Related quotes
You know it's hard to hear what a bearded man is saying. He can't speak above a whisker.
quote by Herman J. Mankiewicz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Now And Forever
turning leaves,
dusk skies; moonlight
weaving through shadows
and the dew...
the earth gasps,
turns, and tremors...
the trees bow and pray
one final prayer...
and all that is...
all that we've come to know...
moondust in a thimble,
dust on a cat's whisker....
turning leaves...
amid the whispers
of now and forever...
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
House-Surgeon
Exceeding tall, but built so well his height
Half-disappears in flow of chest and limb;
Moustache and whisker trooper-like in trim;
Frank-faced, frank-eyed, frank-hearted; always bright
And always punctual-morning, noon, and night;
Bland as a Jesuit, sober as a hymn;
Humorous, and yet without a touch of whim;
Gentle and amiable, yet full of fight.
His piety, though fresh and true in strain,
Has not yet whitewashed up his common mood
To the dead blank of his particular Schism.
Sweet, unaggressive, tolerant, most humane,
Wild artists like his kindly elderhood,
And cultivate his mild Philistinism.
poem by William Ernest Henley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Whispers In The Twilight
Ghostly shadows in the moonlight
Walk ye softly bye and bye.
Only to the watchful soul,
Will they ever catch your eye.
They slip by oh so silently,
On hoofs as soft as silk.
Their size and colours range
From chocolate brown to shades of milk.
Night time is their playground,
Where they engage in ghostly games,
But when you look, you'll see them not,
Nor ever know their names,
For they linger not on journey's path
Where they move soft as a whisper.
You may never see them stop to talk,
Nor even see but a whisker,
Unless they choose to show themselves
To those they love and trust.
A life time privilege so is that,
For they see you are true and just.
Glide onwardly sweet shadows.
Never stop unless you know
That those who wish to see you
Love you more than life's sweet flow.
poem by Rosi Caswell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Society
Talking to someone today,
we reminisced of years gone by.
We reflected on things
when we were young and didn’t have,
and how much fun we had.
We didn’t have TVs, CDs or DVDs,
computers or anything like that.
We had to twiddle a cat’s whisker to hear
the radio we might have built.
What we did have was an imagination,
creating games we could play.
We didn’t destroy everything in our wake,
but looked after everything we got.
Today our society it doesn’t matter,
things are so easily replace,
if you break something today
you can always replace it tomorrow,
and the wastage that goes around,
because nothing means much anymore.
Years ago, we used to treasure
everything that we got.
Today it means nothing,
as they have everything and want for naught.
Everything has lost its value.
Now just look around and make a list,
of what material thing in your life
that can never be replaced.
Then do another list of everything
that can be replaced.
The first list will contain next to nothing,
and the second will go on and on.
This should show you a picture of our society today.
6 September 2007
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Mixed Memory
A Mixed Memory
When mother made gateau for someone’s birthdays
I beat the cream using a steel whisker. Boring work
before the cream thickened and could be spread on
the cake, but it was worth it, as I got to lick bowl.
I thought of this as a tempest whipped the sea into
a froth. In the galley I had a mix-master and could
whisk up cream in no time, only I didn’t have the real
stuff, had to use condensed milk but I didn’t feel
inclined to lick its residue. The tempest blew into
storm, the ship was jumping about like an untrained
colt refusing to have a rider on its back. Life boats
smashed, ship railings too we only hoped she could
ride out the storm. In Hamburg I walked ashore and
ate a piece of Black Forest Gateau, awe-inspiring.
And to sit in a coffee shop that didn’t throw me off
my chair like demented colt.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Strategian
He was a military man
who waxed the ends of his moustache
A man must look the best he can.
He thought it added real panache.
He always kept his hair quite short,
his lantern jaw shaved to the bone.
But his moustache or so he thought
was at its best when left alone.
It was his greatest pride and joy
It added something to his face.
He thought the ladies might enjoy.
With every whisker kept in place.
With moustache wax freshly applied
and just a hint of fine cologne.
He was completely satisfied
with what he tried and what he’d done.
The ladies did not seem to care.
