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[Pope]

Pope's Archive Last updated 12th March 06

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Index
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In The Beginning
A Chronicle of the Welsh Princes
ABCderian Challenge Response
A Chronicle of the Welsh Princes ( Revised Edition )
Come Into My Garden
Apostate
My God Walks With Me
Mistress Muse
Despair
Fallen
Four Seasons ( Haiku ) ~ By Owen
All My Days
Mary Rose
When the Bunyip Came to Call
Whisper Gentle
Never Tell
Shiny Suits of Happiness
Rest My Head
Rapture
For Clare
Only Those That Write Remain
This One Last Tale of Dultico Brier
This Place
In Love and Loss
Charlie's Caterpillar
To Coleridge With Thanks

~

[Pope]

In The Beginning

"Let there be light in this place,"He said,and there was.
"Let there be a garden upon this world,"He said."And fill it with all manner of wondorous things."
And there was this also.
"My children shall be made here and dwell here forever,inviolate."He said.
"They shall have dominion over it's bounty.They shall comfort me in my loneliness.
And they shall never change!"
"What of Entropy?"said the serpent,in silken tones,"You know the Law."
"Entropy?"raged the God."She shall have no place here in My paradise.
My children shall know nothing of Death,nor pain nor fear."
"Then they will know nothing also of hope or joy or happiness."replied the snake,"There must be Choice."
"Then let Choice remain here,in the seed of this Tree.This is my Word"
The snake, in it's guile, brought the children to the Tree.
"Eat this fruit"said the snake"that you may know the secret of all things."
"We can find no peace here without knowledge"said they,"our souls yearn to be free."and they ate.
The circle is broken.The comforting walls of ignorance shatter and fall around them.
"What have you done?"cried the Lord,when he found them crying in their shame and nakedness.
He saw that they knew fear and death.They had found guilt and despair.
"Oh my poor poor darlings."wept the God.
Bitter crystal tears coursed rivulets of pain down his blessed face.
"What have you done?
Never would I have brought you to this grief,my children.Your place was here,with me,in eternity.
There is no place in Eden for the sorrows of the world.This is my Word and it must stand.
Take my heart now and go.Choose your road and join the world.
Knowledge has sundered this place and only Knowledge will heal it.
Find the Law,shape it to your will and return to me here.


©PopeSept.2004



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A chronicle of the Princes

-----------------------------------------------
In turbulent times and wilder climes
a great man came to power.
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Through guile and war Ap Iorwerth swore
to join these baronies.
Though Welsh law fair
no union there
so end these ironies.

The princes meld and the great one held
green principality.
A border wrest,
through Henry blest.
In strength not charity.
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In times gone past he'd come at last
wed to King Johns daughter.
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From England's Joan,fair Dafydd grown,
the pride of Llewelyn Fawr.
Not first born there
but son and heir
shall stand and meet the hour.

Poor Gruffydd rent,to the gaoler sent.
Sundering of a creed.
Though Welsh born he
no prince to be.
The husk athward the seed.
----------------------------------------------
By angel's wing ,he escapes the King.
Falls fleeing from the tower.
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Greatest past,the hour at last,
Dafydd seats the throne.
Though Edward's squalls
and Woodstock's calls
cut Cymru to the bone.

The young prince dies 'neath clouded skies.
Heirless, incomplete.
Then three boys need,
of Gruffydd's seed,
to fight for Hywel's seat.
---------------------------------------------
At battle's field,two brothers yield
Ap Iorwerth's broken dream.
---------------------------------------------
Twice ten years,'gainst English fears,
built Gwynedd strong and free.
But Longshanks lied
Llewelyn died.
Felled was the royal tree.

What spite of fate led hope to the hate
of a pikesman's butted spear?
To Cilmery's brook
dear head was took.
To salve the regal fear.
----------------------------------------------------------
Brave Cymro crushed,foul prize was rushed
to grace that savage tower.
----------------------------------------------------------
Denied his bride nor left to bide
among his hills so dear,
where eagles cried Eryrie's pride.
No princes there to hear.
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ABCderian Challenge Response

Aggressive anarchy arises.
Berating bullies bear
criminals committing creative
destructions,demanding decent
ebullient emotions engendering
fulsome felicitations for
grateful gaolers' gallows.
Hapless,helpless,hopeless
incumbents implore implacable
jurors justly judging
kleptomaniacs.Kings kept
loathsome lickspittle looters.
Malicious monstorous murderers.
No need now
of optomistic oratory.
Preferring purgatorial punishments.
Quoting quiet quorums
realising relative rectitude.
Segregate serious sinners,
truculent treacherous traitors,
unwelcome underworld underlings.
Verisimilitude veers vaguely
west,where worthy
xenophobia
yields
zealotry.


