It is a bare Moor that he goes over, and gets not a Cow.
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Beast Of Codden Moor
fear rides the beast of codden moor
the men are hunting the beast of
codden moor
it run, s as fast as legs will carry
it, s breath steam, s on air so crisp
it, s heart beats a tempo of it, s own
faster faster faster faster faster
you beast of codden moor
but men ride horse, s fast as wind
to catch a beast on codden moor
that falls and tumbles through the snow
upon codden moor
it raises a head of strengh and beauty
a horn of bone lies within the head
of a beast of codden moor
death comes quick as spears stab down
as swords swish as they find virgin flesh
on this beast of codden moor
poem by Graham Russell
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The Moor has done his duty, the Moor may go.
The Day’s Luxury
You came from the heath and moor,
Bringing their aromas through my open door;
They used to see each other, the heath and moor,
When school broke up, when there were no girls left.
I spoke to you about the luxury of a day
Which carried a snuggling bear, a teddy bear,
Impossible to play with all day long,
In a house of forest and fields.
I saw you wait as if spell-bound,
An unbelieving little boy,
Who cherished the land of virtues
And the acres of friendship.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Bare Necessities
Look for the bare necessities
The simple bare necessities
Forget about your worries and your strife
I mean the bare necessities
Old Mother Nature's recipes
That brings the bare necessities of life
Wherever I wander, wherever I roam
I couldn't be fonder of my big home
The bees are buzzin' in the tree
To make some honey just for me
When you look under the rocks and plants
And take a glance at the fancy ants
Then maybe try a few
The bare necessities of life will come to you
They'll come to you!
Look for the bare necessities
The simple bare necessities
Forget about your worries and your strife
I mean the bare necessities
That's why a bear can rest at ease
With just the bare necessities of life
Now when you pick a pawpaw
Or a prickly pear
And you prick a raw paw
Next time beware
Don't pick the prickly pear by the paw
When you pick a pear
Try to use the claw
But you don't need to use the claw
When you pick a pear of the big pawpaw
Have I given you a clue ?
The bare necessities of life will come to you
They'll come to you!
So just try and relax, yeah cool it
Fall apart in my backyard
'Cause let me tell you something little britches
If you act like that bee acts, uh uh
You're working too hard
And don't spend your time lookin' around
For something you want that can't be found
When you find out you can live without it
And go along not thinkin' about it
I'll tell you something true
The bare necessities of life will come to you
Look for the bare necessities
The simple bare necessities
Forget about your worries and your strife
I mean the bare necessities
That's why a bear can rest at ease
With just the bare necessities of life
The bare necessities of life will come to you
song performed by by Bowling For Soup
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Desolate
From the sad eaves the drip-drop of the rain!
The water washing at the latchel door;
A slow step plashing by upon the moor;
A single bleat far from the famished fold;
The clicking of an embered hearth and cold;
The rainy Robin tic-tac at the pane.
'So as it is with thee
Is it with me,
So as it is and it used not to be,
With thee used not to be,
Nor me.'
So singeth Robin on the willow tree,
The rainy robin tic-tac at the pane.
Here in this breast all day
The fire is dim and low,
Within I care not to stay,
Without I care not to go.
A sadness ever sings
Of unforgotten things,
And the bird of love is patting at the pane;
But the wintry water deepens at the door,
And a step is plashing by upon the moor
Into the dark upon the darkening moor,
And alas, alas, the drip-drop of the rain!
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Suffer Little Children
Over the moor, take me to the moor
Dig a shallow grave
And i'll lay me down
Over the moor, take me to the moor
Dig a shallow grave
And i'll lay me down
Lesley-anne, with your pretty white beads
Oh john, you'll never be a man
You'll never see your home again
Oh manchester, so much to answer for
Edward, see those alluring lights ?
Tonight will be your very last night
A woman said : "i know my son is dead
I'll never rest my hands on his sacred head"
Hindley wakes and hindley says :
Hindley wakes, hindley wakes, hindley wakes, and says :
"oh, wherever he has gone, i have gone"
But fresh lilaced moorland fields
Cannot hide the stolid stench of death
But fresh lilaced moorland fields
Cannot hide the stolid stench of death
Hindley wakes and says :
Hindley wakes, hindley wakes, hindley wakes, and says :
"oh, whatever he has done, i have done"
But this is no easy ride
For a child cries :
"find me ... find me, nothing more
We are on a sullen misty moor
We may be dead and we may be gone
But we will be, we will be, we will be, right by your side
Until the day you die
This is no easy ride
We will haunt you when you laugh
Yes, you could say we're a team
You might sleep
You might sleep
You might sleep
But you will never dream !
Oh, you might sleep
But you will never dream !
You might sleep
But you will never dream !
Oh manchester, so much to answer for
Oh manchester, so much to answer for
Oh, find me, find me !
Find me !
I'll haunt you when you laugh
Oh, i'll haunt you when you laugh
You might sleep
But you will ...
Oh ...
