If the hill is on fire the grasshoppers are roasted.
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NOT 'Space Cadets
After it has been discovered
That grasshoppers 'hop'...
That's what they are going to do.
They're going to hop their green butts off!
No need to follow them,
To spy to see if they have other missions...
Other motivations!
They are GRASSHOPPERS!
NOT 'space cadets'!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Feeding The Fire
Released as b-side of land of confusion single, 1986.
You are terrified by the smallest sound
Because you live your life in such a sheltered world
As do those who surround you
Well I have seen you stung by poisonous flies
And you suffer much too much from their bites
There you sit in your comfort watching other people get caught by the
Storm
Many a thing that used to be a secret
Has become so talked about
Not worth a second thought
Theres different kinds of secrets now
Times change, its not enough to say
It seemed a good idea a hundred years ago
You think its not your problem
It really doesnt matter at all
Every stone thats thrown must fall to the ground
But you dont give a thought to where they might come down
You are feeding the fire over which youll be roasted
Anywhere that they dont speak the same
In any place that they dont think the same
You think its not your problem
No no
You think its not your problem
It really doesnt matter at all
Oh...
Maybe its not your fate to be a leader of men
But you just leave it all to someone else and complain
You could be so much stronger, but it really doesnt matter any longer
Cos youre feeding the fire over which youll be roasted
Cos youre feeding the fire over which youll be roasted
song performed by by Genesis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Goodness comes out of people who bask in the sun, as it does out of a sweet apple roasted before the fire.
quote by Charles Dudley Warner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My mom started smoking when she was 11. She went to the hill next door to try her first cigarette. She set the entire hill on fire, but it didn't deter her.
quote by Loni Anderson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Summer Days
love the summer days
a farm hut on the side of a hill
a bowl of fruits on the table
roasted chicken on banana leaf
upland rice on earthen jar
fresh water from the spring
a big mahogany tree for covering
your head on my shoulder
my hand on your hair
your feet above mine
under the night of stars
away from them all.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Roro's birthday
they strong men hauled
the videoke box on top of the hill
where the nipa hut stands
and they all connect the wires
beside the natural spring of water
and then Roro sits beside his
birthday cake and they all
sing
happy birthday dear son.
in a minute the roasted pig
turns into a makeshift
of bones
and then Tata and her mother
begins to dance
the chacha.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Up On The Hill
We come from a long line of lenders
Who get rich just exploiting you spenders
But now we just manage our blenders
Up, up, up on the hill
It helps to be charming and funny
Have cute names like binky and bunny
But the main things still oodles of money
Up, up, up on the hill
Up on the hill we are the big cheeses
Up on the hill we own the cool breezes
Top of the heap is where we know we belong
Up on the hill above the confusion
Up on the hill we live our illusions
Up, up, up on the hill
Marmalade mansions beneath cloudless skies
Breathtaking vistas that baffle your eyes
Were passing our days in a rare atmosphere
Sun, sea, and stars, and warm breezes all year
Our blood is decidedly blue-ish
Were leery of anything newish
And or course, darling, nobodys jewish
Up, up, up on the hill
Up on the hill we are the big cheeses
Up on the hill we own the cool breezes
The top of the heap is where we know we belong
Up on the hill above the confusion
Up on the hill we live our illusions
Up, up, up on the hill
Up, up, up on the hill
Way up, up, up on the hill
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Roasted On The Fire
In the middle of the road,
The birds of the air flew above me with a signal;
But you wre nowhere to be found.
Blemish,
Unleavened,
Must only be roasted on the fire!
But you wre nowhere to be found.
Villainy,
Disfigured,
Humiliated,
Greatly ashamed!
