Don't estimate the value of a badger skin before catching the badger.
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Walking West
Anyone with quiet pace who
walks a gray road in the West
may hear a badger underground where
in deep flint another time is
Caught by flint and held forever,
the quiet pace of God stopped still.
Anyone who listens walks on
time that dogs him single file,
To mountains that are far from people,
the face of the land gone gray like flint.
Badgers dig their little lives there,
quiet-paced the land lies gaunt,
The railroad dies by a yellow depot,
town falls away toward a muddy creek.
Badger-gray the sod goes under
a river of wind, a hawk on a stick.
poem by William Stafford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I beg. I call. I badger. I cajole. Part of the secret is everyone has fun and that's really motivating.
quote by Katie Couric
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Badger hates Society, and invitations, and dinner, and all that sort of thing.
quote by Kenneth Grahame
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It was irritating to have one's physical shortcomings pointed out quite so plainly twice in one evening, once by a beautiful girl and once by a dying badger.
There once lived a turtle
Who was the best at jumping a hurdle
But on day somethign terrible came
He fell and became lame
Even worse, to help his legs, he had to wear a girdle!
quote by by Isabella Badger
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The world began when I was born and the world is mine to win
quote by Badger Clark
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Mole had long wanted to make the I acquaintance of the Badger. He seemed, by all accounts, to be such an important personage and, though rarely visible, to make his unseen influence felt by everybody about the place.
quote by Kenneth Grahame
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mom's Cancer
The day I found out the truth
My mom was going to die of cancer
It blew my heart away
It was hard to see my dad cry all that time
I hardly remember my mom
But I have always loved her, even though she's not here today.
This is a lyric poem, and I wrote of my mom because she died of cancer when I was 4, and I miss her a lot...
poem by Isabella Badger
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Badger
The badger grunting on his woodland track
With shaggy hide and sharp nose scrowed with black
Roots in the bushes and the woods, and makes
A great high burrow in the ferns and brakes.
With nose on ground he runs an awkward pace,
And anything will beat him in the race.
The shepherd's dog will run him to his den
Followed and hooted by the dogs and men.
The woodman when the hunting comes about
Goes round at night to stop the foxes out
And hurrying through the bushes to the chin
Breaks the old holes, and tumbles headlong in.
When midnight comes a host of dogs and men
Go out and track the badger to his den,
And put a sack within the hole, and lie
Till the old grunting badger passes bye.
He comes and hears—they let the strongest loose.
The old fox hears the noise and drops the goose.
The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry,
And the old hare half wounded buzzes bye.
They get a forked stick to bear him down
And clap the dogs and take him to the town,
And bait him all the day with many dogs,
And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs.
He runs along and bites at all he meets:
They shout and hollo down the noisy streets.
He turns about to face the loud uproar
And drives the rebels to their very door.
The frequent stone is hurled where e'er they go;
When badgers fight, then every one's a foe.
The dogs are clapt and urged to join the fray;
The badger turns and drives them all away.
Though scarcely half as big, demure and small,
He fights with dogs for bones and beats them all.
The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray,
Lies down and licks his feet and turns away.
The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold,
The badger grins and never leaves his hold.
He drives the crowd and follows at their heels
And bites them through—the drunkard swears and reels.
The frighted women take the boys away,
The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray.
He tries to reach the woods, an awkward race,
But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chase.
He turns again and drives the noisy crowd
And beats the many dogs in noises loud.
He drives away and beats them every one,
And then they loose them all and set them on.
He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men,
Then starts and grins and drives the crowd again;
Till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies
And leaves his hold and cackles, groans, and dies.
Some keep a baited badger tame as hog
And tame him till he follows like the dog.
They urge him on like dogs and show fair play.
He beats and scarcely wounded goes away.
Lapt up as if asleep, he scorns to fly
And seizes any dog that ventures nigh.
Clapt like a dog, he never bites the men
But worries dogs and hurries to his den.
They let him out and turn a harrow down
And there he fights the host of all the town.
He licks the patting hand, and tries to play
And never tries to bite or run away,
And runs away from the noise in hollow trees
Burnt by the boys to get a swarm of bees.
poem by John Clare
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The Forgetting Wide
Everyday I go outside
And stare into the wide
It's not until I notice the sun setting
I know school is one thingI can't be forgetting!
This poem is called a clerihew poem. I wrote my poem like this because I like to go outside, and sometimes, when I see the sun setting, I realize it's time to start getting ready for school!
poem by Isabella Badger
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Enough already.
I sometimes wish my muse would take
a holiday, A longish break.
She is convinced she has the right
to badger me by day and night.
There’s other things I want to do.
I love to write that is quite true
But household chores must still be done.