About his well dressed upper lip
It seemed they would prefer it bare
for all his clever showman ship
Clean shaven men were all the rage.
The fair sex had the final say
So he shaved off his appendage.
The ladies always get their way.
A soldier knows when to retreat
and make a change to his campaign.
More preferable than face defeat.
it will always grow again.
When fashions change as fashions do.
He is a military man
But he can change his point of view
as quickly as the ladies can.
.07/05/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Reality or Illusion
Thirst! Thirst!
Scorching thirst!
From head to groin
From hip to tip,
Fire rages.
My entrails shriek and crackle
As twigs in a forest fire
My nostrils flare
With the reeking smell of burnt flesh
My tongue and gullet
Melt like plastic on exposure to heat
Like a hornbill
I thirst for a dropp of water
Wow! Before me is poised a chalice
Full and to the brim
With scarlet, bubbling liquid
As elixir, suddenly lowered from Heaven!
Extending my hands to hold it
And drawing it close to my lips
Oh! How I missed it by a whisker!
By what magic
By what vanishing trick
From my chalice, the wine drained out
Leaving not even the lees
What terrible betrayal!
As its dry emptiness
Stared at me
Like a tree felled,
I collapsed to the ground
And faintly heard the liquid
Falling dropp by drop
Merging with the dark water of the drains
I felt myself gyrating
Into the churning cauldron below
Was it a dream or an illusion?
Reality or fantasy
Who can tell? ?
poem by Valsa George
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Fragment Of An Epistle To Thomas Moore
'What say I?'--not a syllable further in prose;
I'm your man 'of all measures,' dear Tom,--so here goes!
Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time,
On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme.
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the flood,
We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud,
Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap,
And Southey's last Pæan has pillow'd his sleep;
That Felo de se,' who, half drunk with his malmsey,
Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea,
Singing 'Glory to God' in a spick and span stanza,
The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never man saw.
The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses,
The fetes, and the gapings to get at these Russes,--
Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Hetman,
And what dignity decks the flat face of the great man.
I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party,--
For a prince, his demeanour was rather too hearty.
You know we are used to quite different graces,
The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker,
But then he is sadly deficient in whisker;
And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey--
Mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the Jersey,
Who lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted
With Majesty's presence as those she invited.
June 1814.
I Cut My Hair Today
I cut my hair today
That's an odd decision for a long term agreement
Somehow you had found the missing lot and packed yr life away
Noone to be blame, no excuse should be offer
As i was expected it since our first word yet i kept wonder
What's went wrong? Could you claim that it's still about the way it should be?
What it takes to hold you? Is there anything to do with yr secrecy policy?
What's the point then - to hold the gaze of every living people who question your-without-moustache-beard-whisker-look?
Is all just a biggest fake? Geez my own question choke me
Forgive me to not ever being bold to advertise my own intention
Now that it's too late i shall cherish it like an uncovered history
Some people leave to save their soul
Some did to gain their vanity
The rest need to change their foster fate
I never left, i stand where i was with all my might, as the boring oak-tree
I didn't intend to remove everybit of our anything,
You might one day look back and tracing the empty space
Between our hidden agenda and your digital identities
Perhaps then i start to coloring my lips again
Without intention to join any party
Didn't mean to conclude you as the last man standing
Just the need to be real and persist
To simplify the ravage desire for good
So... I cut my hair today
poem by Niken Kusuma Wardani
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Bodies in Alignment
The wasp watches me
As I stare at it
Pensive with tweezers
Of academic esquire
That this derelicts of nature
Small brother in absentia
Should be compelled to wonder
The sedimentary escritoire
On top terrestrial ink blots
Perpendicular to my pen
For I should be alarmed
While caustically anxious
At the dagger protruding
From its cutting underbelly
But I am not afraid
Simply curious
That this Striped yellow jacket
Walking leagues across in inches
By a whisker to my eye sight
Should stop so near the wall
Of my left seated arm
Pink and inviting
It could easily pierce
The delicate dermis
Cracking it like a priceless Ming vase
Sending agony and pain
Of supernatural killer
But I know it won't
For we share the same void
Trapped in the nectar
Perusing dead end endeavours
Occupational uncertainty
For a life we are born
Inside internment camp choices
Yes we are the same
Underneath fluorescent sunlight
Of the 40 watt bulb
Weaving X ray inspections
Of our insectoid forms
Human and free, human and chainged
Now we are dressed in a vest
Of assimilating conscience
Mutating, Coalescing
A Hybrid prenuptial
Investiture
Of one
Into one
Bodies in alignment
I stair at the wasp
but its already me
poem by Kevin Patrick
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Likely Lad
Child of a myriad varied voices calling
O'er countless leagues of space in divers tongues,
Tho' captious critics view your ways appalling
And fain would quiet your all too strident lungs,
Raw youth must have its fling; and ten brief summers
Hardly suffice to make you a sage;
So, ‘spite your crooners, clowns and jazz-drunk strummers,
You have not done so badly for your age.
