He that would jest must take a jest, else to let it along were best.
Related quotes
Vagabond
Dunno a heap about the what an' why,
Can't say's I ever knowed.
Heaven to me's a fair blue stretch of sky,
Earth's jest a dusty road.
Dunno the names o' things, nor what they are,
Can't say's I ever will.
Dunno about God - he's jest the noddin' star
Atop the windy hill.
Dunno about Life - it's jest a tramp alone,
From wakin'-time to doss.
Dunno about Death - it's jest a quiet stone
All over-grey wi' moss.
An' why I live, an' why the old world spins,
Are things I never knowed.
My mark's the gypsy fires, the lonely inns,
An' jest the dusty road.
poem by John Masefield (1902)
Submitted by anonym
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What A Friend
Lady of the G..spot...
You are just a dot...
I've always wish that you...
Sh- or get off the pot...
In you I do not plot...
To me you are...
A save-a-lot...
You are truly my friend...
And that I want to never...
End...
But every now and then...
I ask if I came come in...
But I keep in mind that we..are...
Truly freinds...Platonic at best...
So my asking...is always in jest...
And maybe that is best...jset...
And anything other...I would be a pest...
That would be a mess...
But you rest...
We both have pass..the test...
I would love to fail...in jest...
We shall remain platonic...
Now that takes balls...
But that is my call...
We are friends after all...
And I am the freind in need...in deed...
Keep one eye open...
And the other eye on...
Jest...
whisperkwane
swtlamb@y ahoo.com
poem by whisperkwane Lamb
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Prayer
You talk o' prayer an' such -
Well, I jest don't know how;
I guess I got as much
Religion as a cow.
I fight an' drink an' swear;
Red hell I often raise,
But never said a prayer
In all my days.
I'm honest, right enough;
Don't take no stock in crimes;
I'm jest a dockside tough,
An' yet . . . an' yet sometimes,
If I should happen by
A church-door open wide
The chances are that I
Will sneak inside.
It's kin o' peaceful there,
Jest sittin' in a pew;
There's sompin' in the air
That rests me through an' through;
It does me heaps o' good
To see them candles glow,
So soothin' to the mood . . .
Why? - I don't know.
Unless that sittin' still
Can be a kind o' prayer;
My heart jest seems to fill
Wi' peace . . . Oh, God don't care
For guys the likes o' me;
I just ain't in His line:
But when the Cross I see,
I make the sign.
poem by Robert William Service
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Brave Coward
Elisabeth imagines I've
A yellow streak
She deems I have no dash and drive,
Jest dogoned weak.
'A man should be a man,' says Liz
'Trade blow for blow.'
Poor kid! What my position is
She jest don't know.
She jest don't know my old man killed,
Yea, slew and slew.
As steamy blood he sweetly spilled,
So could I too.
And though no wrath of heart I show
When I see red,
I fear no S. O. B. but oh
Myself I dread.
Though fellers reckon me a dope
And trigger-shy,
'Tain't nice to dangle on a rope,
And like Pa die.
So as I belly to the bar
Meek is my breath . . .
No guts! --Don't needle me too far,
Elizabeth!
poem by Robert William Service
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Hugs
A hug
E’en if given
Only in jest
Tis still yet
a hug
No more no less
While Intended
Perhaps only
To be received in jest
I shall instead
Choose to Treat it
As a sweet caress
For no matter
How tis intended
The hug to be
How tis comprehended
Is totally
Up to me
poem by David Whalen
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He that would jest must take a jest, or else to let it alone were best.
Grand-Pa's Whim
While for me gapes the greedy grave
It don't make sense
That I should have a crazy crave
To paint our fence.
Yet that is what I aim to do,
Though dim my sight:
Jest paint them aged pickets blue,
Or green or white.
Jest squat serenely in the sun
Wi' brush an' paint,
An' gay them pickets one by one,
--A chore! It ain't.
The job is joy. Although I'm slow
I save expense:
So folks, let me before I go,
Smart that ol' fence.
Them pickets with my hands I made,
When young and spry;
I coloured them a gleeful shade
To glad the eye.
So now as chirpy as a boy,
'Ere I go hence,
Once more let me jest bright to joy
Our picket fence.
poem by Robert William Service
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The Tree-Toad
''Scurious-like,' said the tree-toad,
'I've twittered far rain all day;
And I got up soon,
And I hollered till noon--
But the sun, hit blazed away,
Till I jest clumb down in a crawfish-hole,
Weary at heart, and sick at soul!