Over the moors, i'm on the moors
Oh, over the moors
Oh, the child is on the moors
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Old Army Blanket
Coarse and ruff quite often thread bare
The soldier did not seem to care
Let the enemy try to take if he dare;
Coarse and ruff quite often thread bare
Driving rain or snow wearing his blanket
Coarse and ruff quite often thread bare.
Being a soldier he could expect no better fare,
Coarse and ruff, quite often thread bare
His fight done, read over with a prayer
Wrapped in the old grey Army blanket
Coarse and ruff quite often thread bare.
He did his duty few could compare,
Coarse and ruff, quite often thread bare
poem by Derrick Fernie
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The Enemy Of Thyself
United we stand. Divided we fall.
This is how they've conquered us all.
Black from white
Rich from poor
Christian from Jew
Gentile from Moor.
Oh they are clever in so many ways.
And we acquiesce through all of our days.
Waiting for a Savior to help us now
Surely He's coming pretty soon somehow.
But what if He doesn't?
Tell me, what then?
Will it be left in
the hands of men?
God help us all if that is the case
for as we look into each other's face
We see
Black and white
Rich and poor
Christian and Jew
Gentile and Moor
and therein lies the disgrace.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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A Bronte Legend
They say she was a creature of the moor,
A lover of the angels, silence bound.
She sought no friendships. She was too remote,
Her sister Charlotte found.
I know she nursed her brother till he died,
Although she didn't like him; that she had
Housework and all the ironing to do,
Because her maids were bad.
And in the midst of it she wrote a book.
There could have been small leisure for the moor
Or wandering! She used to mend and sew,
The family was so poor.
Her brother died. But she died just as soon
As she had nursed dear Charlotte through the shock
Of Patrick's death. Contemplative? Well, well!
No Simeon of the Rock!
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Irish Air
Over the Wicklow mountains,
Where the air is pure as can be.
Over the hills and moor lands,
The waterfalls to see.
Spectacular the waters fall
Between the crevices deep,
To splash on rocks and boulders,
Down the mighty mountains steep.
The peat bogs on the moor land,
For fires to warm are toiled.
The men and women working.
Their clothes and hands are soiled.
But ‘tis worth the toil and strife
To see the Wicklow mountains dear.
To know the joy of being in Erin,
Where the air is crisp and clear.
You can keep your city factories,
And your office blocks so tall.
For to live and work in Ireland,
Is to know you have it all.
poem by Rosi Caswell
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Hope The Hornblower
'Hark ye, hark to the winding horn;
Sluggards, awake, and front the morn!
Hark ye, hark to the winding horn;
The sun's on meadow and mill.
Follow me, hearts that love the chase;
Follow me, feet that keep the pace:
Stirrup to stirrup we ride, we ride,
We ride by moor and hill.'
Huntsman, huntsman, whither away?
What is the quarry afoot to-day?
Huntsman, huntsman, whither away,
And what the game ye kill?
Is it the deer, that men may dine?
Is it the wolf that tears the kine?
What is the race ye ride, ye ride,
Ye ride by moor and hill?
'Ask not yet till the day be dead
What is the game that's forward fled,
Ask not yet till the day be dead
The game we follow still.
An echo it may be, floating past;
A shadow it may be, fading fast:
Shadow or echo, we ride, we ride,
We ride by moor and hill'
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Respect My Integrity
Bare me out
Why all these dought
I dare you to
Respect my integrity
For they say i am mad
Because of poverty
But whither rich or poor
All is vanity
I will shew my self wise
Or else fools be my adversary
I will seek eternity
I will always fight
For my dignity
Why all these dought
Bare me out
Humans bare me out
poem by Matt Ancient
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She Hears The Storm
There was a time in former years-
While my roof-tree was his-
When I should have been distressed by fears
At such a night as this!
I should have murmured anxiously,
'The prickling rain strikes cold;
His road is bare of hedge or tree,
And he is getting old.'
But now the fitful chimney-roar,
The drone of Thorncombe trees,
The Froom in flood upon the moor,
The mud of Mellstock Leaze,
The candle slanting sooty-wick'd,
The thuds upon the thatch,
The eaves drops on the window flicked,
The clanking garden-hatch,
And what they mean to wayfarers,
I scarcely heed or mind;
He has won that storm-tight roof of hers
Which Earth grants all her kind.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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She Hears the Storm
There was a time in former years--
While my roof-tree was his--
When I should have been distressed by fears
At such a night as this!
I should have murmured anxiously,
'The prickling rain strikes cold;
His road is bare of hedge or tree,
And he is getting old.'
But now the fitful chimney-roar,
The drone of Thorncombe trees,
The Froom in flood upon the moor,
The mud of Mellstock Leaze,
The candle slanting sooty-wick'd,
The thuds upon the thatch,
The eaves drops on the window flicked,
The clanking garden-hatch,
And what they mean to wayfarers,
I scarcely heed or mind;
He has won that storm-tight roof of hers
Which Earth grants all her kind.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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At the Moor
At the Moor
Wanderer in the blackened wind. Dry reeds whisper
in the stillness of the moor. A column of savage birds
ensues in the dawning sky.