Much water has flowed down many a river
(The McIntyre at Yetman, let us say)
Since first you set ethereal waves a-quiver
With that crude babbling of your natal day.
You're growing up, my lad, and waxing wiser;
Tho' still the crabbed, impatient censors rage.
As entertainer and as advertiser
You have not done so badly for your age.
And many lonely men in lonely places,
Have hailed you as a blessing and a joy,
Condoning all your rather callow graces
And that omniscient air that you employ,
Tho' still much over-prone to raucous bawling.
As boys will be, you're learning, stage by stage,
The wiser, weightier aspects of your calling,
You have not done so badly for your age.
Since days when first we fumbled the cat's-whisker,
And strained at ear-phones, yearning for a sound,
Your lighter moods have brighter grown, and brisker,
Your interludes of wisdom more profound.
If, thro' the next ten years, you keep on growing
To man's estate, and statelier arts engage,
You may please everyone; there is no knowing.
Still, you have not done badly for your age.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Musical Note
Liddle lie, liddle lie, liddle lie lay lee.
Liddle lie, liddle lie, liddle lie lay low.
These are the words that were sent to me
in a letter from my brother-in-law-Joe.
He said as the cock-crowed last Tuesday morning
he heard singing coming from down his garden.
Surprised and not believing what he was hearing
he went to see where the sound was coming from.
As he casually walked to the bottom of the garden
the singing became louder with his every stride.
He slowly parted the branches of the hedgerow
and saw a toad and mouse sitting side by side.
The toad sat cross-legged on a spotted toadstool
playing a mandolin and singing out loud.
The mouse was clapping in time to the music,
as were other animals that made up the crowd.
All the creatures joined in with the chorus
as they clapped and stamped their feet,
but then a mandolin string snapped and twanged,
which caused the toad to fall off his seat.
The audience stopped singing and fell about laughing,
as the toad got up from the ground,
he explained that the performance was now over
unless a new string could quickly be found.
With pain the mouse pulled out one of its whiskers
and asked the toad if it would be alright.
The musical toad smiled and said it would be perfect,
and adjusted the whisker to sound just right.
Once more the toad began playing and singing
to the happy hand clapping crowd.
Until a huge tabby tomcat called Thomas,
frightened everyone with its ‘meow’!
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ode On The Death Of A Favourite Cat Drowned In A Tub Of Goldfishes
'Twas on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dy'd
The azure flow'rs that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclin'd,
Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declar'd;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw: and purr'd applause.
Still had she gaz'd; but 'midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The Genii of the stream;
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
Thro' richest purple to the view
Betray'd a golden gleam.
The hapless Nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,
She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold despise?
What cat's averse to fish?
Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent
Again she stretch'd, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between.
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smil'd)
The slipp'ry verge her feet beguil'd,
She tumbled headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the flood
She mew'd to ev'ry wat'ry god,
Some speedy aid to send.
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd;
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard.
A Fav'rite has no friend!
From hence, ye Beauties, undeceiv'd,
Know, one false step is ne'er retriev'd,
And be with caution bold.
Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes
And heedless hearts is lawful prize,
Nor all, that glisters, gold.
poem by Thomas Gray
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On The Death Of A Favourite Cat, Drowned In A Tub Of Gold Fishes
'Twas on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow,
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declared;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw; and purred applause.
