte Legend
They say she was a creature of the moor,
A lover of the angels, silence bound.
She sought no friendships. She was too remote,
Her sister Charlotte found.
I know she nursed her brother till he died,
Although she didn't like him; that she had
Housework and all the ironing to do,
Because her maids were bad.
And in the midst of it she wrote a book.
There could have been small leisure for the moor
Or wandering! She used to mend and sew,
The family was so poor.
Her brother died. But she died just as soon
As she had nursed dear Charlotte through the shock
Of Patrick's death. Contemplative? Well, well!
No Simeon of the Rock!
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Why Do Women Cry
I had gotten this from a friend, and the author is unknown
But it is so beautiful I decided to post it for others to read.
There was no title so I added my own title.
Why do women cry
Why are you crying? A young boy asked his mom.
Because I am a woman, she told him.
I don’t understand, he said.
His mom just hugged him and said:
And you never will, but that’s okay.
Later the little boy asked his father,
Why does mom seem to cry for no reason?
All women cry for no reason.
Was all his dad could say.
The little boy grew up and became a man,
Still wondering why women cry.
Finally, he went on his knees and asked god:
GOD*** why do women cry so easily?
And god answered…
When I made women, I decided she had to be special.
I made her shoulders strong enough to carry
The weight of the world,
Yet her arms gentle enough to give comfort!
I gave her the inner strength to endure childbirth
And the rejection that many times will come
even from her own children!
I gave her a hardness that allows her to keep going
And take care of her family and friends,
Even when everyone else gives up, through
Sickness and fatigue, without complaint!
I gave her sensitivity to love her children
Under any and all circumstances, even when
her child has hurt her badly!
She has the very special power to make a Childs
Boo-boo feel better and to quell a teenagers
Anxieties and fears.
I gave her the strength to care for her husband,
Despite faults, and I fashioned her from his rib
To protect her heart!
I gave her the wisdom to know that a good husband
Never hurts his wife but sometimes tests
her strengths and her resolve to stand beside him unfalteringly!
Son, for all of this hard work…
I also gave her a tear to shed.
It is hers to use whenever needed and
Is her only weakness!
When you see her cry,
Tell her how much you love her
And all she does for everyone.
And even though she may still cry,
You will have made her heart feel good.
She is special! ! !
poem by Louis Rams
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On the Death of a Very Young Gentleman
He, who could view the book of destiny,
And read whatever there was writ of thee,
O charming youth, in the first opening page,
So many graces in so green an age,
Such wit, such modesty, such strength of mind,
A soul at once so manly and so kind,
Would wonder when he turned the volume o'er,
And, after some few leaves, should find no more,
Nought but a blank remain, a dead void space,
A step of life that promised such a race.
We must not, dare not, think, that heaven began
A child, and could not finish him a man;
Reflecting what a mighty store was laid
Of rich materials, and a model made:
The cost already furnished; so bestowed,
As more was never to one soul allowed:
Yet after this profusion spent in vain,
Nothing but mouldering ashes to remain,
I guess not, lest I split upon the shelf,
Yet, durst I guess, heaven kept it for himself;
And giving us the use, did soon recall,
Ere we could spare the mighty principal.
Thus then he disappeared, was rarified,
For 'tis improper speech to say he died:
He was exhaled; his great Creator drew
His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
'Tis sin produces death; and he had none,
But the taint Adam left on every son.
He added not, he was so pure, so good,
'Twas but the original forfeit of his blood;
And that so little, that the river ran
More clear than the corrupted fount began.
Nothing remained of the first muddy clay;
The length of course had washed it in the way:
So deep, and yet so clear, we might behold
The gravel bottom, and that bottom gold.
As such we loved, admired, almost adored,
Gave all the tribute mortals could afford.
Perhaps we gave so much, the powers above
Grew angry at our superstitious love;
For when we more than human homage pay,
The charming cause is justly snatched away.
Thus was the crime not his, but ours alone;
And yet we murmur that he went so soon,
Though miracles are short, and rarely shown.
Learn then, ye mournful parents, and divide
That love in many, which in one was tied.
That individual blessing is no more,
But multiplied in your remaining store.
The flame's dispersed, but does not all expire;
The sparkles blaze, though not the globe of fire.
Love him by parts, in all your numerous race,
And from those parts form one collected grace;
Then, when you have refined to that degree,
Imagine all in one, and think that one is he.
poem by John Dryden
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Life's Struggle & Jesus
JESUS
There once was a traveler who was driven out of town
On His shoulders was a burden that pushed Him to the ground.
On His head was a crown made of thorns from a bush
And the street was so crowded the guards had to push.
They beat Him with nine tails each step of the way
Where Christ found the strength, only God could say.
