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Dr. Donohue
If you can't believe Dr. Donohue
in his syndicated column
when he addresses matters medical,
then 'whom, ' as my mother
would have said, 'can you believe? '
Fair enough, I thought.
And so when recently the doctor told
a reader not to worry
even though her 'stools float, '
I took comfort.
Apparently, she had read
that floating stools are symptomatic
of a strange condition often dangerous.
I hope Dr. Donohue is right
because if not, I've got a problem.
Not all my stools float, but the lunkers do.
And what if on a given day a lunker leaps
like a dolphin capering in a Florida bay
and crashes against my bathroom ceiling?
What do I do then, Doc, duck?
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Address to the Toothache
My curse upon your venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang,
An' thro' my lug gies mony a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance,
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines!
When fevers burn, or argues freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes,
Our neibor's sympathy can ease us,
Wi' pitying moan;
But thee-thou hell o' a' diseases-
Aye mocks our groan.
Adown my beard the slavers trickle
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,
While round the fire the giglets keckle,
To see me loup,
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were in their doup!
In a' the numerous human dools,
Ill hairsts, daft bargains, cutty stools,
Or worthy frien's rak'd i' the mools, -
Sad sight to see!
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o'fools,
Thou bear'st the gree!
Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,
Where a' the tones o' misery yell,
An' ranked plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfu' raw,
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell,
Amang them a'!
O thou grim, mischief-making chiel,
That gars the notes o' discord squeel,
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel
In gore, a shoe-thick,
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal
A townmond's toothache!
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Address To The Tooth-Ache
My curse upon your venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang;
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance;
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines!
When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes;
Our neighbors' sympathy may ease us,
Wi' pitying moan;
But thee -- thou hell o' a' diseases --
They mock our groan!
Adown my beard the slavers trickle!
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets keckle,
To see me loup;
While raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were in their doup.
O' a' the num'rous human dools,
Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools,
Sad sight to see !
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools,
Thou bear'st the gree.
Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell,
And rankd plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfu' raw,
Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell
Amang them a'!
O thou grim, mischief-making chiel,
That gars the notes of discord squeel,
Till daft mankiud aft dance a reel
In gore a shoe-thick; --
Gie a' the foes o' Scotland's weal
A towmond's Tooth-ache!
poem by Robert Burns
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Acts And Arts
A message to the Adonetenhene,
A message to the Nkantahene,
A message to the Nkosohene,
A message to the Akoforehene,
A message to the Atimpimhene,
A message to the Akyempimhene,
To exercise decorum on your stools;
Because the tidal waves of the sea is like,
The messages from your stools!
A message to the Tepahene,
A message to the Omanhene,
Like a woman who is at the threshing floor;
So, try to redeeem the land and this woman too.
I know what i am writing and saying,
Because i am a woman too;
And o spread out your hands ín prayer is what i know,
Like the firstling of a donkey which shall bwe redeeemed with a lamb.
To you i do write oh Rulers of this land,
For Yahweh want it so and so shall it be;
But, there is no one like Yahweh!
Of the secret acts and arts in your traditional areas,
Of the power of your works that we do see as well;
But the first of the moon of the year is Abib,
And it is the moon of green Ears of Barley.
Do your best oh Rulers of this land and,
Let us enjoy the fruits of your Kingdoms;
And to exercise the decorum on your stools matters to me.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Between two stools, you fall to the ground.
While between two stools my tail go to the ground.
Between two stools the breech comes to the ground.
One falls to the ground in trying to sit on two stools.
quote by Francois Rabelais
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bewitched By The Wicked
Bewitched by the wicked...
Bothering those betwixt and between,
Can be a troubling situation...
Lived by the ones in doubt,
With beliefs kept tossed about.
What's true and what isn't?
Why are many living in conflict?
Why does truth disturb?
And what is the purpose,
To deny what exists?
Bewitched by the wicked...
Bothering those betwixt and between,
Can be a troubling situation...
Lived by the ones in doubt,
With beliefs kept tossed about.
And with the testing of one's faith,
A safety felt is not embraced.
A life lived to receive a peace that's meant...
Easily provokes the initiation of an argument.
With a condenscending,
That patronizes the beliefs...
Of anyone for sport and fun!
Bewitched by the wicked...
Bothering those betwixt and between,
Can be a troubling situation...
Lived by the ones in doubt,
With beliefs kept tossed about.
Like a ball to dribble or hit by a bat.
Or run into an end zone,
For the scoring of points to attract!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Astarte Syriaca
MYSTERY: lo! betwixt the sun and moon
Astarte of the Syrians: Venus Queen
Ere Aphrodite was. In silver sheen
Her twofold girdle clasps the infinite boon
Of bliss whereof the heaven and earth commune:
And from her neck's inclining flower-stem lean
Love-freighted lips and absolute eyes that wean
The pulse of hearts to the spheres' dominant tune.
Torch-bearing, her sweet ministers compel
All thrones of light beyond the sky and sea
The witnesses of Beauty's face to be:
That face, of Love's all-penetrative spell
Amulet, talisman, and oracle,—
Betwixt the sun and moon a mystery.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Put not your hand betwixt the rind and the Tree.
Nine Inch Will Please a Lady
Come rede me, dame, come tell me, dame,
My dame, come tell me truly,
What length o' graith, when weel ca'd hame,
Will ser'e a woman duly?
The carlin clew her wanton tail,
Her wanton tail sae ready;
I learn't a sang in Annandale,
Nine inch will please a lady.
But for a countrie cunt like mine,
In sooth we're nae sae gentle;
We'll tak' twa thumb-bread to the nine,
And that's a sonsie pintle.
O leeze me on my Charlie lad!
I'll ne'er forget my Charlie!
Twa roarin' handfu' and a daud,
He nidg't it in fu' rarely.
But weary fa' the laithern doup,
And may it ne'er ken thrivin';
It's no the length that gars me loup,
But it's the double drivin'.
Come nidge me Tarn, come nodge me Tam,
Come nidge me o'er the nyvle;
Come louse and lug your batterin' ram,
And thrash him at my gyvel.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Great is the difference betwixt a man's being frightened at, and humbled for his sins.
quote by Thomas Fuller
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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