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Hej Gamle Man
Han str ptorget varje dag
En vnlig gammal man
Hans hr r lite grnat
Under mssans rda band
Med blanka knappor I sin rock
Och bssan I sin hand
Han vet nog ganska vl
Vad vi vill frga om ibland
Hej gamla man!
Kan du visa oss den vg som vi ska gfr at fkomma dit som vi vill n
Hej gamla man!
Kanske r det vi som gr ngot fel nddu har ju allt som vi har svrt att f
Han verkar kanske trtt ibland
Vem skulle vl rmed
Att lysa upp en vg fr ngon
Som aldrig kunnat se
Men trots att han har stott dr nu
I alla dessa r
Sverkar det phonom som har kommit dit igr
Hej gamle man!
Kan du visa oss den vg som vi ska gfr at fkomma dit som vi vill n
Hej gamle man!
Kanske r det vi som gr ngot fel nddu har ju allt som vi har svrt att f
Hej gamla man!
Kan du visa oss den vg som vi ska gfr at fkomma dit som vi vill n
Hej gamla man!
Kanske r det vi som gr ngot fel nddu har ju allt som vi har svrt att f
song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Magpie and the Young Dove
On the ground they struck each other
with their wings out stretched.
But the dove was so much smaller
and couldn’t evade the magpie’s pecks.
As feathers flew, it held down the dove
with its powerful grasping claws.
Once, twice, three times, it pecked,
and again several times more.
The tired dove’s resistance vanished
as the magpie took one hop back.
It stood admiring the results of its conflict
before making its final attack.
This brief encounter was nearly over,
the dove turned to face the magpie,
but then a dog approached the scene
and the magpie flew into the sky.
Keeping a close watch over its prey,
it waited in a nearby tree.
The dog lost interest and sauntered away,
giving the magpie opportunity.
One hop then two, it approached for the kill,
but the dog returned to save the day.
This time the magpie didn’t come back,
and the dove recovered to fly away.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On Hearing A White Backed Magpie Singing In The Rain
The white backed magpie singing and skies so gloomy gray
And magpie does sound happy on such a gloomy day
But why is magpie happy what reason for his joy
All in the depths of Winter this morning in July? .
The rain come down in torrents and dark clouds o'er the hill
And freshening winds blow colder the breath of winter chill
The raindrops freely running adown the window pane
And still the magpie singing and whistling in the rain.
Why is the magpie singing what reason for his cheer
On this cold day in winter the wettest of the year?
The wettest day of Winter the wind blow cold and strong
And merry magpie singing his distinct happy song.
The white backed magpie piping his happy melody
On wettest day in Winter on rain soaked blackwood tree
And I ponder the question the simple question why?
The magpie feel so happy on wet day in July.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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3. Unfair Trade
The magpie had opened a jeweller’s
With his liking for silver and gold
Went shopping for stock in the sunlight
Where it shone till his beak took a hold
He wasn’t too keen on the rubies
Though a diamond could shine pretty bright
A gold pocket watch with it’s chain on
Filled magpie with such great delight
Alas his shop put up the shutters
Poor magpie to jail now has gone
Raven police said stocks not paid for
And all got claimed back one by one
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Det Står En Stuga Någonstans i Skogen
Det står en stuga någonstans i skogen
Vem fan valde att bo där?
Dagarna fördrivs genom att vänta på besök
Och tala med träd
Men ingen någonsin kommer
Och träden svarar inte tillbaka.
Fåglarna skiter på ditt hus, gamle man,
Ingen vill ha dig här
Ingen vill ens se dig
För du är ful som fan
Starksprit, det är din inbillade vän
Men att supa tar dig inte härifrån
Är man dum och bor i den öde skogen
I en depressiv jävla koja…
För fan karl, ta ditt liv!
poem by by unknown author
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Flute-Priest Song For Rain
Whistle under the water,
Make the water bubble to the tones of the flute.
I call the bluebirds song into the water:
Wee-kee! Wee-kee-kee!
Dawn is coming,
The morning star shines upon us.
