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Do Bears
Rowan Atkinson:
For years I thought
I'd have to live alone
I never got a letter
Had to disconnect the phone
The only girls I ever saw
Were on TV
But now I've got a Venus
Who's sitting next to me
Both:
Do I love you?
Do I want you?
Would I give my life
To you if I could?
Do birds fly?
Do fish swim?
And do bears sha-la-la-la-la
In the woods?
Rowan:
I met her in the first class lounge
Of a jumbo jet
It was love at first sight
Romeo and Juliet
Kate:
He looked pretty rich
And I was down on m' luck
So I charged him a fortune
For a flying f...
Rowan:
...for crying out loud!
Both:
Do I love you?
Do I want you?
Would I sacrifice my life
To you if I could?
Is the Pope Catholic?
Is Luxembourg small?
And do those hairy bears shhh...
In the woods?
Rowan:
I introduced her round my friends
She was ace
I was no longer on Earth
But in better place
Kate:
He's an utter creep and he
Drives me round the bend
And so to alleviate the boredom
I sleep with his friends
Rowan:
Ho ha ho
Both:
Do I love you?
Do I want you?
Kate:
Would I tear out both my eyes
And fry them if I could?
Both:
Is the Bible fiction?
Is True Love a contradiction?
And do bears sha-la-la-la-la
In the woods?
Do I desire you?
Do I adore you?
Rowan:
Would I cut off all my toenails
And put them in an envelope with my feet?
Both:
Is Reagan Godhead?
Is Chairman Mao dead?
And do those bears sha-la-la-la-la?
Rowan [really Tim Brooke-Taylor]:
La-la-la-la-la-la-la-ah
Kate:
Mmmmm...
Rowan [Tim]:
And do those bears sha-la-la-la-la?
La-la-la-la-la-la-la-ah
Kate:
Ahoo Ahoo
Yeah-ye-yeah Yeah-ye-yeah
Both:
Do those bears sha-la-la-la-ah?
Rowan:
On Main Street
Kate:
Oh Yeah Yeah-ye-yeah
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Barberry-Bush
The bush that has most briers and bitter fruit
Waits till the frost has turned its green leaves red,
Its sweetened berries will thy palate suit,
And thou mayst find e'en there a homely bread;
Upon the hills of Salem scattered wide,
Their yellow blossoms gain the eye in Spring;
And straggling e'en upon the turnpike's side,
Their ripened branches to your hand they bring;
I've plucked them oft in boyhood's early hour,
That then I gave such name, and thought it true;
But now I know that other fruit as sour,
Grows on what now thou callst Me and You;
Yet wilt thou wait the autumn that I see,
Will sweeter taste than these red berries be.
poem by Jones Very
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Smoke rings
Didn't life see us dance?
In the arms of death,
That giver of breath, if, so.
What commodities, do
These smoke rings have left.
Surely in essences burned
It is purer, watered and fed.
Better than a single scant,
Mountain-rowan tree:
Whose berries be amber
Pink, white or red,
Who amongst us need lodgings?
When vapours condense
Beyond the rip-shore-tides
Of flesh: Better to be, the
Music; never heard sung.
Than one, that has rung.
And rung, and rung...
Only to be virulently alive!
But;
Still in essence, tone deaf.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Forest Of Berries
The forest expected it, the woods create,
A storm has arrived with the leaves;
Wind blew and created, the leaves turned,
Bellies adjusted to the food.
What were berries? The berry is wonderful,
For the strawberry is the best.
A forest of leaves crazes me, as no other,
Never in too many lives does it create.
Tomorrow it lies with leaves and more,
The best berries are for me, the law;
When are you expected to dance?
The hour is near when the berries are present.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Appearances
I hated them when I was four years old,
The bright pink berries on the pepper tree.
And now they seem quite beautiful to me.
My tower of dreams when I was four years old
Was such a tree. Its branches hid me well,
Although I so disliked the berries' smell.
I had my dreams when I was four years old . . .
But groundling now, who once could mount in air,
I judge the high-swung bright pink berries, fair.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Ode to A Sour Pickle
Ode to a sour pickle,
To pucker up your puss.
Lay down a shiny nickel,
Come on, don't be a wuss.
The heck with kosher dills,
And sweet little pickles too.
It's sour pickles for your gills,
Can't take a thing in lieu.
A big ole sour pickle,
Will bring on a grimace.
Where they're concerned I'm fickle,
Please bear me no malice.