They stopped at some sandstone at the top of a hill
There was a round hole the cross would soon fill.
They made Him lie down upon that wood cross
There they nailed Him to prove who was boss.
The beam was up-ended by the muscles of men
As it plunged down the hole it was carved to fit in.
Then Jesus looked up at the lightning that flew
And cried, God, My Father, they know not what they do.
They crucified our Lord as His blood flowed to earth
If inside you believe, you feel what love is worth.
They wrapped Him in loincloth when He was taken down
Then carefully removed His scarlet stained crown.
They placed Him in a cave with a large, round, stone door
Before sealing forever, they lay lilies on the floor.
Though it wasn't very long, and the stone was rolled away
For Jesus resurrected, to rise on Easter Day!
DARTS OF THE DEVIL
The darts of the devil fly free on the winds
And sometimes they pierce both family and friends.
Remember young Adam and his wife, Eve?
When they gave into Satan, the Lord said, 'leave'.
Ever since then, right up to today
The devil makes sure we'll sin in some way.
Wear all of God's armor, whatever you do;
Should the darts of the devil seek out you.
Thank God for Jesus who died on the cross.
Our passage to heaven was paid by His loss.
Every knee shall bow and tongues confess all
That Jesus is our Lord at his final call.
Angels will descend with Jesus in the sky
He'll greet us with open arms when it's our time to fly.
For our Lord awaits all who believe
And those who do not, shall be told to leave.
NIGHT OF NIGHTS
In the tiny town of Bethlehem
Born in a stable, an infant lie.
While he slept his first dreamless night
A whole universe of stars passed by.
When Jesus Christ our Savior was born
Most of the angels began to sing
Of peace, and good will to all mankind
And hallelujah to Earth's new king.
There were those angels, who did not sing
For they had passed through the devil's gate.
They knew this young lad belonged to God
And for them salvation was too late.
So let's rejoice, and sing with great cheer
That night when Jesus slept without fear.
For our Lord's birthday comes once a year
On that night of nights we hold so dear.
BY GOD'S POET = tom zart
MOST PUBLISHED POET ON THE WEB!
Baucis And Philemon
IN ancient times, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.
It happened on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguised in tattered habits, went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the strollers' canting strain,
They begged from door to door in vain;
Tried every tone might pity win,
But not a soul would let them in.
Our wandering saints in woeful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village passed,
To a small cottage came at last,
Where dwelt a good honest old yeoman,
Called, in the neighbourhood, Philemon,
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night;
And then the hospitable Sire
Bid goody Baucis mend the fire;
While he from out the chimney took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,
And freely from the fattest side
Cut out large slices to be fried;
Then stepped aside to fetch 'em drink,
Filled a large jug up to the brink,
And saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful) they found
'Twas still replenished to the top,
As if they ne'er had touched a drop
The good old couple were amazed,
And often on each other gazed;
For both were frightened to the heart,
And just began to cry,—What art!
Then softly turned aside to view,
Whether the lights were burning blue.
The gentle pilgrims soon aware on't,
Told 'em their calling, and their errant;
'Good folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but saints,' the hermits said;
'No hurt shall come to you or yours;
But, for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses shall be drowned;
Whilst you shall see your cottage rise,
And grow a church before your eyes.'
They scarce had spoke; when fair and soft,
The roof began to mount aloft;
Aloft rose every beam and rafter,
The heavy wall climbed slowly after.
The chimney widened, and grew higher,
Became a steeple with a spire.
The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there stood fastened to a joist;
But with the upside down, to show
Its inclination for below.
In vain; for a superior force
Applied at bottom, stops its coarse,
Doomed ever in suspense to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
A wooden jack, which had almost
Lost, by disuse, the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increased by new intestine wheels;
And what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion slower.
The flyer, though 't had leaden feet,
Turned round so quick, you scarce could see 't;
But slackened by some secret power,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney near allied,
Had never left each other's side;
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But up against the steeple reared,
Became a clock, and still adhered;
And still its love to household cares
By a shrill voice at noon declares,
Warning the cook-maid not to burn
That roast meat which it cannot turn.
The groaning chair began to crawl,
Like a huge snail along the wall;
There stuck aloft in public view;
And with small change a pulpit grew.
The porringers, that in a row
Hung high, and made a glittering show,
To a less noble substance changed,
Were now but leathern buckets ranged.
The ballads pasted on the wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,
The Little Children in the Wood,
Now seemed to look abundance better,
Improved in picture, size, and letter;
And high in order placed, describe
The heraldry of every tribe.
A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber, many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphosed into pews:
Which still their ancient nature keep,
By lodging folks disposed to sleep.