Still had she gazed; but 'midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The genii of the stream:
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
Through richest purple to the view
Betrayed a golden gleam.
The hapless nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first, and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,
She stretched, in vain, to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold despise?
What cat's averse to fish?
Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again she stretched, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between:
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled)
The slippery verge her feet beguiled,
She tumbled headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the flood
She mewed to ev'ry wat'ry god
Some speedy aid to send.
No dolphin came, no nereid stirred;
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard.
A fav'rite has no friend!
From hence, ye beauties undeceived,
Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved,
And be with caution bold.
Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes
And heedless hearts is lawful prize;
Nor all that glisters, gold.
poem by Thomas Gray
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Coyote
No regrets coyote
We just come from such different sets of circumstance
Im up all night in the studios
And youre up early on your ranch
Youll be brushing out a brood mares tail
While the sun is ascending
And Ill just be getting home with my reel to reel...
Theres no comprehending
Just how close to the bone and the skin and the eyes
And the lips you can get
And still feel so alone
And still feel related
Like stations in some relay
Youre not a hit and run driver, no, no
Racing away
You just picked up a hitcher
A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway
We saw a farmhouse burning down
In the middle of nowhere
In the middle of the night
And we rolled right past that tragedy
Till we turned into some road house lights
Where a local band was playing
Locals were up kicking and shaking on the floor
And the next thing I know
That coyotes at my door
He pins me in a corner and he wont take no!
He drags me out on the dance floor
And were dancing close and slow
Now hes got a woman at home
Hes got another woman down the hall
He seems to want me anyway
Whyd you have to get so drunk
And lead me on that way
You just picked up a hitcher
A prisoner of the white lines of the freeway
I looked a coyote right in the face
On the road to baljennie near my old home town
He went running thru the whisker wheat
Chasing some prize down
And a hawk was playing with him
Coyote was jumping straight up and making passes
He had those same eyes - just like yours
Under your dark glasses
Privately probing the public rooms
And peeking thru keyholes in numbered doors
Where the players lick their wounds
And take their temporary lovers
And their pills and powders to get them thru this passion play
No regrets, coyote
I just get off up aways
You just picked up a hitcher
A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway
Coyotes in the coffee shop
Hes staring a hole in his scrambled eggs
He picks up my scent on his fingers
While hes watching the waitresses legs
Hes too fat from the bay of fundy
>from appaloosas and eagles and tides
And the air conditioned cubicles
And the carbon ribbon rides
Are spelling it out so clear
Either hes going to have to stand and fight
Or take off out of here
I tried to run away myself
To run away and wrestle with my ego
And with this flame
You put here in this eskimo
In this hitcher
In this prisoner
Of the fine white lines
Of the white lines on the free, free way
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Mistress Gurton's Cat
Old MISTRESS GURTON had a Cat,
A Tabby, loveliest of the race,
Sleek as a doe, and tame, and fat
With velvet paws, and whisker'd face;
The Doves of VENUS not so fair,
Nor JUNO'S Peacocks half so grand
As MISTRESS GURTON'S Tabby rare,
The proudest of the purring band;
So dignified in all her paces--
She seem'd, a pupil of the Graces!
There never was a finer creature
In all the varying whims of Nature!
All liked Grimalkin, passing well!
Save MISTRESS GURTON, and, 'tis said,
She oft with furious ire would swell,
When, through neglect or hunger keen,
Puss, with a pilfer'd scrap, was seen,
Swearing beneath the pent-house shed:
For, like some fav'rites, she was bent
On all things, yet with none content;
And still, whate'er her place or diet,
She could not pick her bone, in quiet.
Sometimes, new milk GRIMALKIN stole,
And sometimes--over-set the bowl!
For over eagerness will prove,
Oft times the bane of what we love;
And sometimes, to her neighbour's home,
GRIMALKIN, like a thief would roam,
Teaching poor Cats, of humbler kind,
For high example sways the mind!
Sometimes she paced the garden wall,
Thick guarded by the shatter'd pane,
And lightly treading with disdain,
Fear'd not Ambition's certain fall!