'Dozed away far an hour,
And I tackled the thing agin;
And I sung, and sung,
Till I knowed my lung
Was jest about give in;
And then, thinks I, ef hit don't rain now.
There're nothin' in singin', anyhow!
'Once in awhile some
Would come a drivin' past;
And he'd hear my cry,
And stop and sigh--
Till I jest laid back, at last,
And I hollered rain till I thought my th'oat
Would bust right open at ever' note!
'But _I fetched_ her! O _I fetched_ her!--
'Cause a little while ago,
As I kindo' set,
With one eye shet,
And a-singin' soft and low,
A voice drapped down on my fevered brain,
Sayin',--' Ef you'll jest hush I'll rain!''
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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An Easy Goin' Feller
Ther' ain't no use in all this strife,
An' hurryin', pell-mell, right thro' life.
I don't believe in goin' too fast
To see what kind o' road you've passed.
It ain't no mortal kind o' good,
'N' I would n't hurry ef I could.
I like to jest go joggin' 'long,
To limber up my soul with song;
To stop awhile 'n' chat the men,
'N' drink some cider now an' then.
Do' want no boss a-standin' by
To see me work; I allus try
To do my dooty right straight up,
An' earn what fills my plate an' cup.
An' ez fur boss, I'll be my own,
I like to jest be let alone,
To plough my strip an' tend my bees,
An' do jest like I doggoned please.
My head's all right, an' my heart's meller,
But I'm a easy-goin' feller.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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The Ultimate
When dreams have turned to dust and dust to slime;
When all you ever were or hoped to be
Appears as no more than a jest of time,
A foolish jest, a tasteless parody
On some unlikely fiction; when not just
Your dear pretensions but your best ideals
Have been ground down into an acrid dust
That you are forced to eat for all your meals;
When—oh, but what can metaphor provide
Sufficient in its scope to comprehend
The fury never to be satisfied
Of one betrayed by a once-trusted friend?
poem by David Berman
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To Submit
To submit a new poem
I must create a new poem
Everyone tries to be the best
You are the best
It's a poerty forum
Not in jest
But for the flow
My life is full of your prose
The truth that arose in our life
The friends we made in our life
So it was a chosen poem
To break up the strife
Not in jest
But for the flow.
Marthy Ellen
They's nothin' in the name to strike
A feller more'n common like!
'Taint liable to git no praise
Ner nothin' like it nowadays;
An' yit that name o' her'n is jest
As purty as the purtiest--
And more 'n that, I'm here to say
I'll live a-thinkin' thataway
And die far Marthy Ellen!
It may be I was prejudust
In favor of it from the fust--
'Cause I kin ricollect jest how
We met, and hear her mother now
A-callin' of her down the road--
And, aggervatin' little toad!--
I see her now, jes' sort o' half-
Way disapp'inted, turn and laugh
And mock her--'Marthy Ellen!'
Our people never had no fuss,
And yit they never tuck to us;
We neighbered back and foreds some;
Until they see she liked to come
To our house--and me and her
Were jest together ever'whur
And all the time--and when they'd see
That I liked her and she liked me,
They'd holler 'Marthy Ellen!'
When we growed up, and they shet down
On me and her a-runnin' roun'
Together, and her father said
He'd never leave her nary red,
So he'p him, ef she married me,
And so on--and her mother she
Jest agged the gyrl, and said she 'lowed
She'd ruther see her in her shroud,
I _writ_ to Marthy Ellen--
That is, I kindo' tuck my pen
In hand, and stated whur and when
The undersigned would be that night,
With two good hosses saddled right
Far lively travelin' in case
Her folks 'ud like to jine the race.
She sent the same note back, and writ
'The rose is red!' right under it--
'Your 'n allus, Marthy Ellen.'
That's all, I reckon--Nothin' more
To tell but what you've heerd afore--
The same old story, sweeter though
Far all the trouble, don't you know.
Old-fashioned name! and yit it's jest
As purty as the purtiest;
And more 'n that, I'm here to say
I'll live a-thinking thataway,
And die far Marthy Ellen!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Wet Weather Talk
It ain't no use to grumble and complain;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice:
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.
