The heart, they say, asks pleasure first
A king is a king by his robe;
A priest is a priest by his robe;
A judge is a judge by his robe;
A nun is a nun by her robe.
Naked, they answer their instincts
Which are not different from yours
04.09.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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My Sage Green Robe
I sit on my bed, and look across at my sage green towelling robe,
hanging on the back of the bedroom door.
Does he still 'fancy' me,
when I'm wearing it,
probably not,
it's not 'sexy', rather 'frumpy' really,
not at all an 'exciting' piece of clothing.
A dowdy bird,
dowdy and unheard!
I think that's me!
A 'new' me, must emerge from that robe.
A butterfly from a chrysalis,
A rose from a bud.
I think I need an overhaul, and a new 'robe',
like you see the 'famous' wearing,
in their 'penthouses'.
A glorious creation of satin and silk,
like flowing cream and milk.
Mind you, my towelling robe, hangs next to his towelling robe,
so perhaps we will do the same, and remain side by side,
and perhaps he loves me for other things than just being,
glamorous.
Hanging there, they look at peace with each other,
so I think I'll stick with my sage green towelling robe,
it cuddles me, just like he does!
poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Three Kings Of Cologne
From out Cologne there came three kings
To worship Jesus Christ, their King.
To Him they sought fine herbs they brought,
And many a beauteous golden thing;
They brought their gifts to Bethlehem town,
And in that manger set them down.
Then spake the first king, and he said:
'O Child, most heavenly, bright, and fair!
I bring this crown to Bethlehem town
For Thee, and only Thee, to wear;
So give a heavenly crown to me
When I shall come at last to Thee!'
The second, then. 'I bring Thee here
This royal robe, O Child!' he cried;
'Of silk 'tis spun, and such an one
There is not in the world beside;
So in the day of doom requite
Me with a heavenly robe of white!'
The third king gave his gift, and quoth:
'Spikenard and myrrh to Thee I bring,
And with these twain would I most fain
Anoint the body of my King;
So may their incense sometime rise
To plead for me in yonder skies!'
Thus spake the three kings of Cologne,
That gave their gifts, and went their way;
And now kneel I in prayer hard by
The cradle of the Child to-day;
Nor crown, nor robe, nor spice I bring
As offering unto Christ, my King.
Yet have I brought a gift the Child
May not despise, however small;
For here I lay my heart to-day,
And it is full of love to all.
Take Thou the poor but loyal thing,
My only tribute, Christ, my King!
poem by Eugene Field
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Ch 04 On The Advantages Of Silence Story 10
A poet went to an amir of robbers and recited a panegyric but he ordered him to be divested of his robe. As the poor man was departing naked in the world, he was attacked from behind by dogs, whereon he intended to snatch up a stone but it was frozen to the ground and, being unable to do so, he exclaimed: ‘What whore-sons of men are these? They have let loose the dogs and have tied down the stones.’ The amir of the robbers who heard these words from his room laughed and said: ‘O philosopher, ask something from me.’ He replied: ‘I ask for my robe if thou wilt make me a present of it.’
We are satisfied of thy gift by departure.
A man was hoping for the gifts of people.
I hope no gift from thee. Do me no evil.
The robber chief took pity upon him, ordered his robe to be restored to him and added to it a sheepskin jacket with some dirhems.
Untitled #2
ROBE d'or, mais rien ne veut
Qu'une rose à ses cheveux.
A golden robe, yet will she wear
Only a rose in her golden hair.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Hymn 20
Spiritual apparel.
Isa. 61:10.
Awake, my heart; arise, my tongue,
Prepare a tuneful voice;
In God, the life of all my joys,
Aloud will I rejoice.
'Tis he adorned my naked soul,
And made salvation mine;
Upon a poor polluted worm
He makes his graces shine.
And lest the shadow of a spot
Should on my soul be found,
He took the robe the Savior wrought,
And cast it all around.
How far the heav'nly robe exceeds
What earthly princes wear
These ornaments, how bright they shine!
How white the garments are!
The Spirit wrought my faith, and love,
And hope, and every grace;
But Jesus spent his life to work
The robe of righteousness.
Strangely, my soul, art thou arrayed
By the great Sacred Three!