Old China broke, or scratch'd her Dame
And brought domestic friends to shame!
And many a time this Cat was curst,
Of squalling, thieving things, the worst!
Wish'd Dead ! and menanc'd with a string,
For Cats of such scant Fame, deserv'd to swing!
One day, report, for ever busy,
Resolv'd to make Dame Gurton easy;
A Neighbour came, with solemn look,
And thus, the dismal tidings broke.
"Know you, that poor GRIMALKIN died
"Last night, upon the pent-house side?
"I heard her for assistance call;
"I heard her shrill and dying squall!
"I heard her, in reproachful tone,
"Pour, to the stars, her feeble groan!
"Alone, I heard her piercing cries--
"With not a Friend to close her Eyes!"
"Poor Puss ! I vow it grieves me sore,
"Never to see thy beauties more!
"Never again to hear thee purr,
"To stroke thy back, of Zebra fur;
"To see thy emral'd eyes--so bright,
"Flashing around their lust'rous light
"Amid the solemn shades of night!
"Methinks I see her pretty paws--
"As gracefully she paced along;
"I hear her voice, so shrill, among
"The chimney rows ! I see her claws,
"While, like a Tyger, she pursued
"Undauntedly the pilf'ring race;
"I see her lovely whisker'd face
"When she her nimble prey subdued!
"And then, how she would frisk, and play,
"And purr the Evening hours away:
"Now stretch'd beside the social fire;
"Now on the sunny lawn, at noon,
"Watching the vagrant Birds that flew,
"Across the scene of varied hue,
"To peck the Fruit. Or when the Moon
"Stole o'er the hills, in silv'ry suit,
"How would she chaunt her lovelorn Tale
"Soft as the wild Eolian Lyre!
"'Till ev'ry brute, on hill, in dale,
"Listen'd with wonder mute!"
"O! Cease!" exclaim'd DAME GURTON, straight,
"Has my poor Puss been torn away?
"Alas ! how cruel is my fate,
"How shall I pass the tedious day?
"Where can her mourning mistress find
"So sweet a Cat? so meek! so kind!
"So keen a mouser, such a beauty,
"So orderly, so fond, so true,
"That every gentle task of duty
"The dear, domestic creature knew!
"Hers, was the mildest tend'rest heart!
"She knew no little cattish art;
"Not cross, like fav'rite Cats , was she
"But seem'd the queen of Cats to be!
"I cannot live--since doom'd, alas ! to part
"From poor GRIMALKIN kind, the darling of my heart!"
And now DAME GURTON, bath'd in tears,
With a black top-knot vast, appears:
Some say that a black gown she wore,
As many oft have done before,
For Beings, valued less, I ween,
Than this, of Tabby Cats, the fav'rite Queen!
But lo ! soon after, one fair day,
Puss, who had only been a roving--
Across the pent-house took her way,
To see her Dame, so sad, and loving;
Eager to greet the mourning fair
She enter'd by a window, where
A China bowl of luscious cream
Was quiv'ring in the sunny beam.
Puss, who was somewhat tired and dry,
And somewhat fond of bev'rage sweet;
Beholding such a tempting treat,
Resolved its depth to try.
She saw the warm and dazzling ray
Upon the spotless surface play:
She purr'd around its circle wide,
And gazed, and long'd, and mew'd and sigh'd!
But Fate, unfriendly, did that hour controul,
She overset the cream, and smash'd the gilded bowl!
As MISTRESS GURTON heard the thief,
She started from her easy chair,
And, quite unmindful of her grief,
Began aloud to swear!
"Curse that voracious beast!" she cried,
"Here SUSAN bring a cord--
I'll hang the vicious, ugly creature--
"The veriest plague e'er form'd by nature!"
And MISTRESS GURTON kept her word--
And Poor GRIMALKIN--DIED !
Thus, often, we with anguish sore
The dead , in clam'rous grief deplore;
Who, were they once alive again
Would meet the sting of cold disdain!
For FRIENDS, whom trifling faults can sever,
Are valued most , WHEN LOST FOR EVER!