12/23/10 Alton Texas
poem by by unknown author
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an unhappy childhood of this man who names himself 'I'.....
i've seen this picture of you
on that far corner of the world
land of snow and you are inside that very thick
winter clothes
there is that smile in your face
and i am taking a closer look
it is sour.
i know what sour is. I've been one for forty years
wearing that
sour smile, and i have many reasons why a smile must be sour
for forty years
the reasons are sour
very sour
beyond those tastes of a hundred green lemons
or a green mango with some disturbing gums on its mouth
i burned all my pictures in college
except those when i was yet a boy beside my mama and our white dog
i was in grade one and i did not like school and mama forced me into it
i was selling chocolates and i ate them all and mama was mad at me and beat me with a stick
papa did not like me reading books as he does not know how to read
i climb trees and hide on the leaves and read stories
in our dialect and draw some pictures of women without their dresses on
you see i still have this picture of myself riding a carabao and hauling some wood and coconut palms
i take a close look of my own smile, It is very sour
and it tastes like yours, but perhaps mine is the worst
but i am happy now, i know how to suppress sour smiles, i know how to manage and project myself
i smile like a cow now, and laugh like a horse
because all of them are dead.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What Is It That You Like?
don't you like this sweetness
of my words?
you are bored with this sugar
and honey
and cream?
you are afraid you have become
sick of such
sweet tongue
such sweet indulgence?
oh, you want something bitter
something sour now?
some bitter herbs some sour
species of green lemons?
try me,
i am a bitter person
i am the latest delicacy of
all that is sour
and
decomposing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Poor French Sailor’s Scottish Sweetheart
I CANNOT forget my Joe,
I bid him be mine in sleep;
But battle and woe have changed him so
There ’s nothing to do but weep.
My mother rebukes me yet,
And I never was meek before;
His jacket is wet, his lip cold set,
He ’ll trouble our home no more.
Oh, breaker of reeds that bend!
Oh, quencher of tow that smokes!
I ’d rather descend to my sailor friend
Than prosper with lofty folks.
I ’m lying beside the gowan,
My Joe in the English bay;
I ’m Annie Rowan, his Annie Rowan,
He called me his Bien-Aimée.
I ’ll hearken to all you quote,
Though I ’d rather be deaf and free;
The little he wrote in the sinking boat
Is Bible and charm for me.
poem by William Johnson Cory
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The Sodger's Lassie
A'the toun is to the doun
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Ab's gane, Rab's gane,
Aggie's gane, Maggie's gane,
A' the toun is to the doun,
An's left the house to wae and me.
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha'll hae a blaeberrie?
Ah, to min' o' auld lang syne,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
Sodger Tam, he cam an' cam,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie;
Still I went, an' still I bent,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Berries high, an' berries low,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Tam maun come where berries grow,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha'll hae a blaeberrie?
Ah, to min' o' auld lang syne,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
Never ance I looked at Tam,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Weel I kent him when he cam,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Baith our faces to the groun',
Puin' o' the blaeberrie,
Tam cam near without a soun',
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wow! but we were near, I ween,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
A' the air was warm between,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Could a lassie think o' ill,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie?
Berries e'en grow where they will,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Berries here, an' berries there,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
I was kissed or I was ware,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Wha wad fash wi' ane anither
Puin' o' the blaeberrie?
Berries whiles will grow thegither,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
I was kissed or I could speer,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Hech! that folk sud come sae near,
A' to pu' a blaeberrie!
While I grat and chid forbye,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Doun we sat-I ken na why-
A' amang the blaeberrie.
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha 'll hae a blaeberrie?
Oh, to min' o' auld lang syne,
A' amang the blaeberrie!
Sidelong Tam he cam an' cam
A' amang the blaeberrie.
Wha could tell he meant na fair?
Weel I ken I chid him sair,
But that day we gaed na mair
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha 'll hae a blaeberrie?
Oh, to min' o' auld lang syne,
Doun amang the blaeberrie!
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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The Taste Of Strawberry
I am not sure if every one of my family is entirely pround of what and how I am.
My grandmother turned 101 years old the other day.
I am the nearest one to visit her.
Last week I brought some fresh strawberries to her.
It was a beautiful day.
She happened to tell me the most special thing I had ever heard.
'Even if someone great in Japan came bearing these berries to eat together, they wouldn't be as tasty as these.'
I had never felt myself important to somebody else.
I will never forget the taste of berries in 2012.
The Fruity Taste of Life
Sweet and sour is life
What yours shall be, destiny shall contrive
But dependence on destiny shall decrease
And it will then depend on you, my friend decrees
What say you to that?
What surprise can pull from the hat?
Think of the sweet Tangerine
Perhaps you would, the sour Tamarind
They both spell L-I-F-E
For not even in strife
Shall the sweet in Tangerine
Be comparable to the sour in Tamarind
poem by Maureen Oby Iwueke Gbagir
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Strawberries dipped in Chocolate;
Commotion on my tongue,
The delectable berries are young,
These berries are alone like a canyon,
They long for a candy-coated companion.