I’d like a little time for fun
A bit of time to paint and draw
I don’t have time to anymore’
I have some books I want to read
but constantly she fills my head
with poetry, she cannot see
Sometimes I need some time for me.
27/10/2009Http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Enough Already
I sometimes wish my muse would take
a holiday, A longish break.
She is convinced she has the right
to badger me by day and night.
There’s other things I want to do.
I love to write that is quite true
But household chores must still be done.
I’d like a little time for fun
A bit of time to paint and draw
I don’t have time to anymore’
I have some books I want to read
but constantly she fills my head
with poetry, she cannot see
Sometimes I need some time for me.
27/10/2009Http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Fox
The shepherd on his journey heard when nigh
His dog among the bushes barking high;
The ploughman ran and gave a hearty shout,
He found a weary fox and beat him out.
The ploughman laughed and would have ploughed him in
But the old shepherd took him for the skin.
He lay upon the furrow stretched for dead,
The old dog lay and licked the wounds that bled,
The ploughman beat him till his ribs would crack,
And then the shepherd slung him at his back;
And when he rested, to his dog's surprise,
The old fox started from his dead disguise;
And while the dog lay panting in the sedge
He up and snapt and bolted through the hedge.
He scampered to the bushes far away;
The shepherd called the ploughman to the fray;
The ploughman wished he had a gun to shoot.
The old dog barked and followed the pursuit.
The shepherd threw his hook and tottered past;
The ploughman ran but none could go so fast;
The woodman threw his faggot from the way
And ceased to chop and wondered at the fray.
But when he saw the dog and heard the cry
He threw his hatchet--but the fox was bye.
The shepherd broke his hook and lost the skin;
He found a badger hole and bolted in.
They tried to dig, but, safe from danger's way,
He lived to chase the hounds another day.
poem by John Clare
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Poem - III
Through the dark aisles of the wood
Where the pine-needles deaden all sound
And the dove flutters in the black boughs
Through twilit vaults of the forest
Where fungus stifles the roots
And the squirrel escapes with a cone
Through the dim alleys of pine
Where the bent stick moves like a snake
And the badger sniffs at the moon
Through the green graveyard of leaves
Where the stoat rehearses his kill
And the white skull grins in the fern.
poem by Henry Treece
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A Mouse in the night
As a mouse creeps silently through the house
It hardly makes any noise
It seems like that little creature
Holds the night in it's poise.
I wrote this poem myself because I like mice, and because it makes sense to write about a mouse in the night. This type of poem is a Ballad Poem. O, ya, just to let you guys know, all the poems you will see here are not copied from somewhere else, and I didn't even get any of my ideas from other poems. Just for a heads up! Well, I hope you enjoyed this poem.
poem by Isabella Badger
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Gravity Of The Situation
(vic chesnutt)
We blew past the army motorcade
And its abnormal load haulage
The gravity of the situation
Came on us like a bit of new knowledge
The bubbliest bubble bath
Broke down on the bank
The gravity of the situation
Is why our old thought bubbles sank
Humble and gracious
The gravity of the situation
A fat hungry english crow
Picking at a badger carcass
The gravity of the situation
Is hard to focus and harness
We met bill lowery
At the queens hall
The gravity of the situation
Became apparent to us all
song performed by by Hootie & The Blowfish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Replace The Fear
I won't ask you why your tears bleed
I won't ask what terrors your memory feeds
I won't ask in which way you would flee
But I will ask that you trust in me
I know what it's like to run without hope
To have all your distress tie the rope
To curl up and hold your throbbing head
All because of what others said
So I won't ask if you're okay
There's no way you would stay
Instead I'll hold your hand and kiss your lips
I'll walk side by side and hide your slips
No-one will judge your broken cries
None will badger you with what's and whys
As long as you trust that I'll protect you
We can build you up strong and true
Because you're not broken my dear
No, we just have to find a love to replace the fear
poem by Rebecca Pepper
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The Combe
The Combe was ever dark, ancient and dark.
Its mouth is stopped with brambles, thorn, and briar;
And no one scrambles over the sliding chalk
By beech and yew and perishing juniper
Down the half precipices of its sides, with roots
And rabbit holes for steps. The sun of Winter,
The moon of Summer, and all the singing birds
Except the missel-thrush that loves juniper,
Are quite shut out. But far more ancient and dark
The Combe looks since they killed the badger there,
Dug him out and gave him to the hounds,
That most ancient Briton of English beasts.
poem by Edward Thomas
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Your outlook upon life, your estimate of yourself, your estimate of your value are largely colored by your environment. Your whole career will be modified, shaped, molded by your surroundings, by the character of the people with whom you come in contact every day.
quote by Orison Swett Marden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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