Bluebird singing to the West clouds,
Bring the humming rain.
Water-rattles shake,
Flute whistles,
Star in Heaven shines.
I blow the oriole's song,
The yellow song of the North.
I call rain clouds with my rattles:
Wee-kee-kee, oriole.
Pattering rain.
To the South I blow my whistle,
To the red parrot of the South I call.
Send red lightning,
Under your wings
The forked lightning.
Thunder-rattles whirl
To the sky waters.
Fill the springs.
The water is moving.
Wait -
Whistle to the East
With a magpie voice.
Wee-kee! Wee-kee-kee!
Call the storm-clouds
That they come rushing.
Call the loud rain.
Why does it not come?
Who is bad?
Whose heart is evil?
Who has done wickedness?
I weep,
I rend my garments,
I grieve for the sin which is in this place.
My flute sobs with the voice of all birds in the water.
Even to the six directions I weep and despair.
Come, O winds, from the sides of the sky,
Open your bird-beaks that rain may fall down.
Drench our fields, our houses,
Fill the land
With tumult of rain.
poem by Amy Lowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Two Birds Wished To Be Friendly
1 Two birds wished to be friendly
I was the messenger winged
Hither thither cuckoo and magpie
Two birds wished to be friendly
'Come here, o' dear, come here'
coo~~coo~~coo~~~in rising notes
Two birds wished to be friendly
I was the messenger winged
2 Hither thither cuckoo and magpie
Two birds wished to be friendly
I was the messenger winged
Hither thither cuckoo and magpie
Warbling, whistling, fluty trilling
Magpie just couldn't let me read
Hither thither cuckoo and magpie
Two birds wished to be friendly
3 Two birds wished to be friendly
I was the messenger plucked punished
Gloomed cuckoo, confused magpie
Two birds wished to be friendly
Reading failing, messaging failing
Loamy homey cuckoo angry with me
Two birds wished to be friendly
I was the messenger plucked punished
poem by Indira Renganathan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Best Day Of The Year
This morning very early I heard the magpie sing
And suddenly it dawned on me it's the first day of Spring
The dawning of September and on the stringybark
The white backed magpie whistled sweet music in the dark.
The first day of September the best day of the year
That is if you are living in the Southern Hemisphere
For Spring the Season of beauty and of greenery and youth
A time of bloom and grass growth when seedlings take to root
The Spring came in at midnight from places far away
She crept in through the darkness for her annual three months stay
And magpie he woke early on the stringybark tree
And for the welcome visitor piped his sweetest melody.
This morning very early before the dawn of day
The magpie welcomed the visitor from places far away
And the first day of September the best day of the year
That is if you are living in the Southern Hemisphere.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Magpiety
The same and not quite the same, I walked through oak forests
Amazed that my Muse, Mnemosyne,
Has in no way diminished my amazement.
A magpie was screeching and I said: Magpiety?
What is magpiety? I shall never achieve
A magpie heart, a hairy nostril over the beak, a flight
That always renews just when coming down,
And so I shall never comprehend magpiety.
If however magpiety does not exist
My nature does not exist either.
Who would have guessed that, centuries later,
I would invent the question of universals?
poem by Czeslaw Milosz
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I ended up living at OJ's because Nicole bought a home that no longer had a guest house. OJ offered his guest house to me. Anybody in LA looking for a place knows the best places to live are guest houses.
quote by Kato Kaelin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Good Morning Mr Magpie
'Good Morning Mr Magpie'
She saluted, then returned to her grounded
fact-based faith in her own impersonal reality.
Dismissal of her own superstitions,
seemed impossible.
She'd put it down to hard-ass habits
and the cudgels of conditioning
with which we all are kneaded.
Meanwhile in the treetops,
the wood pigeons were rallying.
The magpie's attention saw no salutes,
just a glint of an egg in a ray from the sun.
He cared not who had moved the branch
that let the sunlight through.
He cared not how, an avalanche
had spawned a breeze that this way blew.
