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Imogen: The lamb entreats the butcher: where's thy knife?
Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding,
When I desire it too.
Pisanio: O gracious lady,
Since I received command to do this business
I have not slept one wink.

line from Cymbeline, Act III, Scene 4, script by William Shakespeare (1611)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Butcher Boosted

Why do they flock,
To have their meat...
Stripped clean of fat?

And who is that selected...
To do just that?
This butcher boosted,
Is preferred!
And slices exactly what is wished.
To rid them of maggots leeching.
And feed to them a diet to feast...
With an increased desire,
To eat from a substance...
More nutritiously dished!

Without those promises of expectations...
That have left them with tastebuds,
Long on delusion!
And not fed with sensations demanded.

This butcher boosted...
Openly will command,
With an exposed and uncloaked hand...
Those who witness the slicing that is done,
Will come to understand!
This butcher boosted is no joke.
And each stroke is meant,
To rid them from all deceptions hidden.

And qualified are the intentions made...
To open all eyes along the way!

'There is no fat on this cat's back!
Down to basics.
With an eye on facts.
Delivered and received!
To nourish a return of reality believed.'

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Petrified lamb

The petrified lamb shivered
It wailed in vain
Searching for the herd
He was separated from
But no one was in sight

The poor animal cried all night
The biting cold was hurting him
Tied to a pole near a ramshackle
Meat shop he felt lonely
He was sold to a butcher
By the villager who always
Used to fondle him while grazing
How could he be so cruel
Thought the poor lamb

Even before the butcher came
Customers reached the shop
To buy fresh stock of meat
The poor animal felt
Someone would rescue him
From this precarious predicament

Not knowing the fate in store for him

The butcher came with his son in tow
Sharpened the knife
On a block of stone
Held the poor lamb to the ground
And slit its throat

Fountain of blood
Was on the floor
The lamb struggled
Before lying dead on the ground

Skinned, cleaned and hung
Upside down
Ready for buyers to select
The portions that they
Liked to buy
What a horrible scene
Repeated every day
On poor mute creatures
Who like us
Would like to live

poem by Vijay Menon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wink For Me

Wink for me today
For I know I’m full of life
Wink when you work
I’ll be reminded of my work
Wink when entering the toilet
I’ll know others are half attached
Wink when you eat
I’ll buy my own lunch
Wink when kissing
I’ll miss my wife more
While driving still wink
I’ll work and buy my own
When you die please wink
I’ll prepare my suitcase for take off
Please wink for me

poem by Lawrence s. Makola
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Lamb

Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life & bid thee feed
By the stream & o’er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, wooly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee,
Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee:
He is callèd by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb.
He is meek, & he is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, & thou a lamb,
We are callèd by his name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!

poem by William Blake from Songs of Innocence (1789)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Wooly Lamb, Wooly Lamb

Wooly Lamb, Wooly Lamb, frisking along;
Wooly Lamb, Wooly Lamb, bleating a song;
Wooly Lamb, Wooly Lamb, wearing fur-coat,
Wooly Lamb, Wooly Lamb, looking so bright!

Wooly Lamb, Wooly Lamb, eating green grass,
Wooly Lamb, Wooly Lamb, let me first pass,
Wooly Lamb, Wooly Lamb, grazing so nice,
Wooly Lamb, Wooly Lamb, what a surprise!

One of my first Children's Rhymes

poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sometimes in Rome

Cymbeline is set sometimes in Britain as well

I saw the play one Sunday set in Chicago
at the Shakespeare Theater on Navy Pier
and came away astonished and heartened
by actors who gave life to printed words

An obscure play that I last heard of in school
brought this viewer to listening closely
and marveling at Cymbeline and Belarius,
the wise Pisanio and the lovely Imogen

reflecting on the final lines of Act V -
'Never was a war did cease,
Ere bloody hands were wash'd, with such a peace.'

Exeunt
.

poem by Michael Pruchnicki
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nowhere At All

Hey, if you're moving too fast
Don't you want this thing last
But if you start moving slow
Hey, pretty mama, you just will have to go
Because
It's nobody's business but my own
It's nobody's business but my own
No, no, no, no, ... no
No, no, no, no, ... no
But if you start acting mean
Then I'll have to mess up the scene
But if you start treating me nice
Hey now baby, I'm gonna have to raise your price
Because it's nobody's business but my own
No, no, no, no, ... no
No, no, no, no, ... no
Nobody's business, nobody's business
Come on now
It ain't nobody's business, nobody business
No, no, no no, nobody's business, no, no, ...
It ain't nobody's business, yeah, but my own
nobody's business, but my own, no, no, no, ...
nobody's business ...

song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Near-Miss

A mouse, all gray with tiny ears
was crying salty rodent tears.
A cat had cornered him and planned
to eat him as he ate his aunt.