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A Chronicle of the Welsh Princes. (Revised version)

Western reaches, mountains' splendour, nation in the making.
Unending war in dragon's land, glory for the taking.
Since Hywel Dda, the princes fought, until one took the throne.
And then times changed, the century turned, and Gwynnedd claimed it's own.

In troubled times, and wilder climes,
a great man came to power.
A scourge of Kings,
the bard still sings
of Llewelyn ap Iorwerth Fawr.

Through guile and war, ap Iorwerth swore
to join these baronies.
Though Welsh law fair,
no union there
to end these ironies.

In times gone by, the bloodlines tie,
wed to king Johns daughter.
This nation free
cost bended knee,
brief grace from martial slaughter.

The princes meld, the great one held
green principality.
With papal crest,
a border wrest
in strength not charity.

With writ from Rome, brave welsh men fought, their dream self sovereignty.
In spite of kings, the great prince held, in steadfast unity.
And decades passed, but time did come, he'd hold this land no more.
And of his sons, the younger named, in contest of the law.

From England's Joan, fair Dafydd grown,
joy of Llewelyn Fawr.
Not first born there,
but son and heir
would stand and meet the hour.

The great man died, his people cried,
and Dafydd filled the throne
but border squalls,
and Henry's calls
cut Cymru to the bone.

Poor Gruffydd rent, to the gaoler sent.
Sundering of a creed.
Though welsh born he,
no prince to be.
The husk athwart the seed.

By angel's wing, he fled the King.
Fell climbing from the tower.
Bereft of hope
by ragged rope,
wept women in their bower.

A scant six years, poor Dafydd ruled, died heirless, incomplete.
Llewelyn the Last and Owen Goch, now share that troubled seat.
Of pure Welsh blood, these princes came, through firstborn Gruffydd's seed.
Then six years more, of sibling's strife, 'til Owain Goch was siezed.

In troubled peace, did fighting cease.
Two countries side by side.
A time to build
with grain fields filled,
but England's Henry died.

Then Edward stands, buys foreign hands,
and mighty falls the hammer.
With England's shout,
new blood cried out
tumult, death and clamour.

Three times ten years, 'gainst English fears
built Gwynnedd strong and free.
But Longshanks lied
and Llewelyn died.
Felled was the royal tree.

Some spite of fate, led hope to the hate,
of a sword's unknowing blow.
Men fighting near
struck out in fear
and took his head to show.

For ten long years, King Edward strove, to take this broken land.
From eastern march, by land locked lakes, across to western sand.
He could not bear this man to live, who stood up to the crown.
By ill starred stroke, on a winter's day, they cut the last prince down.

Brave Cymru crushed, foul prize was rushed,
to grace that savage tower.
No prince to hold,
a people sold,
bent low in foreign power.

At battle's field, the nobles yield
ap Iorwerth's family.
And children pay,
young lives to lay
an end to unity.


©Pope.Oct2003



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Come Into My Garden

<center>~ ~ ~

Come Into My Garden

Come find me in my garden, Lady, step into my soul.
Come join me in your finery and play your chosen role.
I opened up my mind for you, I opened up my heart.
Now open up a vein or two and let an ending start.
You cut me with your mindless games, you cut me with your lies.
You showed me to that ghastly place where all life's beauty dies.


Come see this oak tree spread it's limbs beneath this shadowed sky.
Come throw a rope across its boughs and feel the tension tie.
I gave up everything for you, I gave you all I could.
Now give up everything for me, and join me where I'm stood.
You kill me with your petty tricks, you kill me with your spite.
You dress my neck with your faithless charm and pull with tender might.


And you'll watch me dance and see me bleed great crimson tears of pain.
And you'll cast around for the next poor fool and start it all again.


©Pope.Oct2004

~ ~ ~</center>



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Apostate

<center>Apostate.

Where were you then?

Where were you when Ishmael was cast out?
When Isaac made his footsteps in the sand?
Were you busy burning bushes for a poor deluded man?

