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Sowing my wild oats
Oats
Wild oats
My wild oats
Sowing my wild oats?
Since when did I have any wild oats to sow?
Middle age brings on the nostalgia for an enfance perdue
I would act differently now,
Gone wild with girls and boys
No doubt caught some venereal disease
But hopefully not AIDS
It is now that I have studied
And learnt that fornication
Viewed linguistically
Is from furnix,
the bridge where prostitutes hung out
So the prohibition if there was one
Was against prostitution, the abuse of women
Not against sex before marriage
With a loving partner
In a consensual relationship
And probably one leading to marriage.
How would that have changed me?
Would I have taken up some of the offers?
Male as well as female,
In Durham as well as in France?
Too late now but the will is still there
To love everyone, well almost, and sleep with many
Nothing worse though than a middle age man
Trying to live like a teenager
Wild oats are for the young,
With the old they are sour grapes.
©2009
James Hart
poem by James Hart
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The Petit Vieux
"Sow your wild oats in your youth," so we're always told;
But I say with deeper sooth: "Sow them when you're old."
I'll be wise till I'm about seventy or so:
Then, by Gad! I'll blossom out as an ancient beau.
I'll assume a dashing air, laugh with loud Ha! ha! . . .
How my grandchildren will stare at their grandpapa!
Their perfection aureoled I will scandalize:
Won't I be a hoary old sinner in their eyes!
Watch me, how I'll learn to chaff barmaids in a bar;
Scotches daily, gayly quaff, puff a fierce cigar.
I will haunt the Tango teas, at the stage-door stand;
Wait for Dolly Dimpleknees, bouquet in my hand.
Then at seventy I'll take flutters at roulette;
While at eighty hope I'll make good at poker yet;
And in fashionable togs to the races go,
Gayest of the gay old dogs, ninety years or so.
"Sow your wild oats while you're young," that's what you are told;
Don't believe the foolish tongue -- sow 'em when you're old.
Till you're threescore years and ten, take my humble tip,
Sow your nice tame oats and then . . . Hi, boys! Let 'er rip.
poem by Robert William Service
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High Speed Train
When I look into your eyes.
Your drop like an anchor eyes.
I scudded and clipped the sky
Just shy of making it.
And you almost got away.
I told you I was afraid.
Did I really want to try
You're holding me to my claim
I jump on a high speed train
I'll never look back again
I flail like the antelope
Who jumped from the building
and you caught me on the sly
you've taken me by surprise.
you've mirrored my best disguise and
turned it back on me.
I jump on a high speed train
I'll never look back again
I flail like the antelope
Who jumped from the building
I jump on a high speed train
I'll never look back again
To Berlin, Kyoto or Marseilles
I'd go anywhere for you
I'll bring you a big bouquet
I picked it myself today
it compliments your eyes
there's love at the end of the line
I jump on a high speed train
I'll never look back again
I flail like the antelope
Who jumped from the building
I jump on a high speed train
I'll never look back again
To Berlin, Kyoto or Marseilles
I'd go anywhere for you
And that's what I always knew
I'd like to have hung the moon.
I'd wrestle you for a spoon inside your sleeping bag.
Just us.
No war. no hate. no past.
It's real.
I'm here. I'm yours. I'm fast.
I'm long in the eye
I'm cry when I try
I just want to fly
Just you and I, together
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Harvest Song
I am a reaper whose muscles set at sundown. All my oats are cradled.
But I am too chilled, and too fatigued to bind them.
And I hunger.
I crack a grain between my teeth. I do not taste it.
I have been in the fields all day. My throat is dry.
I hunger.
My eyes are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-time.
I am a blind man who stares across the hills, seeking stack'd fields of other harvesters.
It would be good to see them . . crook'd, split, and iron-ring'd handles of the scythes. It would be good to see them, dust-caked and blind. I hunger.
(Dusk is a strange fear'd sheath their blades are dull'd in.)
My throat is dry. And should I call, a cracked grain like the oats...eoho--
I fear to call. What should they hear me, and offer me their grain, oats, or wheat, or corn? I have been in the fields all day. I fear I could not taste it. I fear knowledge of my hunger.
My ears are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-time.
I am a deaf man who strains to hear the calls of other harvesters whose throats are also dry.
It would be good to hear their songs . . reapers of the sweet-stalk'd cane, cutters of the corn...even though their throats cracked and the strangeness of their voices deafened me.
I hunger. My throat is dry. Now that the sun has set and I am chilled, I fear to call. (Eoho, my brothers!)
I am a reaper. (Eoho!) All my oats are cradled.
But I am too fatigued to bind them. And I hunger.
I crack a grain. It has no taste to it.
My throat is dry...
O my brothers, I beat my palms, still soft, against the stubble of my harvesting. (You beat your soft palms, too.) My pain is sweet. Sweeter than the oats or wheat or corn. It will not bring me knowledge of my hunger.
poem by Jean Toomer
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I've sown all the oats I want to sow.
quote by Stephanie Zimbalist
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A horse that will not carry a saddle must have no oats.
It is not the horse that draws the cart, but the oats.
It's a very proud horse that will not carry his oats.
Alimony is like buying oats for a dead horse.
quote by Arthur Baer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Drive the horse with oats, not with curses and oaths.
We sometime didn't get enough to buy oats for our horses. Most banks had very little money in them.
quote by Frank James
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A cough will stick longer by a horse than a peck of oats.