Just when the cat had opened wide
a voice was heard from the outside.
Dog Brutus, who resided near
had just decided to appear.

He barged, as he was fond of doing
inside and saw the trouble brewing.
And since he liked all little mice
he told the cat 'now you be nice'.

The cat, however, was not used
to be directed and abused.
And with the swipe of its big paw
the mouse went down into the craw.

By now, the dog was mad as hell
and things looked for the cat not well.
He gulped the cat (and thus the mouse)
and wandered off to his own house.

And as he settled down to snooze
he saw a pair of Rockford shoes
approaching from across the street
he knew it was the butcher, Pete.

The butcher was a nasty man
and always fought with brother Stan.
He carried in his hand a knife,
the dog now feared for his own life.

Now let me tell you how it ended,
the butcher, who had been offended
by the mere presence of the mutt
just stood there scratching his big gut.

That was the signal for the cat,
which in the dog's own stomach sat.
The cat responded to her master
who, instantly, sensed a disaster.

She bounced and jumped, the mouse did follow
the air was sparse inside the hollow.
And through the movement Brutus shivered
when on command his brain delivered

a burp of monumental size
and this now triggered a surprise.
The cat, (and thus the mouse as well)
exploded outward with a yell.

Thus now you know that dogs that belch
throw up (but only if they're Welsh) .
You didn't think that cat survived
inside? Of oxygen deprived?

You're right of course, but let me say
the mouse and cat inside DID pray.
And, in the end, I told my spouse,
it all came down to Mouse to mouth.

poem by Herbert Nehrlich
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Song Of The Wage-Slave

When the long, long day is over, and the Big Boss gives me my pay,
I hope that it won't be hell-fire, as some of the parsons say.
And I hope that it won't be heaven, with some of the parsons I've met --
All I want is just quiet, just to rest and forget.
Look at my face, toil-furrowed; look at my calloused hands;
Master, I've done Thy bidding, wrought in Thy many lands --
Wrought for the little masters, big-bellied they be, and rich;
I've done their desire for a daily hire, and I die like a dog in a ditch.
I have used the strength Thou hast given, Thou knowest I did not shirk;
Threescore years of labor -- Thine be the long day's work.
And now, Big Master, I'm broken and bent and twisted and scarred,
But I've held my job, and Thou knowest, and Thou will not judge me hard.
Thou knowest my sins are many, and often I've played the fool --
Whiskey and cards and women, they made me the devil's tool.
I was just like a child with money; I flung it away with a curse,
Feasting a fawning parasite, or glutting a harlot's purse;
Then back to the woods repentant, back to the mill or the mine,
I, the worker of workers, everything in my line.
Everything hard but headwork (I'd no more brains than a kid),
A brute with brute strength to labor, doing as I was bid;
Living in camps with men-folk, a lonely and loveless life;
Never knew kiss of sweetheart, never caress of wife.
A brute with brute strength to labor, and they were so far above --
Yet I'd gladly have gone to the gallows for one little look of Love.
I, with the strength of two men, savage and shy and wild --
Yet how I'd ha' treasured a woman, and the sweet, warm kiss of a child!
Well, 'tis Thy world, and Thou knowest. I blaspheme and my ways be rude;
But I've lived my life as I found it, and I've done my best to be good;
I, the primitive toiler, half naked and grimed to the eyes,
Sweating it deep in their ditches, swining it stark in their styes;
Hurling down forests before me, spanning tumultuous streams;
Down in the ditch building o'er me palaces fairer than dreams;
Boring the rock to the ore-bed, driving the road through the fen,
Resolute, dumb, uncomplaining, a man in a world of men.
Master, I've filled my contract, wrought in Thy many lands;
Not by my sins wilt Thou judge me, but by the work of my hands.
Master, I've done Thy bidding, and the light is low in the west,
And the long, long shift is over . . . Master, I've earned it -- Rest.

poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Book Of Paradise - The Favoured Beast

Or beasts there have been chosen four

To come to Paradise,
And there with saints for evermore

They dwell in happy wise.

Amongst them all the Ass stands first;

He comes with joyous stride,
For to the Prophet-City erst

Did Jesus on him ride.

Half timid next a Wolf doth creep,

To whom Mahomet spake
'Spoil not the poor man of his sheep,

The rich man's thou mayst take.'