Where were you when Lot shamed his daughters?
When he offered them out to the pack.
Were you busy killing those who dared not to turn their back?

And when Herod bathed in blood?
When he held innocents in his hand?
Were you busy saving Jesus for the tortures you had planned?

When the plague ripped the heart from this world.
When wars raged, where were you then?
Were you busy counting lustful thoughts amongst the hearts of men?

Where were you when the crosses burned?
Where were you looking when that strange fruit grew?
Were you busy building heaven for the precious chosen few?

And what of the promised land?
Where were you hiding when your chosen people fled?
Where did you look as a nation bled and bled?

And where were you when I needed you?
As your trusted representative ripped away my childhood?
You surely did not stand and watch, surely I misunderstood?

Are you saving all your justice for just another day?



©Pope.Dec2004 </center>



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My God walks with me.

My God walks with me,
I see Her there in every place I look.
My God is by my side,
He held my hand for every step I took.
This God of mine is here, in my heart.
Not trapped inside the pages of some dusty book.

My God lives in me,
She showed me how to love my own humanity.
My God showed me the way,
He gave me words and brain and curiosity.
This God of mine is here, in my mind,
Not buried under the weight of two thousand years of history.

This is my God of love.
This is She of the open hands
This is the God of the many and the few.
My God walks with me.


©Pope.Dec.2004.



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Mistress Muse.

This Poem was selected as a Community Favourite on Jan 7th, 2005


Mistress Muse.

Mistress Muse, these tortures thine that prey upon my soul.
Thy blessings curse, sweet sorrow's nurse, thine anguish to be told.
Thou know'st full well the gates of hell that gird the bounds of mind.
Would'st thou but hear, allay my fear and free me of thy kind.

Now Mistress Muse, come tell me true, why dost thou hate me so?
To treat me thus, to plague my mind, thou sear'st my very soul.
And dost thou then revile me so, to treat me as thine own,
To take my life and spare me not the pity I have shown?

What crime was mine,what deeds did shine and call thee to my side.
To tell thy tales of woeful dread and shear my heart of pride?
What law broke I? This blackened sky, this backdrop of my fear.
That colours dark my every thought a mortal stricken tear.

Oh if thou knew, would'st thou not tell some hale and hearty verse?
Some lines of love, an ode to joy not spite and pain and curse.
So heal me now, come gift me hope to shine of brighter hue,
Thou hast long been torment, Muse, shalt now be saviour, too


Pope Dec 2004



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Despair

I see
I am witness
I have seen the end of all things.
Helpless on this lonely raft of time.
Dragged along by this current of desolation

These eyes
They curse me.
They are aware of death.
They have seen the dying of the light.
They have torn away the beauty of the world.

The future echoes within me and I scream
Dark clouds gather and hide the glory of the skies from me.
The waves of my despair crash and roll back against the implacable march.
I fall headlong to my doom and I welcome it.
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<center>
Fallen

If i could push against the hands of destiny,
if i could fly against the arrow of God.
then all this futile beautiful world,
with its ectasy of splendours,
and its myriad of woes,
could be packed away
neat and tidy
in its box.

If i could reach out beyond possibility,
if i could burst the bounds of reality.
Then life,this glorious innocence,
with its complexity of being,
and it's simplicity of pain,
could be gathered up
and cast aloft
to the void.

And the minutes that have passed,
and the time that has flown,
no more be drawn out,
rewound,
and spun
on the spindle
of this agony of being.
</center>



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Four Seasons ( Haiku ) By Owen

Hope nobody minds me posting this here, these were written by my
8 year old son, Owen, after learning about Haiku in school.He takes a keen interest in poetry and has been dying to get something posted here.I think they have great charm.

Four Seasons

SPRING
Daffodils swaying.
Lambs jumping in the field.
Light and gentle rain.

SUMMER
Calves are in the fields.
Going crabbing off the pier.
Surfing a high wave.

AUTUMN
Army practising.
The leaves fall slowly downwards.
Guy Fawkes burning fast.

WINTER
Kids throwing snowballs.
Icy roads and cars screeching.
Wrapping up warmly.

©Owen Dec. 04



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All My Days

In all it's ways, for all my days,
my love, in trust, to you.
For life you bring, my heart to sing
this pledge to you be true..

Through all the years, the joys and tears,
we two,our lives to share
By winters passed, this love will last
the years we two shall wear.

In youth we went, our summers spent,
We two we wandered free.
Then children came to wear your name,
and we two blessed be.