Over murky waters they cross.
Uproar. From the crumbling shack
the black wings of rot flutter up.
Crippled birches sigh in the wind.
Evening in the forsaken tavern. The way home is shrouded
by the tender sadness of the grazing herd.
Night becomes manifest: toads emerge from the silver water.
Translated by Eric Plattner & Joseph Suglia
……………………………………………………………………
Am Moor
Wanderer im schwarzen Wind; leise flüstert das dürre Rohr
In der Stille des Moors. Am grauen Himmel
Ein Zug von wilden Vögeln folgt;
Quere über finsteren Wassern.
Aufruhr. In verfallener Hütte
Aufflattert mit schwarzen Flügeln die Fäulnis;
Verkrüppelte Birken seufzen im Wind.
Abend in verlassener Schenke. Den Heimweg umwittert
Die sanfte Schwermut grasender Herden,
Erscheinung der Nacht: Kröten tauchen aus silbernen Wassern.
poem by Georg Trakl
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The Bear and the Hare
The bear is always bare. I have never seen a bear who was not bare. Or does he or she wear a coat of hair? Where does he or she go to buy a coat of hair so that he or she won't be a bare bear? Coats cost money. Bare bears have no money.
But bears eat honey. Even bare bears eat honey. And this bear had a honey who wanted a coat of hair. So when she said to her honey, 'Honey, I want a coat of hair, but I have no money.', her honey replied, 'Honey, I have no money to buy a coat of hair. But I do have honey. Maybe I can sell my honey for money.' So he sold his honey for money so that his honey could have some money to buy a coat of hair and not be a bare bear.
This bear had a friend who was a hare. This hare has hair. Is he bare? He is not a bare bear but a hare and hares have hair. But he is a funny bunny and likes a sunny spot even when it is hot because he like to have fun in the sun. But this funny bunny could not find a sunny spot to go to have fun in the sun until one day a fair came to town.
The bear and hare of course went to the fair. What a pair! The fair was quite far so the bare bear and the hare with the hair decided to ride the street car. To ride the street car, they had to pay a fare. I say that was quite an affair - to see the bare bear and the hair paying for their fare. The bare bear had no pockets in which to carry any fare. The funny bunny had no honey to sell to get some money to pay the fare so that he could go to the fair. The fare cost ten cents. But that makes no sense. It isn't fair to make a bear who is bare and has no pockets to hold a fare or a funny bunny who has no honey to get money to pay a fare to go to the fair.
Subsequently, the bare bear barely got on the street car after the funny bunny hopped on, the bare bear and the hair were there sitting in chairs riding in the street car to the fair without paying any fare. Along the way they saw a mare. They did not care about the mare. They wanted to get to the fair. Have you every seen a bare bear sitting in a chair? I once saw a bare bear sitting in a chair at a fair but he wasn't bare.
To get into the fair the bare bear and the hair had to pay another fare. And still the bare bear had no money to pay any fare to get into the fair. And the funny bunny had no money to pay any fare to get into the fair. So what did they do? How did they get into the fair? As I said, I saw the bare bear sitting in a chair at the fair but he wasn't bare.
Tell me if this is a poem. Thanks.
poem by Ben Gieske
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Bare Windows
I look at the world
Through bare windows,
And see it all --
Bright sunlight,
Deep shadows,
Birds in flight,
Bare dead trees,
Thick tangled vines
That whisper in the breeze.
Fox hunts the mouse.
Snake slithers by
Shedding his dry skin house.
I look at the world
Through bare windows,
And I love it all.
poem by M. Elizabeth Barrett Doyle
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Seeing off Du Shisi South of the River
Jingzhou Dongwu mutual meet water for place
You go spring river now wide
Sunset travel sail where moor
End of sky one look break person heart
Jingzhou and Dongwu are both on the water,
You travel down the river in spring, now the level is high.
A sail is underway at sunset, what place will it moor?
Looking to the end of the sky can break a man's heart.
poem by Meng Haoran
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Jolly Good Ale and Old
Back and side go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.
I cannot eat but little meat,
My stomach is not good;
But sure I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
I am nothing a-cold;
I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.
I love no roast but a nutbrown toast,
And a crab laid in the fire;
A little bread shall do me stead,
Much bread I not desire.
No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if I would,
I am so wrapt, and throughly lapt
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.
And Tib my wife, that as her life
Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she, till ye may see
The tears run down her cheek.
Then doth she troll to me the bowl,
Even as a maltworm should;
And saith,"Sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old."
Back and side go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.
Now let them drink, till they nod and wink,
Even as good fellows should do;
They shall not miss to have the bliss
Good ale doth bring men to.
And all poor souls that have scoured bowls,
Or have them lustily troll'd,
God save the lives of them and their wives,
Whether they be young or old.
Back and side go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.
poem by William Stevenson
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