The cottage, by such feats as these,
Grown to a church by just degrees,
The hermits then desired their host
To ask for what he fancied most.
Philemon having paused a while,
Returned 'em thanks in homely style;
Then said, 'My house is grown so fine,
Methinks I still would call it mine:
I'm old, and fain would live at ease,
Make me the Parson, if you please.'
He spoke, and presently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels;
He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding sleeve;
His waistcoat to a cassock grew,
And both assumed a sable hue;
But being old, continued just
As thread-bare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tithes and dues;
He smoked his pipe and read the news;
Knew how to preach old sermons next,
Vamped in the preface and the text;
At christenings well could act his part,
And had the service all by heart;
Wished women might have children fast,
And thought whose sow had farrowed last
Against Dissenters would repine,
And stood up firm for Right divine.
Found his head filled with many a system,
But classic authors,—he ne'er missed 'em.
Thus having furbished up a parson,
Dame Baucis next they played their farce on.
Instead of home-spun coifs were seen
Good pinners edg'd with colberteen;
Her petticoat transformed apace,
Became black satin flounced with lace.
Plain Goody would no longer down,
'Twas Madam, in her grogram gown.
Philemon was in great surprise,
And hardly could believe his eyes,
Amazed to see her look so prim;
And she admired as much at him.
Thus, happy in their change of life,
Were several years this man and wife;
When on a day, which proved their last,
Discoursing o'er old stories past,
They went by chance amidst their talk,
To the church yard to take a walk;
When Baucis hastily cried out,
'My dear, I see your forehead sprout!'
'Sprout,' quoth the man, 'what's this you tell us?
I hope you don't believe me jealous,
But yet, methinks, I feel it true;
And really, yours is budding too -
Nay,—now I cannot stir my foot;
It feels as if 'twere taking root.'
Description would but tire my Muse;
In short, they both were turned to Yews.
Old Goodman Dobson of the green
Remembers he the trees has seen;
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to show the sight;
On Sundays, after evening prayer,
He gathers all the parish there,
Points out the place of either Yew:
Here Baucis, there Philemon grew,
Till once a parson of our town,
To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
At which, 'tis hard to be believed
How much the other tree was grieved,
Grow scrubby, died a-top, was stunted:
So the next parson stubbed and burnt it.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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Good Night My Brother
Good Night My Brother
Good Night my dear brother.
It seems that is all I can say
as today you close your eyes on this, now fated day.
My mother she shed a tear and asked us all simply to pray.
We hear her heart breaking
Cracking as she… shuffles.
She moves quietly in her room.
The house is still lit, she doesn’t want any gloom.
She ponders to herself we are sure; of what is to come.
The children left behind, still wondering on the moment.
One minute he was there and the next he is gone.
Confused by it all...the children...Oh the children! ...oh what is to done?
The police have now come and gone
as dear brother he passed away at home
lying on his bed, no movement.. no…no breathing in his room.
Good night my dear brother
Those cigarettes
They did you in.
We spoke but some weeks ago
you lamented then, that that may be the way you will go!
Those accursed things took my father too...you knew this then and here we are
Five years later and back again.
Good night my dear brother
It seems that is all I can say
I love you dearly
You knew that...I love you beyond the grave.
I know God now keeps you
I know that you accepted him
I believe God keeps you,
So good night my brother dear, our journey has not come to an end.
Your sister. For my brother Val.
Elaine Oxamendi Vicet
11: 03pm
poem by Elaine Oxamendi Vicet
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Good News
Beautiful are the feet of those who bring the Good News of Salvation,
The Good News is not just for the few, but for each and every nation.
The Good News is that Jesus died, was buried, and that He rose again,
Christ did all this because you and I are wicked sinners my friend.
The restoration of fellowship with God is at the heart of Salvation,
As Jesus' primary purpose was to redeem the Jewel of God's creation.
The importance of man in the eyes of God can be easily understood,
For on the day He created man, He saw all and said it was very good.
But the perfect fellowship at the start by Satan's design fell apart,
For by subtlety deceiving Eve, that liar had corrupted man's heart.
That is why God's Only Gospel must be expounded by all believers,
That Christ died, was buried, and raised according to the Scriptures.
Christ who had no sin, had to die to pay sin's price for you and me,
And we too, must crucify ourselves on the cross to truly be set free.
Jesus' body used to bear our sin, was buried never to be seen again,
And after being saved, our sinful nature shouldn't be seen my friend.
After Jesus rose that day, His Glorified Body was restored my friend,
And we will be like Him my friend, when we too are raised at the end.
The Good News for believers is that when we hear that trumpet sound,
We will be changed and caught up with the Lord and be Heaven bound.
(Copyright © 04/2003)