Now both we will, tomorrow's hill
climb on and see what may,
the years unveil, times' seas we sail
and onwards every day.

Pope Oct.04



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Mary Rose

'twas the summer of fifteen forty five, the French fleet came to war.
Long the English harried France, now she'd carry back the score.
Two hundred ships, fair France had fit, they'd come and make amends.
To tame these Isles, her navy carried thirty thousand men.
'twixt them and war to guard the shore sat a tiny English force,
scarce sixty ships but heed you well, one mighty, proud war horse.

This Tudor flagship, Mary Rose, had never known defeat,
Near forty years she'd fought them all, crushed many a foreign fleet.
Full proud she sat in vast great bulk, seven hundred tons was she,
Seven broadside guns to either side, an awesome sight to see.
Six hundred pounds she'd cost to build, this wicked war machine,
Three hundred more to arm her well, with Bastard Culverin.

King's faith in her, his English Rose, this carrack mighty built.
On Portsmouth's hill, this summer's dawn, his hand upon his hilt.
And joined him there, his ladies fair, all come to see the wars,
in elegance, to see the French turn tail and flee these shores.
The sea flat calm, the time had come, French galleys sallied forth,
proud Mary laughed and opened wide her low slung broadside ports.

But the King this day would find no joy, no victory feast for he.
For down she went in endless shame, to a grasping shallow sea.
Askance they cried as the great ship died and they lost her to the sound
of four hundred men swept to their God and every one was drowned.
Her sails had raised and turned right quick but over went her keel
and her open gun ports lay in wait and brought her round to heel.

No guns sank her except her own, by mass of irony
Her overburdened hull dipped low and her ports drank greedily.
She turned too quick and in there came the deluge of the sea,
yes, down she went , and in the mud lay darkly down there she.
Five hundred years of time and tide, of endless misery,
Five hundred years the Mary Rose lay out of history.

Pope Jan '05



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When The Bunyip Came To Call

'twas the deep of dark midwinter, when the Bunyip came to call.
The pale poor sun had given up and night had made its fall
This sleepy village unaware, wrapped snug amongst its drowsy eve,
with firewood stacked 'gainst Samhain's stare, and all save one indoors.
When out the night, through frost nipped air, came a curious misbegotten sound,
a twisted yip, some fey scant squeak, a sound to chill the bones,
and frantic parents realise, no sign of Tommy Jones.

He'd slipped the care of sisters' charge, and wandered to the wood.
They'd said and said, but as his wont to do not what he should,
his sturdy legs to carry him, passed friendly light and safety's last embrace.
Through edgy trees in moonlights glim, where hoar makes felt its coldly shine,
and frightened tears lit frosted limb, to stumble on to waiting's patient hark.
Through cold sharp grass, fell frozen ditch, and on to darkly claw.
Yes hiding there, 'neath foul red eyes was Bunyip's hungry maw.

He stumbles on, in knowing not what waits him in the gloom,
with drooling tongue, this starving spite awaits him with it's doom.
And on he goes, this lonely lad, ever closer now atop the devil's lair.
Where hissing fit and hunger mad, the Bunyip gathers strength to make its leap,
and did he hear? some noise that had, amongst the terrors of the night made pause.
From down the path, with hue and cry, the woodsman's frantic call,
and Bunyip leaps, with fatal roar, and makes its starving fall.

Came crashing down, with razors edge and force of many years,
the woodsman's wrath on Bunyips skull and cleaves through hungry fears.
Young Tommy Jones, all safe and sound, with grace of God and cutter's well bound axe.
All wrapped up well and homeward bound, to mother's love and warmly well shed tears.
To sisters' scolding laughing round, to cheers and thanks for burly saviour's charm.
And not once more would wander he, 'til grown and tall and fair,
and years his village troubled not and Bunyips came not there.

Pope Jan/05



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Whisper Gentle

And the bullets whisper gentle through the angry rain,
Crying savage mercy, blessing perfect pain.
Hear them sing such sweet release, Soldier boy,
Come rest awhile and dream your dreams of joy.
Going home.

Ruin spreads a blanket under twilight's dawn,
Laying out cold comfort from the raging storm.
There's a place just here for you, Soldier boy,
Sightless eyes see hopeless scenes of joy.
Always home.