And then the brave and faithful Hound,

Who by his master kept,
And slept with him the slumbers sound

The seven sleepers slept.

Abuherrira's Cat, too, here,

Purrs round his master blest,
For holy must the beast appear

The Prophet hath caress'd.

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Upon The Blush Of A Faire Ladie

Stay lusty blood! where canst thou seeke
So blest a seat as in her cheeke?
How dar'st thou from her face retire
Whose beauty doth command desire?
But if thou wilt not stay, then flowe
Downe to her panting pappes belowe:
There take thou glory to distayne
With azure blewe each swelling veyne,
From thence run boyling through each part
Till thou hast warm'd her frozen hart,
Which, if from love thou find'st entire,
O martyr it with gentle fire.

poem by William Strode
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When From The Sod The Flow'rets Spring

When from the sod the flow'rets spring,
And smile to meet the sun's bright ray,
When birds their sweetest carols sing
In all them morning pride of May,
What lovelier than the prospect there?
Can earth boast any thing more fair?
To me it seems an almost heaven,
So beauteous to my eyes that vision bright is given.

But when a lady, chaste and fair,
Noble, and clad in rich attire,
Walks through the throng with gracious air,
As sun that bids the stars retire,--
Then, where are all thy boastings, May?
What hast thou beautiful and gay
Compared with that supreme delight?
We leave thy loveliest flowers, and watch that lady bright.

Wouldst thou believe me,-- come and place
Before thee all this pride of May;
Then look but on my lady's face,
And, which is best and brightest? say:
For me, how soon (if choice were mine)
This would I take, and that resign!
And say, 'Though sweet thy beauties, May!
I'd rather forfeit all than lose my lady gay.'

poem by Walther von der Vogelweide
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Funeral Elegy on the Death of The Lady Penelope Clifton

Since thou art dead, Clifton, the world may see
A certain end of flesh and blood in thee;
Till then a way was left for man to cry,
Flesh may be made so pure it cannot die;
But now thy unexpected death doth strike
With grief the better and the worse alike;
The good are sad they are not with thee there,
The bad have found they must not tarry here.
Death, I confess, 'tis just in thee to try
Thy pow'r on us, for thou thyself must die;
Thou pay'st but wages, Death, yet I would know
What strange delight thou tak'st to pay them so;
When thou com'st face to face thou strik'st us mute
And all our liberty is to dispute
With thee behind thy back, which I will use:
If thou hadst bravery in thee, thou wouldst choose
(Since thou art absolute, and canst controul
All things beneath a reasonable soul)
Some looked for way of killing; if her day
Had ended in a fire, a sword, or sea,
Or hadst thou come hid in a hundred years
To make an end of all her hopes and fears,
Or any other way direct to thee
Which Nature might esteem an enemy,
Who would have chid thee? now it shews thy hand
Desires to cozen where it might command:
Thou art not prone to kill, but where th' intent
Of those that suffer is their nourishment;
If thou canst steal into a dish, and creep
When all is still as though into a sleep,
And cover thy dry body with a draught,
Whereby some innocent lady may be caught,
And cheated of her life, then thou wilt come
And stretch thyself upon her early tomb,
And laugh as pleased, to show thou canst devour
Mortality as well by wit as pow'r.
I would thou hadst had eyes, or not a dart,
That yet at least, the clothing of that heart
Thou struck'st so spitefully might have appear'd
To thee, and with a reverence have been fear'd:
But since thou art so blind, receive from me
Who 'twas on whom thou wrought'st this tragedy;
She was a lady, who for public fame,
Never (since she in thy protection came,
Who sett'st all living tongues at large) received
A blemish; with her beauty she deceived
No man; when taken with it, they agree
'Twas Nature's fault, when from 'em 'twas in thee.
And such her virtue was, that although she
Received as much joy, having pass'd through thee,
As ever any did; yet hath thy hate
Made her as little better in her state,
As ever it did any being here;
She lived with us as if she had been there.
Such ladies thou canst kill no more, but so
I give thee warning here to kill no moe;
For if thou dost, my pen shall make the rest
Of those that live, especially the best,
Whom thou most thirstest for, to abandon all
Those fruitless things, which thou wouldst have us call
Preservatives, keeping, their diet so,
As the long-living poor their neighbours do:
Then shall we have them long, and they at last
Shall pass from thee to her, but not so fast.

poem by Francis Beaumont
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Decalogue

Thou shalt no God but me adore:
'Twere too expensive to have more.

No images nor idols make
For Roger Ingersoll to break.

Take not God's name in vain: select
A time when it will have effect.