But you were nowhere to be found,
And the day ended with a sad note.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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It’s quiet, very quiet in the veldt
It’s quiet, very quiet in the veldt
even the crickets and grasshoppers
are without sound
and the chopper drones away
leaving me and Johnny
and a few other men
with a Bushmen tracker
to follow a enemy spoor
and suddenly we walk straight in
to a ambush, right into a trap
and Johnny is dead, shot through the head
and three others as well and it feels as if I am in hell
and I am talking to myself
trying to get my bearings while firing at the enemy,
killing some and throwing two grenades
to advice them of my serious intentions
and the enemy shooting stops, as does that
of me and my men and I smell death
and are nauseous to the point of retching
and it’s quiet, very quiet in the veldt
even the crickets and grasshoppers
are without sound.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Faux
In front of your eyes,
In front of your lips,
In front of the wilderness!
But roasted in the fire with the flavour of your love;
And what i know about you is what i write about.
Meticulously,
Perpetuity,
Foresightedly,
And like diligent taxpayers! !
But a faux-revolutionary political machine is what you have;
And many have gone hungry in the name of war.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Dirty old fire
Fire in my hair
Fire in my eyes
Fire between my thighs
Thank you for the fire
Fire gone and burned down my house
Fire deflowered me
Fire drew me in
Fire on the television
Fire dancing in the nude
Fire the best liar of them all
Thank you Fire
poem by Lindsay Crosby
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On My Way To Oz
The round green hill tops of Kansas call to me...
There is a kind of insanity in the grasses this day-
As the plain winds gust with no particular destination...
The lakes become a broken grey-rippled with waves;
All of the insects hold on for dear life...
To the bending stems and new poppy blossoms...
Crickets and grasshoppers give way finally to vertigo;
The Kansas Sun is trying to peek out...
From behind a fluffy cumulus cloud---
A few raindrops begin to fall and a Rainbow is formed-
Arched-to the West...
Informing me that i am not that far away from OZ;
September 29,2010
poem by Theodora Onken
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Fire on Your Finger
Fire on your finger,
Fire in your eye,
Fire in your spirit,
Fire that won’t die.
Fire in the bare bones of being,
Fire to uphold what’s right,
Fire in the heart of darkness,
Fire to fuel Love’s light.
Fire to burn but not consume,
Fire to learn and not assume,
Fire to live and give living room,
Fire to love and sing her tune.
poem by Tony Jolley
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Walking Through Fields Of Fire
I walk through fields of fire
With coals of fire beneath my feet
I sail through stormy waters
Guided by the mercy seat
The brimstones shortly coming
You must flee now from the wrath
For fire falls down from heaven
Yet I am guided by His staff
The narrow path through valleys dark
Leads onward to the hill
And all around the mountains fall
But our Lord says ' be still.'
Come higher now ascend the hill
My God atop He stands
And looks to see the pure in heart
To see those with clean hands
Who is this King lift up your head
And sing with all your might
The King of Glory is His name
His light defeats the night
He is God's Son, the Holy One
He puts and end to death and sin
Fall to your knees, lift up your hands
And the King of Glory shall come in!
poem by Frank McEleny
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A fight between grasshoppers is a joy to the crow.
The Hill
Who are those people
living at the top of the hill?
I don't know them.
I guess I never will.
Who are the people
that I see
living at the bottom of the hill
just like me?
We are the complainers
and we find it odd
that the ones at the top of the hill
think they're God.
We need to stop complainin'
and climb up the hill
and shout out loud
'We've had our fill.'
You're not Gods.
You never have been,
These hills where you're livin'
are filled with sin.
You've sinned against humanity
at the bottom of the hill.
And all that you'; ve done
is against God's will.
You're the imposters
with crowns on your head.
You are the laughables
that have been misled.
We, at the bottom of the hill
always will survive.
We'll do what we've always done
to keep our hopes alive.
We will pray.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Taking Things In Passing
you chide me for taking things
in passing and looking at them as though
they are tiny
ants on a hill
grasshoppers playing on the grass
moths circling around the light
fleas on the rug
i could have told you
that many days back in my youth
i was worshiping the sun
had time with flowers and took more
moments with the rivers
those were the huge things in my life
where i placed more significance
but then they were so hurting at times
and then i shun
what we think are important
i like the dips and i stay on the surface
of things
no longer wanting to swim but you may see me
(not miraculously)
walk on top of the water
gliding on the shimmer of its skin
and then without the use of so many words
i leave and then go away and what you always see
(though this may not be true after all)
is always the happiness subsumed in my
suppressed smile.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Different fields, different grasshoppers; different seas, different fish.