My eyes creep over to the kitchen counter-top,
As my jaw takes a deep drop,
A jar of luscious milk chocolates waiting for me,
And then I thought of a wonderful idea, strawberries dipped in
Chocolate served with tea!
I take out pure, creamy butter along with an effulgent, silver saucepan,
And pour some two-percent milk out of its can.
Then out of the Hershey’s, I take seven precise pieces,
And save the rest of the delicacies for my mamma’s nieces.
The chocolaty mixture bubbles like lava in a volcano,
As I try a spoonful the taste is bursting like a tornado,
I take one of the blood red berries,
And dip it in the mixture that is as heavenly as a bunch of cherries.
Commotion on my tongue,
The delectable berries aren’t young,
And as I pull out another berry from my pocket,
I realize that I have fallen in love with strawberries dipped in chocolate.
poem by Michelle Melnicky
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Sour
some fruits are loved
for their being sour
it is their sourness
that reminds of their essence
like the green mango
it is even missed more
than when it ripened
but with you my love
do not worry
sour or sweet or bitter
we will always be together
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Tree Of Scarlet Berries
The rain gullies the garden paths
And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades.
A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist.
Even so, I can see that it has red berries,
A scarlet fruit,
Filmed over with moisture.
It seems as though the rain,
Dripping from it,
Should be tinged with colour.
I desire the berries,
But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns.
Probably, too, they are bitter.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Hutch
of her arms, this was her sin:
where the wood berries bin
of forest was new and full,
she crept out by its tall
posts, those wooden legs,
and heard the sound of wild pigs.
calling and did not wait nor care.
The leaves wept in her hair
as she sank to a pit of needles
and twisted out the ivyless
gate, where the wood berries bin
was full and a pig came in.
poem by Anne Sexton
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Song Seven
Song Seven
you cant sit up
you fell too fast
you come at the right time
you come too fast
you bloom in spring
you move the sky
youve come in singing
you call me a liar
you were like a cloud
yes you are a flower
then you were a lime
now our love is sour
you were like a flower
you were just like a flower
then you were a lime
now our love is sour
dont give up (I owe you)
no dont give up
oh dont give up
dont give up (I owe you)
you were like a cloud
yes you were a flower
then you were a lime
now our love is sour
you were like a cloud
you were just like a flower
then you were a lime
now our love is sour
here I feel I wish I could just see it
the love the hate the things that separate
forcing conscious to conscious every small attack
it takes a small man to notice but not to act up
confrontation complication needs a foundation
I'm calm baby, I'm calm
you were like a cloud
yes you are a flower you move i love life is all we need
then you were a lime
now our love is so sour you move i love life is all we need
so sour
so sour
dont give up
no dont give up
oh dont give up
no dont give up
start again butterfly
start again butterfly
start again butterfly
start again, start again dear
song performed by by Interpol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wilderness
I came too late to the hills: they were swept bare
Winters before I was born of song and story,
Of spell or speech with power of oracle or invocation,
The great ash long dead by a roofless house, its branches rotten,
The voice of the crows an inarticulate cry,
And from the wells and springs the holy water ebbed away.
A child I ran in the wind on a withered moor
Crying out after those great presences who were not there,
Long lost in the forgetfulness of the forgotten.
Only the archaic forms themselves could tell!
In sacred speech of hoodie on gray stone, or hawk in air,
Of Eden where the lonely rowan bends over the dark pool.
Yet I have glimpsed the bright mountain behind the mountain,
Knowledge under the leaves, tasted the bitter berries red,
Drunk water cold and clear from an inexhaustible hidden fountain.
poem by Kathleen Jessie Raine
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Berries! ! ! ! !
Mulberries
On a visit to granny in the Doon valley
It was March, the old tree full of Mulberries.
Red, purple teasing from far, ran with cane basket.
Picked one, ate some while the birds created a racket.
Strawberries
Strawberri es in white boxes, one atop other
The hawker sat on his knees, said go no further.
I protest too expensive, not for the masses.
Rich eat raw, make a tart or with cream in glasses.
Wild Berries
On way back from school at noon, attack wild berries.
Are for free and so yummy, home a lot we carry.
We laugh and shriek as our skirts get stuck in thorns,
Satiated, come back home, with berries, skirt torn
Written in ancient japanese form Sitigotyo
06.04.09
Mamta Agarwal
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Ghazal 119
I don't need
a companion who is
nasty sad and sour
the one who is
like a grave
dark depressing and bitter
a sweetheart is a mirror
a friend a delicious cake
it isn't worth spending
an hour with anyone else
a companion who is
in love only with the self
has five distinct characters
stone hearted
unsure of every step
lazy and disinterested
keeping a poisonous face
the more this companion waits around
the more bitter everything will get
just like a vinegar
getting more sour with time
enough is said about
sour and bitter faces
a heart filled with desire for
sweetness and tender souls
must not waste itself with unsavory matters