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Today-the most cursed day
Ordinarily the soles of my feet didn’t bleed an
infinitesimal trifle; even as I traversed over a
blanket of a billion acrimoniously venomous thorns,
But today; the 3rd of April; they just disdainfully
crumbled an infinite feet beneath soil; as the sound
of your invincibly triumphant and gloriously
impeccable footsteps; had disappeared forever from the
horizons of my veritable sight…
Ordinarily the hair on my skin didn’t relent an
inconspicuous iota; even as the most diabolical of
dinosaurs and war; indiscriminately paraded around my
persona,
But today; the 3rd of April; they just shriveled into
pathetic oblivion at the tiniest insinuation of
flaccid wind; as your uninhibitedly untamed valley of
sensuousness; had disappeared forever from the
horizons of my veritable sight…
Ordinarily the blood in my veins didn’t quaver an
evanescent bit; even as the most unsparingly
hedonistic apocalypses of the devil perpetuated into
my soul,
But today; the 3rd of April; it just metamorphosed
into a grotesquely frigid white; as your brilliantly
unhindered compassion; had disappeared forever from
the horizons of my veritable sight…
Ordinarily the hollows of my ears didn’t flutter an
ethereal inch; even as unbelievably thunderous roars
of vindictive lightening; flashed left; right and
center from the belly of the murderously ballistic
sky,
But today; the 3rd of April; they just miserably
withered to each of my commands; as your inimitably
divinely and beautifully unparalleled voice; had
disappeared forever from the horizons of my veritable
sight…
Ordinarily the bones of my demeanor didn’t rattle an
infidel centimeter; even as the coffins of inevitable
death scurrilously slandered at me a countless times,
But today; the 3rd of April; they just dissolved into
fecklessly meaningless pulp at the sound of my very
own voice; as your Omnipotently everlasting tenacity;
had disappeared forever from the horizons of my
veritable sight…
Ordinarily the whites and blacks of my eye didn’t
wince a mercurial fraction; even as the belligerently
intolerable rays of the afternoon Sun unceasingly
pierced inside from all quarters,
But today; the 3rd of April; they just wholesomely
blinded to the faintest of my reflection; as the
miraculously mitigating contours of your face; had
disappeared forever from the horizons of my veritable
sight….
Ordinarily the cadence of my voice didn’t tremble a
diminutive whisker; even as there was nothing else but
iconoclastically satanic vultures plucking mouthfuls
of my flesh; with gay abandon all throughout the
night,
But today; the 3rd of April; it just transformed into
a cadaverously stony silence; as the Omnipresent smile
of your magical lips; had disappeared forever from the
horizons of my veritable sight…
Ordinarily the spirit of my conscience didn’t stagger
a minuscule hairline; even as the entire planet beside
me embraced manipulative prejudice; to catapult to the
pinnacle of spuriously lackadaisical success,
But today; the 3rd of April; it just dissipated into a
zillion pieces of nothingness even before it could be
caressed; as your trail of perennially blessing
righteousness had disappeared forever from the
horizons of my veritable sight…
Ordinarily the beats of my heart didn’t betray a
parsimonious speck; even as egregiously perverted
treachery had become everyone’s morning cup of tea,
But today; the 3rd of April; they converted entirely
into lifelessly delinquent stone although torrential
rainshowers of love pelted all across; as your
charismatically immortal shadow had disappeared
forever from the horizons of my veritable sight…
And ordinarily the air of my nostrils didn’t stutter
an abstemious ounce; even as the mortuaries of hell
personally descended to incarcerate me into doldrums
of inane nothingness,
But today; the 3rd of April; it evaporated a countless
kilometers beyond the land of decaying oblivion;
although I was impregnated with robust blood; body and
bone; as your pristinely unimpeachable and
Unconquerably mellifluous spirit; had disappeared
forever from the horizons of my veritable sight..
poem by Nikhil Parekh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Gemini And Virgo
Some vast amount of years ago,
Ere all my youth had vanished from me,
A boy it was my lot to know,
Whom his familiar friends called Tommy.
I love to gaze upon a child;
A young bud bursting into blossom;
Artless, as Eve yet unbeguiled,
And agile as a young opossum:
And such was he. A calm-browed lad,
Yet mad, at moments, as a hatter:
Why hatters as a race are mad
I never knew, nor does it matter.