So the Stormcrow turns its back and marches on.
Careless, steps upon the lives of those who've gone.
And there's a place left here for you, and those who roam,
Until the lonely light of sorrow leads you home.

Pope.Sept/05



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Never Tell

Could'st we but know that, never tell,
Lest onward rush that fearful knell.
So see the dance of endless time
From whence the night for fear did climb.
Then shining raise thine eyes.

And in thy gaze, would'st hold the light.
A moment's pause, amidst thy flight,
To gather in thy worldly score,
And cast thee hence, aloft once more,
For beauty be thy guide.

Or not, perhaps and lose thy way,
And stumble there, where dark held sway.
As lonely lost and fingers tear
Aside the shreds of never there.
For here thou hast become,

Amongst the many, ever more,
As turned and churned along that shore.
And here again the tortured tread,
That measured fall, thy souless dread.
But know that, never tell.



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Shiny Suits of Happiness

Shiny shiny sew me shiny suits of happiness,
Stitch them through and through with fragile threads of light.
Help me help me bear these boundless bonds of emptiness
To that dawning at the far side of the night.

Hiding hiding hidden secret scars of sufferance,
Borne out here and here upon these feet of clay.
Trust me trust me let me feel this art of confidence,
Find me here upon the mourning of the day.

Many many are the pathways there of sacraments,
Lead me on and on along the ways of how.
Show me show me to those shaded gated monuments,
Let me fall at last into the arms of now.

Cover cover me embrace me here in wilderness,
Lie me down and down amongst the endless dead.
Fill me fill me full of every kind of emptiness,
Leave me coldly here upon this lonely bed.



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Rest My Head.

I rest my head on sun bright rays,
And see the world and count the ways,
Of every how that things may be,
Along the way, the life we see
And ever feel through sun and rain.
In shining glory, lies down pain.
The God to come, the tryst undone.
The fabric of the fantasy revealed.



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Rapture.

And so at last revelation.
To come upon this earth once more,
I smite these lands of each nation
Engaged upon this final war.
So reaching down I pluck the stone
To cast amongst these tribes of men.
One precious soul and one alone
To speak the curse and start it then.

And from the many I choose thee
To wear the sins of everyman.
Thy suffering shall set them free,
The Rapturing of every clan.
Thou art the Beast and I choose thee
That thou would'st turn away from grace.
A thousand times eternity
I make for thee an hellish place.

So onward Poet, speak the storm
That all the worlds of men might drown.
For in thy gift of image drawn
The walls of Heaven tumbled down.
And all thy trials as wisdom seemed
Would scarce to climb the broken shore.
Upon that shattered land thou dreamed
To find thy shelter there once more.

Yet not for thee, no helping there
Thy grasping hands outstretched in vain,
Through empty, stinking, putrid air
And gasping breath of tearing pain.
Just this for thee, this hellish place
Of silken pools of inky black,
Whence nightmares crawl and claw thy face
And drag thee down upon thy back.

Thy Father's face thou would'st not see,
And cursed the Saviour's shining grace.
Eternal shame that harries thee,
A blackened grave shall mark thy place.
Upon this earth thou spent thy time
In ridicule, unholy rhyme.
So pay thee now in blood and tears
And feel the pain that burns and sears.

Pope 07/06


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For Clare .


Bury my Love on a rainy day,
And lie, let me lie down and cry.
Tell me that this life goes on,
And perhaps it will, not today.

Pope 08/06


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Winner: Poem of the Week: July 2, 2006

Only Those That Write Remain

So the Gods write words for fools to play
Upon this earth, we crawl this way and that.
As strung from threads, we trip and sway
And stumble on from day to day until, at last,
There comes away this mortal bind, this shapely clay.
They lay us there beneath the ground.
Never more to tell the sound,
To hide, to lie, to swim, to fly.
We cling to love, we hope, we try
And these thousand thousand things belie
That awful truth, to always die.

So short a time upon this earth
We spend our tears and feel the dearth of sight.
And breathe our breath and try to fight
Against the darkened death of light
As the night draws in and hides what might have been.
What we have seen throughout our time,
What we have read in word and rhyme
And held to truth that makes us mine is stripped away
And blown adrift with this final, perfect pain.
So sing your song as loud, as long as courage craves,
And hoard your words against the graves of those who went before.

For ever now and ever then enshrouds the hearts and minds of men
Immortality lies within, so seek it there and share and share
For only those that write remain.

Pope 06/06


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This One Last Tale Of Dultico Brier.