He cared not how the leaves had parted
just as he had chanced to fly
through places where the pigeons darted,
inviting his unwelcomed eye.
He held no concept of the quandry
filling his spectator's mind.
She paused, when pegging out her laundry,
and branded Nature, so unkind.
Cold coveter of shiny things, just as so many men...
'Good Morning Mr Magpie', she saluted once again.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Guest Is 'Trouble
There is a guest and a host
child and servant,
eternity and vanity,
The guest is trouble.
In sickness, health is the host
he gives way to sickness
that the power of truth is depicted
the guest is 'trouble'
In pain, comfort is the host
who concedes the pain
that the vanity of darkness is depicted
the guest is 'trouble'
In death, life is the host
who gives way to death
that the power of resurrection is shown
the guest is 'trouble'
Life is eternal, death is a moment.
health is a fruit, sickness is a leaf
that falls from a tree of life.
They soon wither and waste away.
Be strong, it's not too long
the guest will leave.
and the host will have it all
The guest is 'trouble'
poem by Timothy muggaga
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Brought From Beyond
The magpie and the bowerbird, its odd
predilection unheard of by Marco Polo
when he came upon, high in Badakhshan,
that blue stone’s
embedded glint of pyrites, like the dance
of light on water, or of angels
(the surface tension of the Absolute)
on nothing,
turned, by processes already ancient,
into pigment: ultramarine, brought from
beyond the water it’s the seeming
color of,
and of the berries, blooms and pebbles
finickingly garnishing an avian
shrine or bower with the rarest hue
in nature,
whatever nature is: the magpie’s eye for
glitter from the clenched fist of
the Mesozoic folding: the creek sands,
the mine shaft,
the siftings and burnishings, the ingot,
the pagan artifact: to propagate
the faith, to find the metal, unearth it,
hoard it up,
to, by the gilding of basilicas,
transmute it: O magpie, O bowerbird,
O Marco Polo and Coronado, where do
these things, these
fabrications, come from—the holy places,
ark and altarpiece, the aureoles,
the seraphim—and underneath it all
the howling?
poem by Amy Clampitt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Twelve Days of Christmas – Walking
One fall while walking a path beside the Snake River I spotted a baby's pacifier hanging on a tree limb just over our heads. It caused me to start singing these words to the 12 Days of Christmas tune.
On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me
A pacifier in a bare tree
On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Two diaper pails
and a pacifier in a bare tree
On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Three baby rattles
Two diaper pails
and a pacifier in a bare tree
On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Four Lysol bottles
Three baby rattles
Two diaper pails
and a pacifier in a bare tree
On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Five baby bibs
Four Lysol bottles
Three baby rattles
Two diaper pails
and a pacifier in a bare tree
On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Six baby booties
Five baby bibs
Four Lysol bottles
Three baby rattles
Two diaper pails
and a pacifier in a bare tree
On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Seven hours of bawling
Six baby booties
Five baby bibs
Four Lysol bottles
Three baby rattles
Two diaper pails
and a pacifier in a bare tree
On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Eight baby blankets
Seven hours of bawling
Six baby booties
Five baby bibs
Four Lysol bottles
Three baby rattles
Two diaper pails
and a pacifier in a bare tree
On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Nine burps a burbling
Eight baby blankets
Seven hours of bawling
Six baby booties
Five baby bibs
Four Lysol bottles
Three baby rattles
Two diaper pails
and a pacifier in a bare tree
On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Ten baby bottles
Nine burps a burbling
Eight baby blankets
Seven hours of bawling
Six baby booties
Five baby bibs
Four Lysol bottles
Three baby rattles
Two diaper pails
and a pacifier in a bare tree
On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Eleven diapers piled up
Ten baby bottles
Nine burps a burbling
Eight baby blankets
Seven hours of bawling
Six baby booties
Five baby bibs
Four Lysol bottles
Three baby rattles
Two diaper pails
and a pacifier in a bare tree
On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Twelve fifths of brandy
Eleven diapers piled up
Ten baby bottles
Nine burps a burbling
Eight baby blankets
Seven hours of bawling
Six baby booties
Five baby bibs
Four Lysol bottles
Three baby rattles
Two diaper pails
and a pacifier in a bare tree
poem by James L. A. Huetson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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From The Italian
AS a little child whom his mother has chidden,
Wrecked in the dark in a storm of weeping,
Sleeps with his tear-stained eyes closed hidden
And, with fists clenched, sobs still in his sleeping,
So in my breast sleeps Love, O white lady,
What does he care though the rest are playing,
With rattles and drums in the woodlands shady,
Happy children, whom Joy takes maying!