Men giner'ly, to all intents--
Although they're ap' to grumble some--
Puts most their trust in Providence,
And takes things as they come;--
That is, the commonality
Of men that's lived as long as me,
Has watched the world enough to learn
They're not the boss of the concern.
With _some_, of course, it's different--
I've seed _young_ men that knowed it all,
And didn't like the way things went
On this terrestial ball!
But, all the same, the rain some way
Rained jest as hard on picnic-day;
Er when they railly wanted it,
It maybe wouldn't rain a bit!
In this existence, dry and wet
Will overtake the best of men--
Some little skift o' clouds'll shet
The sun off now and then;
But maybe, while you're wondern' who
You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to,
And _want_ it--out'll pop the sun,
And you'll be glad you ain't got none!
It aggervates the farmers, too--
They's too much wet, er too much sun,
Er work, er waiting round to do
Before the plowin''s done;
And maybe, like as not, the wheat,
Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat,
Will ketch the storm--and jest about
The time the corn 's a-jintin' out!
These here cy-clones a-foolin' round--
And back'ard crops--and wind and rain,
And yit the corn that's wallered down
May elbow up again!
They ain't no sense, as I kin see,
In mortals, sich as you and me,
A-faultin' Nature's wise intents,
And lockin' horns with Providence!
It ain't no use to grumble and complain;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice:
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Hour of the Angel
Sooner or late--in earnest or in jest--
(But the stakes are no jest) Ithuriel's Hour
Will spring on us, for the first time, the test
Of our sole unbacked competence and power
Up to the limit of our years and dower
Of judgment--or beyond. But here we have
Prepared long since our garland or our grave.
For, at that hour, the sum of all our past,
Act, habit, thought, and passion, shall be cast
In one addition, be it more or less,
And as that reading runs so shall we do;
Meeting, astounded, victory at the last,
Or, first and last, our own unworthiness.
And none can change us though they die to save!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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You can't jest an enemy into a friend, but you can jest a friend into an enemy.
Hangman's Gallows
Hangman's Gallows
By: Adam M. Snow
The hangman cometh,
to the gallows oaken,
the reapers awaken,
to mend the broken.
The mourners mourn,
a soul that was scorn.
Your judgment comes,
now's the end,
like a dying friend,
laying you at rest,
in a hollowed coffin,
as they dance and jest.
The mark of noose,
around your neck,
if weakness may excuse.
They dance and dance,
they jest and jest,
your blood drips to the deck.
To the blood of dawn,
to the black of dusk,
all tears are gone,
and all who brusque.
All's unspoken,
you're forsaken.
The children screaming,
mothers stopped dreaming,
your body's hanging,
from a waning noose.
All you've done,
your life's abuse.
By dawn the reaper weary,
as time grew dark and eerie.
The hangman cometh,
to the gallows oaken,
with a gauntlet of raw,
for you, who's broken.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: IV
And thus it is. The tale I have to tell
Is such another. He who reads shall find
That which he brings to it of Heaven or Hell
For his best recompense where much is blind,
A jest--book or a sermon or mere wind,--
Each as he may,--for life's least godly mirth
Is mingled strangely here with fate unkind,
And this is a true story of the Earth.
The passionate heart of youth with its desires
Is not all noble, and some baseness clings
For ever mixed with its eternal fires,
Else were it single among human things.
And all life's wisdom learns but this last plan,
To jest at tears and weep Man's mirth and Man.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Polyacrostic - Jest Gest
PLEASE NOTE:
PH formatting does not permit colour coding the palimpsests thus the different layouts of individual internal acrostics can for the moment only be identified in transposing every letter onto squared paper
The surface sonnet is thus online for the record as neither the vertical, diagonal or internal acrostics nor the anagrams are visible. A formatted version is online at http: //allpoetry.com/poem/2479961
The anagrams within the text are Dear dare a red read
other minor acrostic: Jane is found 4 times in adjacent letters in the text
3 Vertical Acrostics Jonathan Robin J
Double diagonal acrostic 1 Just a smile can J offer unto the Jest
Double diagonal acrostic 2 Just a smile can J offer readers Jaunt Jest
Enjoy!
_______________
J to J Jest Gest
Jingle verse to Jane luck's just jaunt jest.
Our expertise? - no orchestra in song,
no signature, as no fit joints run strong
as stars' graced art, for few see game addressed.
The care of each theme's wording to the test
here I spell out. Hark or read each line long.