In sweetest harmony of praise
Let all thy powers agree.
poem by Isaac Watts
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I love Bill Clinton. I think we should make him king. I'm talking the red robe, the turkey leg - everything.
quote by Tim McGraw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A White Robe
He is covered with a white robe and,
I really do love him;
She is covered with a white robe and,
I really do love her;
For the muse of love is like,
The wings of the bird that flies up high!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Throne Of God
You sit at the right hand of the Father
You are clothed in majesty
The train of your robe fills the temple
Our High priest forever you shall be
You dwell in the beauty of Holiness
You are clothed in magnificent light
You stand upon grace and mercy
And your throne is an incredible sight
All men shall fall down before you
And every tongue on earth shall confess
That you are Lord to the glory of God
And we shall dwell in your Holiness
You are Commander of the heavenly hosts
And God the Father is your shield
And every king that comes against you
Is destroyed on the battle-field
poem by Frank McEleny
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Psalm 110
You sit at the right hand of the Father
You are clothed in majesty
The train of your robe fills the temple
Our High priest forever you shall be
You dwell in the beauty of Holiness
You are clothed in magnificent light
You stand upon grace and mercy
And your throne is an incredible sight
All men shall fall down before you
And every tongue on earth shall confess
That you are Lord to the glory of God
And we shall dwell in your Holiness
You are Commander of the heavenly hosts
And God the Father is your shield
And every king that comes against you
Is destroyed on the battle-field
poem by Frank McEleny
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Mrs O’Hara’s Bathtub (Fun Poem 39)
Rub-a-dub-dub,
Mrs O’Hara’s bathtub,
a towel gone for a drink,
fell into the tub.
What is the poor lady to dry herself with now?
Oh, dear what can she do,
the robe she thought,
give it a tug,
but it fell into the tub.
Now what was she going to do?
Call for her husband.
A yell, a scream is heard,
as he rushes in like a buffalo herd.
“What is the matter, dear? ” he says,
and then slips up on a bar of soap.
Rub-a -dub-dub,
Mrs O’Hara, towel, robe, and hubby all in the tub.
19 April 1979
poem by David Harris
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La Robe A Parasol
trim your dress, trim your dress
trim your dress in the parasol style
if you have hips, if you have hips
trim your dress in the parasol style
trim your dress, trim your dress
trim your dress in the parasol style
go to sleep, go to sleep
go to sleep in your baby's arms
balance yourself, balance yourself
balance yourself in your baby's arms
if you have hips, if you have hips
trim your dress in the parasol style
French version:
tailles ta robe, tailles ta robe,
tailles ta robe la mode a parasol
si t'as des hanches, si t'as des hanches,
tailles la robe la mode a parasol
tailles ta robe, mais tailles ta robe,
tailles ta robe la mode a parasol
sommeillez, sommeillez,
sommeillez dans les bras de ton gars
balancez, balancez,
balancez dans les bras de ton gars
si t'as des hanches, si t'as des hanches,
tailles ta robe la mode a parasol
sommeillez, sommeillez,
sommeillez dans les bras de ton gars
balancez, balancez,
balancez dans les bras de ton gars
tailles ta robe, Mais tailles ta robe,
tailles ta robe la mode a parasol
balancez, sommeillez
sommeillez dans les bras de ton gars
song performed by by 16 Horsepower
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Past
I fling the past behind me, like a robe
Worn threadbare at the seams, and out of date.
I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep
And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes
Of oriental splendor, or complain
That I must needs discard it? I can weave
Upon the shuttles of the future years
A fabric far more durable. Subdued,
It may be, in the blending of its hues,
Where somber shades commingle, yet the gleam
Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through,
While over all a fadeless luster lies,
And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears,
My new robe shall be richer than the old.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Realization
A pleasing fragrance from an altar
the mountain top temple.
The old priest incense is burned in worship.
His chant of Sutra floating in the wind
like an old mother's lullaby.
The saffron robe waves over the thatched house
and the bell tolls with the moon set.
I thought the time has come
and I take his place when he leaves.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Easter Day
THE silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,
And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:
In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.
My heart stole back across wide wastes of years
To One who wandered by a lonely sea,
And sought in vain for any place of rest:
'Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,
I, only I, must wander wearily,
And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.'
poem by Oscar Wilde
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The Last Masquerade
A wan new garment of young green
Touched, as you turned your soft brown hair
And in me surged the strangest prayer
Ever in lover's heart hath been.
That I who saw your youth's bright page,
A rainbow change from robe to robe,
Might see you on this earthly globe,
Crowned with the silver crown of age.
Your dear hair powdered in strange guise,
Your dear face touched with colours pale:
And gazing through the mask and veil
The mirth of your immortal eyes.
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Drifters Escape
Oh, help me in my weakness,
I heard the drifter say,
As they carried him from the courtroom
And were taking him away.
My trip hasnt been a pleasant one
And my time it isnt long,
And I still do not know
What it was that Ive done wrong.
Well, the judge, he cast his robe aside,
A tear came to his eye,
You fail to understand, he said,
Why must you even try?
Outside, the crowd was stirring,
You could hear it from the door.
Inside, the judge was stepping down,
While the jury cried for more.
Oh, stop that cursed jury,
Cried the attendant and the nurse,
The trial was bad enough,
But this is ten times worse.