Ah, do not wake him, lest you should hear him
Scolding the others, breaking their rattles,
Smashing their drums, when their play comes near him--
Love who, for me, is a god of battles!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Mine Katrine
You vouldn't dink mine frau If you shust look at her now, Vhere der wrinkles on her prow
Long haf been,
Vas der frdulein blump und fair, Mit der wafy flaxen hair, Who did vonce mine heart enshnare—
Mine Katrine.
Der dime seems shord to me Since ve game acrosd der sea, To der gountry off der free Ve'd neffer seen;
Bud ve hear der beople say Dhere vas vork und blendy bay, So I shtarted righdt avay Mit Katrine.
Oh, der shoy dot filled mine house Vhen dot goot oldt Toctor Krauss Brought us "Leedle Yawcob Strauss,"
Shveet und clean; Vhy, I don'd pelief mine eyes Vhen I look, now, mit surbrise, On dot feller, shust der size
Off Katrine!
Den "dot leedle babe off mine," He vas grown so tall und fine— Shust so sdrait as any pine You effer seen,
Und der beoples all agree Sooch fine poys dhey neffer see. (Dhey looks much more like ine As Katrine.)
Veil, ve haf our criefs und shoys, Und dhere's naught our lofe destroys, Budt I miss dhose leedle poys
Dot used to been; Und der tears vill somedime sdart, Und I feels so sick at heart, Vhen I dinks I soon must part
From Katrine.
Oldt Time vill soon pe here, Mit his sickle und his shpear, Und vill vhisper in mine ear Mit sober mien:
" You must cooin along mit me, For id vas der Lord's decree; Und von day dhose poys you'll see Und Katrine."
poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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One for Sorrow; Two for Joy
Good morning Mr Magpie
alone again, like me
I greet you then I bless myself
and hope that I shall see
your lady busy in the trees
up here in Jagger Green.
The wind is soft and urgent
on the pale green Yorkshire hills
rooks fuss in high bare branches
looking down on silent mills
and the magpie is a single bird
up here in Jagger Green.
I watched him as he rested
in the Mayday morning light
then hard and low and straight there came
another flash of black and white
and the sun is like a woman's kiss
up here in Jagger Green.
poem by Hugh Mitchell
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It's Raining In Wonthaggi
On the gum tree in the garden white backed magpie flutes his song
But it's raining in Wonthaggi and the wind is blowing strong
Two days back it was so balmy around twenty five degrees
It was perfect Summer weather with the faintest cooling breeze.
In south Gippsland's changing weather it can change from day to day
And the old timers who live here say it's always been this way
And when it's raining in Wonthaggi there's a strong wind from the sea
And on such inclememt weather indoors is the place to be.
And the magpie he keeps singing I can see him through the pane
And for some strange sort of reason he seems happy in the rain
Though birds sing their best and sweetest on their breeding days in Spring
On wet and changing weather you can also hear them sing.
It is windy in Wonthaggi and the rain is pouring down
And storm water drains are flooded all around the country Town
But the magpie seems quite happy he feels moved to melody
And he celebrate the downpour on high branch of old gum tree.
poem by Francis Duggan
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But also, the guest workers program, it's quite often misused, meaning people could come in as part of a guest workers program and after two weeks in the fields, they'd run off to do every other kind of job that isn't covered by a guest workers program.
quote by Dana Rohrabacher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Treat your guest as a guest for two days; on the third day, give him a hoe.