He was what nurses call a 'limb;'
One of those small misguided creatures,
Who, though their intellects are dim,
Are one too many for their teachers:
And, if you asked of him to say
What twice 10 was, or 3 times 7,
He'd glance (in quite a placid way)
From heaven to earth, from earth to heaven:
And smile, and look politely round,
To catch a casual suggestion;
But make no effort to propound
Any solution of the question.
And so not much esteemed was he
Of the authorities: and therefore
He fraternized by chance with me,
Needing a somebody to care for:
And three fair summers did we twain
Live (as they say) and love together;
And bore by turns the wholesome cane
Till our young skins became as leather:
And carved our names on every desk,
And tore our clothes, and inked our collars;
And looked unique and picturesque,
But not, it may be, model scholars.
We did much as we chose to do;
We'd never heard of Mrs. Grundy;
All the theology we knew
Was that we mightn't play on Sunday;
And all the general truths, that cakes
Were to be bought at four a-penny,
And that excruciating aches
Resulted if we ate too many:
And seeing ignorance is bliss,
And wisdom consequently folly,
The obvious result is this -
That our two lives were very jolly.
At last the separation came.
Real love, at that time, was the fashion;
And by a horrid chance, the same
Young thing was, to us both, a passion.
Old POSER snorted like a horse:
His feet were large, his hands were pimply,
His manner, when excited, coarse:-
But Miss P. was an angel simply.
She was a blushing gushing thing;
All--more than all--my fancy painted;
Once--when she helped me to a wing
Of goose--I thought I should have fainted.
The people said that she was blue:
But I was green, and loved her dearly.
She was approaching thirty-two;
And I was then eleven, nearly.
I did not love as others do;
(None ever did that I've heard tell of)
My passion was a byword through
The town she was, of course, the belle of.
Oh sweet--as to the toilworn man
The far-off sound of rippling river;
As to cadets in Hindostan
The fleeting remnant of their liver -
To me was ANNA; dear as gold
That fills the miser's sunless coffers;
As to the spinster, growing old,
The thought--the dream--that she had offers.
I'd sent her little gifts of fruit;
I'd written lines to her as Venus;
I'd sworn unflinchingly to shoot
The man who dared to come between us:
And it was you, my Thomas, you,
The friend in whom my soul confided,
Who dared to gaze on her--to do,
I may say, much the same as I did.
One night I SAW him squeeze her hand;
There was no doubt about the matter;
I said he must resign, or stand
My vengeance--and he chose the latter.
We met, we 'planted' blows on blows:
We fought as long as we were able:
My rival had a bottle-nose,
And both my speaking eyes were sable.
When the school-bell cut short our strife,
Miss P. gave both of us a plaster;
And in a week became the wife
Of Horace Nibbs, the writing-master.
* * *
I loved her then--I'd love her still,
Only one must not love Another's:
But thou and I, my Tommy, will,
When we again meet, meet as brothers.
It may be that in age one seeks
Peace only: that the blood is brisker
In boy's veins, than in theirs whose cheeks
Are partially obscured by whisker;
Or that the growing ages steal
The memories of past wrongs from us.
But this is certain--that I feel
Most friendly unto thee, oh Thomas!
And wheresoe'er we meet again,
On this or that side the equator,
If I've not turned teetotaller then,
And have wherewith to pay the waiter,
To thee I'll drain the modest cup,
Ignite with thee the mild Havannah;
And we will waft, while liquoring up,
Forgiveness to the heartless ANNA.
poem by Charles Stuart Calverley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Old Chartist
I
Whate'er I be, old England is my dam!
So there's my answer to the judges, clear.
I'm nothing of a fox, nor of a lamb;
I don't know how to bleat nor how to leer:
I'm for the nation!
That's why you see me by the wayside here,
Returning home from transportation.
II
It's Summer in her bath this morn, I think.
I'm fresh as dew, and chirpy as the birds:
And just for joy to see old England wink
Thro' leaves again, I could harangue the herds:
Isn't it something
To speak out like a man when you've got words,
And prove you're not a stupid dumb thing?