A web admired, traced true, is set among
No word mixed Janus, your name's inset gest.
Reach soul. Oh dare to free the thread expressed.
Over all sweet sound, ends work to link, belong.
Best, ideas scan by. If thought inbinding's wrong
its warp reread in fairness, shriven guest.
Nut/kernel plan none smirk at, sense contest.
Judge, smile, hid joy glean from a jest red blessed.
26 December 2006
robi03_1529_robi03_0000 BSX_IXX
Jest Gest polyacrostic sonnet poem © Jonathan Robin
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Dear, Dare A Red Read - Polyacrostic
Jingle verse enjoy. In reversed jest
our game is hid - no orchestra in song, -
no signature, as no fit, link, strung strong
and taut traced are, for few see game addressed.
The care of each theme's wording to the test
here is pulled sharper. Read each line. Along
a web admired, placed true, is set among
new net mix dear. Note our name as none guessed.
Reach soul. Oh dare to free the thread expressed!
Over all sweet sound ends work to link, belong, -
bestirring can be. If thought inbinding's wrong
its warp reread in fairness, shriven guest!
Nut/kernel plan none smirk at, sense contest.
Judge, smile, and joy glean from a jest red blessed.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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A Confidence
UNCLE JOHN, he makes me tired;
Thinks 'at he's jest so all-fired
Smart, 'at he kin pick up, so,
Ever'thing he wants to know.
Tried to ketch me up last night,
But you bet I wouldn't bite.
I jest kep' the smoothes' face,
But I led him sich a chase,
Couldn't corner me, you bet —
I skipped all the traps he set.
Makin' out he wan'ed to know
Who was this an' that girl's beau;
So's he'd find out, don't you see,
Who was goin' 'long with me.
But I answers jest ez sly,
An' I never winks my eye,
Tell he hollers with a whirl,
'Look here, ain't you got a girl?'
Y' ought 'o seen me spread my eyes,
Like he'd took me by surprise,
An' I said, 'Oh, Uncle John,
Never thought o' havin' one.'
An' somehow that seemed to tickle
Him an' he shelled out a nickel.
Then you ought to seen me leave
Jest a-laffin' in my sleeve.
Fool him — well, I guess I did;
He ain't on to this here kid.
Got a girl! well, I guess yes,
Got a dozen more or less,
But I got one reely one,
Not no foolin' ner no fun;
Fur I'm sweet on her, you see,
An' I ruther guess 'at she
Must be kinder sweet on me,
So we're keepin' company.
Honest Injun! this is true,
Ever' word I'm tellin' you!
But you won't be sich a scab
Ez to run aroun' an' blab.
Mebbe 't ain't the way with you,
But you know some fellers do.
Spoils a girl to let her know
'At you talk about her so.
Don't you know her? her name's Liz,
Nicest girl in town she is.
Purty? oh, git out, you gilly —
Liz 'ud purt 'nigh knock you silly.
Y' ought 'o see her when she's dressed
All up in her Sunday best,
All the fellers nudgin' me,
An' a-whisperin', gemunee!
Betcher life 'at I feel proud
When she passes by the crowd.
'T's kinder nice to be a-goin'
With a girl 'at makes some showin' —
One you know 'at hain't no snide,
Makes you feel so satisfied.
An' I'll tell you she's a trump,
Never even seen her jump
Like some silly girls 'ud do,
When I'd hide and holier 'Boo!'
She'd jest laff an' say 'Git out!
What you hollerin' about?'
When some girls 'ud have a fit
That 'un don't git skeered a bit,
Never makes a bit o' row
When she sees a worm er cow.
Them kind's few an' far between;
Bravest girl I ever seen.
Tell you 'nuther thing she'll do,
Mebbe you won't think it's true,
But if she's jest got a dime
She 'll go halvers ever' time.
Ah, you goose, you needn't laff;
That's the kinder girl to have.
If you knowed her like I do,
Guess you'd kinder like her too.
Tell you somep'n' if you'll swear
You won't tell it anywhere.
Oh, you got to cross yer heart
Earnest, truly, 'fore I start.
Well, one day I kissed her cheek;
Gee, but I felt cheap an' weak,
'Cause at first she kinder flared,
'N', gracious goodness! I was scared.
But I needn't been, fer la!
Why, she never told her ma.
That's what I call grit, don't you?
Sich a girl's worth stickin' to.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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