A Ballad of Ducks
The railway rattled and roared and swung
With jolting and bumping trucks.
The sun, like a billiard red ball, hung
In the Western sky: and the tireless tongue
Of the wild-eyed man in the corner told
This terrible tale of the days of old,
And the party that ought to have kept the ducks.
"Well, it ain't all joy bein' on the land
With an overdraft that'd knock you flat;
And the rabbits have pretty well took command;
But the hardest thing for a man to stand
Is the feller who says 'Well I told you so!
You should ha' done this way, don't you know!' --
I could lay a bait for a man like that.
"The grasshoppers struck us in ninety-one
And what they leave -- well, it ain't de luxe.
But a growlin' fault-findin' son of a gun
Who'd lent some money to stock our run --
I said they'd eaten what grass we had --
Says he, 'Your management's very bad;
You had a right to have kept some ducks!'
"To have kept some ducks! And the place was white!
Wherever you went you had to tread
On grasshoppers guzzlin' day and night;
And then with a swoosh they rose in flight,
If you didn't look out for yourself they'd fly
Like bullets into your open eye
And knock it out of the back of your head.
"There isn't a turkey or goose or swan,
Or a duck that quacks, or a hen that clucks,
Can make a difference on a run
When a grasshopper plague has once begun;
'If you'd finance us,' I says, 'I'd buy
Ten thousand emus and have a try;
The job,' I says, 'is too big for ducks!
"'You must fetch a duck when you come to stay;
A great big duck -- a Muscovy toff --
Ready and fit,' I says, 'for the fray;
And if the grasshoppers come our way
You turn your duck into the lucerne patch,
And I'd be ready to make a match
That the grasshoppers eat his feathers off!"
"He came to visit us by and by,
And it just so happened one day in spring
A kind of cloud came over the sky --
A wall of grasshoppers nine miles high,
And nine miles thick, and nine hundred wide,
Flyin' in regiments, side by side,
And eatin' up every living thing.
"All day long, like a shower of rain,
You'd hear 'em smackin' against the wall,
Tap, tap, tap, on the window pane,
And they'd rise and jump at the house again
Till their crippled carcasses piled outside.
But what did it matter if thousands died --
A million wouldn't be missed at all.
"We were drinkin' grasshoppers -- so to speak --
Till we skimmed their carcasses off the spring;
And they fell so thick in the station creek
They choked the waterholes all the week.
There was scarcely room for a trout to rise,
And they'd only take artificial flies --
They got so sick of the real thing.
"An Arctic snowstorm was beat to rags
When the hoppers rose for their morning flight
With the flapping noise like a million flags:
And the kitchen chimney was stuffed with bags
For they'd fall right into the fire, and fry
Till the cook sat down and began to cry --
And never a duck or fowl in sight.
"We strolled across to the railroad track --
Under a cover beneath some trucks,
I sees a feather and hears a quack;
I stoops and I pulls the tarpaulin back --
Every duck in the place was there,
No good to them was the open air.
'Mister,' I says, 'There's your blanky ducks!'"
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Twice As Much
Red-red-red-wine!
Red-red-red-wine on my lips and,
I am about to say something;
But the sweet of the meat is in the eater.
Does not the rain has a father?
Does not the rain has a mother?
For my ears have heard of you but now,
My own eyes have seen you too.
Twice as much,
As beautiful as the daughters of Iyyob;
For the stone which the builders rejected had become the head.
Today, i am the stone and you are my lover;
For i am the headstone of the corner.
Come and work in my vineyard,
And come and quench my heart with love;
Like a roasted turkey and cranbery source from Turkey.
Today you are mine and,
Like a roasted guinea-fowl from Guinea!
Come and make love tom me my sweet one.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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