Work not on Sabbath days at all,
But go to see the teams play ball.

Honor thy parents. That creates
For life insurance lower rates.

Kill not, abet not those who kill;
Thou shalt not pay thy butcher's bill.

Kiss not thy neighbor's wife, unless
Thine own thy neighbor doth caress.

Don't steal; thou'lt never thus compete
Successfully in business. Cheat.

Bear not false witness--that is low--
But 'hear 'tis rumored so and so.'

Covet thou naught that thou hast got
By hook or crook, or somehow, got.

poem by Ambrose Bierce
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nobodys Business

Hey, if youre moving too fast
Dont you want this thing last
But if you start moving slow and -
Hey, pretty mama, you just will have to go, because -
Its nobodys business but my own
Its nobodys business but my own
No-no-no-no-no-no-no, no-no-no-no, no-no-no
No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no, no-no-no-no, no-no-no
But if you start acting mean
Then Ill have to mess up the scene
But if you start treating me nice
Hey, now baby, Im gonna have to raise your price
Because its nobodys business but my own
Its nobodys business but my own
No-no-no-no-no-no-no, no-no-no-no, no-no-no
No-no-no-no, no-no-no, no-no-no
Nobodys business
Nobodys business, come on now
Hey, nobodys business, yeah, but my own
Nobodys business, oh, my, no-no-no
Nobodys business, no-no-no-no-no
Hey, nobodys business, yeah, but my own
Nobodys business, my own
No-no, no-no-no
No-no-no, no-no-no
Nobodys business
Nobodys business
Nobodys business
Nobodys business, but my own, now
...

song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A man has to learn that he cannot command things, but that he can command himself; that he cannot coerce the wills of others, but that he can mold and master his own will: and things serve him who serves Truth; people seek guidance of him who is master of himself.

quote by James Allen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Theres No Business Like Show Business

Theres no business like show business like no business I know
Everything about it is appealing, everything that traffic will allow
Nowhere could you get that happy feeling when you are stealing that extra bow
Theres no people like show people, they smile when they are low
Even with a turkey that you know will fold, you may be stranded out in the cold
Still you wouldnt change it for a sack of gold, lets go on with the show
The butcher, the baker, the grocer, the clerk
Are secretly unhappy men because
The butcher, the baker, the grocer, the clerk
Get paid for what they do but no applause.
Theyd gladly bid their dreary jobs goodbye for anything theatrical and why?
Theres no business like show business and I tell you its so
Traveling through the country is so thrilling, standing out in front on opening nights
Smiling as you watch the theater filling, and theres your billing out there in lights
Theres no people like show people, they smile when they are low
Angels come from everywhere with lots of jack, and when you lose it, theres no attack
Where could you get money that you dont give back? lets go on with the show
(theres no business like show business like no business I know)
You get word before the show has started that your favorite uncle died at dawn
Top of that, your pa and ma have parted, youre broken-hearted, but you go on
(theres no people like show people, they smile when they are low)
Yesterday they told you you would not go far, that night you open and there you are
Next day on your dressing room theyve hung a star, lets go on with the show!!

song performed by by Irving Berlin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sleeping Out: Full Moon

They sleep within. . . .
I cower to the earth, I waking, I only.
High and cold thou dreamest, O queen, high-dreaming and lonely.

We have slept too long, who can hardly win
The white one flame, and the night-long crying;
The viewless passers; the world's low sighing
With desire, with yearning,
To the fire unburning,
To the heatless fire, to the flameless ecstasy! . . .

Helpless I lie.
And around me the feet of thy watchers tread.
There is a rumour and a radiance of wings above my head,
An intolerable radiance of wings. . . .

All the earth grows fire,
White lips of desire
Brushing cool on the forehead, croon slumbrous things.
Earth fades; and the air is thrilled with ways,
Dewy paths full of comfort. And radiant bands,
The gracious presence of friendly hands,
Help the blind one, the glad one, who stumbles and strays,
Stretching wavering hands, up, up, through the praise
Of a myriad silver trumpets, through cries,
To all glory, to all gladness, to the infinite height,
To the gracious, the unmoving, the mother eyes,
And the laughter, and the lips, of light.

poem by Rupert Brooke (1908)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet 10: For shame, deny that thou bear'st love to any

For shame, deny that thou bear'st love to any
Who for thy self art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
But that thou none lov'st is most evident;
For thou art so possessed with murd'rous hate,
That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
Be as thy presence is gracious and kind,
Or to thy self at least kind-hearted prove,
Make thee another self, for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

poem by William Shakespeare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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