Just then a bolt of lightning
Struck the courthouse out of shape,
And while evrybody knelt to pray
The drifter did escape.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Legacy of the Purple Robe
The legacy of the purple robe,
Worn by the most powerful of kings, Gods, and highest of lords,
The purple robe of majesty, embedded with diamond galore,
The legacy of the apparel and the creator never seen before,
In correlation with the platinum crown,
The Creator of everything wearing the magic gown,
Beyond the planet Earth, the creator beyond the renowned,
Creator of the nine planets and the galaxy all around,
Beyond the sky, the solar system painted by the creator,
The creator without a name, the universe’s dictator,
Higher than Zeus, God, Allah, something much greater,
The creator with portraits of the universe, the painter,
Wearing the purple gown and the platinum crown, the God of all,
Within the asteroid belt, the universe’s wall,
In the creator’s portrait, the solar system enthralled,
Not a religion, but something higher than the skies,
Something invisible, looking down on the Earth with blue eyes,
Beyond religion, the highest of the power of gods refined,
The artist of the universe’s blueprint that’s intricately designed,
Creator of the moon, the grass, the mountains, and the sun that shines,
The purple robe beyond the stars, worn by the creator in the royal shrine,
The purple robe and the platinum crown, only worn by the most creative of mind,
For this creator was truly a painter, an artist of the universe,
Inflicted by hypergraphia and insanity of mind, the artist’s curse,
That sits above the realm of space when the planets dispersed,
At one point everything was one planet cluttered in space,
Until he created boundaries within the realm that separated planets in a linear trace,
Above the galaxy in the darkened realm beyond the stars the creator’s place,
Until he created the new portrait of the big bang, and the old blueprint was replaced,
Within one shattering boom of the storm, the portraits transformed in haste,
And the cluttered planet was forgotten forever without a trace,
Now separated in the solar system,9 planets are spread in space,
The purple robe, only worn by the artist and the God of everything,
Compulsively observing his portrait sitting on the different sections of the asteroid ring,
The platinum crown, and the purple robe, worn by the ultimate king,
Beyond religion, the highest power humans never seen,
The creator, that painted everything.
poem by Kurt Kacich
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Free Fall
A long while, a long long while it seems:
The bat-winged figure shaking his robe,
The cameras purring.
It is Daedalus the tailor, up on the Eiffel Tower
Ready to fly. The year is 1900;
We watch it, now.
...Shakes at his bat-robe, first to the right,
Then left, then right again, a twitch,
A doubtful gesture.
'Cast thyself from the pinnacle, angels will bear thee up.'
So great a height - the wings will surely beat
And bear me up?
Shaking his robe. A mile of film we are wasting:
Why doesn't he jump? In these long seconds
What is he thinking?
That the plan was crazy, and the careful stitches
Shaped him a shroud? Perhaps he is wondering
How to withdraw.
To pretend a flaw in the work, a change in the wind;
And imagines how it would be to face
The jeering crowd,
Slink back to his trade and live, with nothing to live for.
So still he hesitates, and shakes his shroud,
Then, suddenly, jumps.
Not even a flap from the wings. The lens below
Can barely follow the plummeting shape,
So quick his fall,
Hollowing out his own grave.
We are caught between dismay and laughter
Watching it now -
Not in a myth, not a century back, but now.
Ridiculous death. Yet as he stood on the tower,
Shaking, shaking his robe,
He mimed what each man must in private try,
Poised on the parapet of darkness -
Each in that crowd, and you, reader, and I.
poem by Anne Barbara Ridler
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On Easter Day
The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,
And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:
In splendor and in light the Pope passed home.
My heart stole back across wide wastes of years
To One who wandered by a lonely sea,
And sought in vain for any place of rest:
"Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,
I, only I, must wander wearily,
And bruise My feet, and drink wine salt with tears."
poem by Oscar Wilde
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Long Flowing Robe
Cruising makes some people get uptight
But nothing beats a lonely friday night
Friday night, nothing much to do but hang around
Think I might just grab myself a cab and head downtown
And for hours, I hang around the dance hall crowd
I feel like a boor
But then I turned around and cast my eyes to the door
In a long flowing robe
She appeared at the ballroom door
I was hard-pressed to know
What I hoped she was looking for
Coming on at first may not seem right
But nothing beats a lover at first sight
What a sight, nothing can compare with simple grace
Its all right, I see it in the look upon her face
That she wants me the same way that Im wanting her
In fact maybe more
But as I take her hand
She turns and heads for the door
In a long flowing robe
She took off through the ballroom door
I was hard-pressed to know
What did she go and do that for
Friday night, nothing left to do but go to bed
Sleeping tight, when something stirring deep inside my head
Said wake up and cast your eyes to the door.
In a long flowing robe
She appeared at the bedroom door
I was hard-pressed to know
What I knew she was looking for
song performed by by Todd Rundgren
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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