This being the strange and dangerous tale
Of the sustainer, Dultico Brier.
Said he had a line to the Man upstairs
And if they asked nicely, he'd air their cares.
Conned the world, this inveterate liar,

It was going to take lots of money,
This personality didn't come cheap,
Build buildings, new buildings up to sky
Cathedrals of glory, he did say why.
And dollars and pound notes piled in a heap.

He told them Jehova showed him a dream,
Scenes to pass on to the man in the street,
Sustaining their faith and easing their mind,
And healing their wealth, he was very kind
To stand up this way and take on this feat.

People stopped fighting and gave him the chance
Never know, they'd said, he just might be right.
So they gave him some more, some stained glass cash
And threw him a party, a lovely bash
To set him up for that long last goodnight.

He'd leave here, he'd said, when everyone left,
He'd climb the ladder they'd built to the sky,
And as far as they know, that's where he went,
Taking along with him cash that they'd sent.
You can't blame them for giving it a try.

Pope 09/06


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This Place


This place of dark simplicity
Where hid a multitude.
There came upon a once more charm,
A magic wake and where’s the harm
To shine within a frosted midnight’s mood?

We walked forever, you and I,
about that other world;
Where for us both the time stood still,
There, with these steps and by our will
the windings of some secret mind unfurled.

Both slipped and slid along the brink
Of where a tear was torn.
And endlessly and on and on
Into the night from whereupon
The spells that drowse a lonely soul were born.

But hear, this place is only just
A moment’s throw away.
Its moonlight makes a sanctity,
In fancy’s fulsome clarity,
As we scratch and claw a line towards the day.

Pope 06/07


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In Love and Loss

If we had seen, if once before us lay
Those twists and turns that strew our only path;
Would we walk these miles,would we choose to wend
Our way amongst the slips and savage snags
That snare this earthly paradise we tread?
So did we choose to set ourselves the way?
Cast out from some lost vantage long forgot;
Some place where hopeful lives are gathered round,
Where choice is made and lifetimes cast upon
The wheel that turns and tracks a lonely line?
And what’s the game, what rules have we to play?
Must we set foot upon some airy scale,
To balance good for bad and bear the past?
Did we then we see the price of Love beset?
That fleeting glitter shining, brightly lit
Against some dark and creeping coin of Grief.
I pity Life and fear this path of days,
For any Love that bears the weight of Time
Must earn a debt of tears that should they flow
Would surely drown the beauty of the mind.

Pope 06/07




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<center>Charlie's Caterpillar

Upon his mushroom,
round and old,
Dispensing wisdom,
wisely told.
The hookah's highlights
light the ways.
For hubbling, bubbling,
troubling strays

But as the Black Drop
drips to shine
Like midnight freezing
frost in time.
He turns a tearful,
inward eye
And mourns the wingful
Butterfly.



The "hookah smoking caterpillar" from Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland was inspired by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
The image of him in later life, corpulent and resplendent at his Highgate rooms, espousing philosophy
and the science of the mind to a new generation of romantics and intelligentsia seemed to strike a chord
with Lewis Carroll( Rev. Charles Dodgson).
The reality for Coleridge, of course, was the degradation, both to his health and dignity, of a lifetime
of chronic drug abuse. His sometime drug of choice had been an infusion of laudenum and brandy known
as Kendal Black Drop.
"Frost At Midnight" was written at a turning point in his life, perhaps the only time
he ever came close to domestic happiness and self respect.

Pope 01/07</center>




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To Coleridge With Thanks


S.T.C. you carried me,
With serried tales of fantasy.
Bold stories told, a lifetime sold;
Dreaming dreams of ecstasy.
From a strange behest to a wedding guest
And the saving of a Christian soul,
To the lover's lair of the maidens fair
And the helpless joy they stole.
Yes your sacred river carried me
Past childhood's grace to maturity
And love.
And carry still your writings will
With a shaping, flowing mindful skill.
Whenever romance gathers there
And I wish long life for a lover's care
Then I yearn and return to that far countree
And once again find myself free.

Pope 04/05




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Moderator note: Archive updated 07-07-2007

[heinzs]

Someday I'll get around to organizing and creating contents tables for these archives... but that's just too daunting at this time.

Hi Pope!

[negatvone]

All links still active 8/6/05

Jim

[heinzs]

alphabetizing

Modified to new index format 2011-06-12