III
They shipp'd me of for it; I'm here again.
Old England is my dam, whate'er I be!
Says I, I'll tramp it home, and see the grain:
If you see well, you're king of what you see:
Eyesight is having,
If you're not given, I said, to gluttony.
Such talk to ignorance sounds as raving.
IV
You dear old brook, that from his Grace's park
Come bounding! on you run near my old town:
My lord can't lock the water; nor the lark,
Unless he kills him, can my lord keep down.
Up, is the song-note!
I've tried it, too:- for comfort and renown,
I rather pitch'd upon the wrong note.
V
I'm not ashamed: Not beaten's still my boast:
Again I'll rouse the people up to strike.
But home's where different politics jar most.
Respectability the women like.
This form, or that form, -
The Government may be hungry pike,
But don't you mount a Chartist platform!
VI
Well, well! Not beaten-spite of them, I shout;
And my estate is suffering for the Cause. -
No,-what is yon brown water-rat about,
Who washes his old poll with busy paws?
What does he mean by't?
It's like defying all our natural laws,
For him to hope that he'll get clean by't.
VII
His seat is on a mud-bank, and his trade
Is dirt:- he's quite contemptible; and yet
The fellow's all as anxious as a maid
To show a decent dress, and dry the wet.
Now it's his whisker,
And now his nose, and ear: he seems to get
Each moment at the motion brisker!
VIII
To see him squat like little chaps at school,
I could let fly a laugh with all my might.
He peers, hangs both his fore-paws:- bless that fool,
He's bobbing at his frill now!-what a sight!
Licking the dish up,
As if he thought to pass from black to white,
Like parson into lawny bishop.
IX
The elms and yellow reed-flags in the sun,
Look on quite grave:- the sunlight flecks his side;
And links of bindweed-flowers round him run,
And shine up doubled with him in the tide.
I'M nearly splitting,
But nature seems like seconding his pride,
And thinks that his behaviour's fitting.
X
That isle o' mud looks baking dry with gold.
His needle-muzzle still works out and in.
It really is a wonder to behold,
And makes me feel the bristles of my chin.
Judged by appearance,
I fancy of the two I'm nearer Sin,
And might as well commence a clearance.
XI
And that's what my fine daughter said:- she meant:
Pray, hold your tongue, and wear a Sunday face.
Her husband, the young linendraper, spent
Much argument thereon:- I'm their disgrace.
Bother the couple!
I feel superior to a chap whose place
Commands him to be neat and supple.
XII
But if I go and say to my old hen:
I'll mend the gentry's boots, and keep discreet,
Until they grow TOO violent,-why, then,
A warmer welcome I might chance to meet:
Warmer and better.
And if she fancies her old cock is beat,
And drops upon her knees-so let her!
XIII
She suffered for me:- women, you'll observe,
Don't suffer for a Cause, but for a man.
When I was in the dock she show'd her nerve:
I saw beneath her shawl my old tea-can
Trembling . . . she brought it
To screw me for my work: she loath'd my plan,
And therefore doubly kind I thought it.
XIV
I've never lost the taste of that same tea:
That liquor on my logic floats like oil,
When I state facts, and fellows disagree.
For human creatures all are in a coil;
All may want pardon.
I see a day when every pot will boil
Harmonious in one great Tea-garden!
XV
We wait the setting of the Dandy's day,
Before that time!-He's furbishing his dress, -
He WILL be ready for it!-and I say,
That yon old dandy rat amid the cress, -
Thanks to hard labour! -
If cleanliness is next to godliness,
The old fat fellow's heaven's neighbour!
XVI
You teach me a fine lesson, my old boy!
I've looked on my superiors far too long,
And small has been my profit as my joy.
You've done the right while I've denounced the wrong.
Prosper me later!
Like you I will despise the sniggering throng,
And please myself and my Creator.
XVII
I'll bring the linendraper and his wife
Some day to see you; taking off my hat.
Should they ask why, I'll answer: in my life
I never found so true a democrat.
Base occupation
Can't rob you of your own esteem, old rat!
I'll preach you to the British nation.
poem by George Meredith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!