He that lends his pot may seethe his kail in his loof.
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The Fisher Child's Lullaby
THE wind is out in its rage to-night,
And your father is far at sea.
The rime on the window is hard and white
But dear, you are near to me.
Heave ho, weave low,
Waves of the briny deep;
Seethe low and breathe low,
But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.
The little boat rocks in the cove no more,
But the flying sea-gulls wail;
I peer through the darkness that wraps the shore,
For sight of a home set sail.
Heave ho, weave low,
Waves of the briny deep;
Seethe low and breathe low,
But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.
Ay, lad of mine, thy father may die
In the gale that rides the sea,
But we'll not believe it, not you and I,
Who mind us of Galilee.
Heave ho, weave low,
Waves of the briny deep;
Seethe low and breathe low,
But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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There's measure in a' things, even in kail supping.
When ye ca' the dog out o' your ain kail-yaird, dinna ca't into mine.
He should have a long shafted spoon that sups kail with the Devil.
Shared Absence
There are those with abilities to maneuver,
Into positions quick...
Without a hint of suspicion,
That their subtle comments made...
Have been selected to degrade.
They're on a mission to undo someone unknown,
But...
They pick and choose,
Those they hope have similar views...
With shared absence of any truth.
Whispered in the ears,
Is something sure to please.
With a leaving out of what was done,
To get someone to seethe.
Fragmented doses meant to mention,
To create descensions that begin.
And...
With intent,
These comments tempt a listening.
Whispered in the ears,
Is something sure to please.
With a leaving out of what was done,
To get someone to seethe.
There are those with abilities to maneuver,
Into positions quick...
Without a hint of suspicion,
That their subtle comments made...
Have been selected to degrade.
Fragmented doses meant to mention,
To create descensions that begin.
And...
With intent,
These comments tempt a listening.
Whispered in the ears,
Is something sure to please.
With a leaving out of what was done,
To get someone to seethe.
Fragmented doses meant to mention,
To create descensions that begin.
With a leaving out of what was done,
To get someone to seethe.
And...
Fragmented doses meant to mention,
To create descensions that begin.
With a leaving out of what was done,
To get someone to seethe.
There are those with abilities to maneuver,
Into positions quick...
Without a hint of suspicion,
That their subtle comments made...
Have been selected to degrade.
With shared absence of any truth.
People pick and choose those to undo.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Have hues a role?
Grass lends beauty to ‘green’;
Tooth lends beauty to ‘white’;
Sky lends beauty to ‘blue’.
So do lips to ‘red’.
Red lips excel red blood;
Brown horse excel brown ass;
Yellow gold excels yellow brass.
So does black hair, black skin.
Black hair yields to white hair;
Green meadow yields to gray one.
Brown curls yield to fallen leaves
So does tender skin to one wrinkled.
The stuff rules; the merit rules;
The young rules. Have hues a role?
13.03.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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He complains early that complains of his kail.
Sexy
Babe,
I find you
So incredibly
Sexy
That
Sex
If it
Sees you
Will seethe
With jealousy ;)
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Kiss
Should i kiss you
as marble antiquity
Or sharply
- this less peck
tempting trochee aesthetic
That I
We
should might make
distinctions
between kinetic
Idiosyncratic
aberration's
tick-tock rude clock timing
Alienations'
indecision
incision
As yet our kiss
far more than lesser this
Our Kiss
Lends Lips
Our Kiss
Lends Lips for Lisp
Like poets' lunging
lavish ravish
unctuous rambunctious rhyming
Our Kiss
Quills' Quivering Quips
copyright Randy Resh 2008
poem by Randy Resh
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Weeping Girl
Your tears do not become your eyes
Would my guitar weep in their stead
To drench and drown a shade that tries,
And charm a smile when woe has fled,
The fingers of my trembling hands
Would seethe in soothing sarabands.
poem by Terry O'Leary
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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