The Bull Moose
Down from the purple mist of trees on the mountain,
lurching through forests of white spruce and cedar,
stumbling through tamarack swamps,
came the bull moose
to be stopped at last by a pole-fenced pasture.
Too tired to turn or, perhaps, aware
there was no place left to go, he stood with the cattle.
They, scenting the musk of death, seeing his great head
like the ritual mask of a blood god, moved to the other end
of the field, and waited.
The neighbours heard of it, and by afternoon
cars lined the road. The children teased him
with alder switches and he gazed at them
like an old, tolerant collie. The woman asked
if he could have escaped from a Fair.
The oldest man in the parish remembered seeing
a gelded moose yoked with an ox for plowing.
The young men snickered and tried to pour beer
down his throat, while their girl friends took their pictures.
And the bull moose let them stroke his tick-ravaged flanks,
let them pry open his jaws with bottles, let a giggling girl
plant a little purple cap
of thistles on his head.
When the wardens came, everyone agreed it was a shame
to shoot anything so shaggy and cuddlesome.
He looked like the kind of pet
women put to bed with their sons.
So they held their fire. But just as the sun dropped in the river
the bull moose gathered his strength
like a scaffolded king, straightened and lifted his horns
so that even the wardens backed away as they raised their rifles.
When he roared, people ran to their cars. All the young men
leaned on their automobile horns as he toppled.
Submitted by cutebabystar
poem by Alden Nowlan
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The Moose and the Goose
The mighty mad moose said to the gentle gliding goose,
“It’s not fair you fly in formation while I suffer much abuse.
Wind and breeze are there as you fly first class.
I’m down here on the ground fighting weeds and grass.”
The flock of geese had just landed for some food and rest,
And here is this mighty mad moose acting like a real pest.
But the head gliding goose had a gentle reply,
“Mighty mad moose you’re upset and I don’t know why.”
“Each year we chart the route for you mighty moose.
We’re the train’s engine, while you have freedom of a caboose.
Pay attention to our direction as we geese pass over;
Then you moose will know the way and have time for clover.”
Sir moose replied, “You fly south for winter and return in spring.
So all I have to do is remember that one important thing.
As I browse through trees and brush, I need to raise my eyes
To see you all as you map our way through the skies.”
The attitude of mighty moose changed from mad to glad,
Since he understood the treasure that he really always had.
As the gentle gliding geese flew off in formation,
Mighty moose smiled and tipped his antlers in appreciation.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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It’s the second day that I visit
It’s the second day that I visit
on the farm near Reivelo,
just past Vryburg.
They farm with cattle, goats,
a few sheep, muscovy ducks, turkeys
and chicken.
The scrambler bumps up and down
right through the field
and go past rocks and bushes,
while we drive along the rough field
and the hot wind
cut across my face
and there are places
where it cannot go.
It’s time to transform
young bulls to oxen,
to brand cattle
and to cut their horns
and I get a black stallion
to ride into the field.
My cousin rides in front
with a brown Arabian mare
and there are bushes
and flat slabs of rock
and small hillocks that we past
to try and round up young cattle
to the corral.
It’s nice to be a cattle herder
for a time
and to use legs and heels
and reigns,
to round up cattle in the field.
Every thing goes well until
I chase a young black bull
just to the entrance of the fold,
where it stops stubbornly
and doesn’t want to move
a feet further.
I jump out of the saddle,
fasten the reigns
to a small branch
and rush to the obstinate bull.
It stands and snorting
and stamp its feet
and when it sees me,
it rushes confused
at the horse.
That faithful horse stands firm
while the bulls horns swishes
onto the reigns
and the horse
stops that bull in its tracts,
that a piece of the bridle
breaks right off.
Then I am at the bull
and pull the reigns
out of its horns
and it walks meek
into the corral,
while in astonishment
I stand and look at that animal.
With a knee-strap
and pliers in the nose
we draw the bull to the ground
and when we shear it,
it moans like a heifer
and there’s a burning smell
that goes up from the branding iron
and I see the horns
dropp at my feet
and it’s another beast
when it stand on its feet.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Bull For Me
I think, Sirs, and most inimitable Ladies
I think I prefer to look at a bull
The sketch of a bull, the head of a bull perhaps
even if but a study by an artist
rather than some fancy prophet in glorious paint
or in grand chapel or some miracle recounted
in paint and colors and with consummate skill
or even God descending
ah, all these do not take my fancy
they smack too much of the Elevated;
there’s too much
of the grandstanding in these
Grand Divine Themes
but the face of a bull, ah give me a sketch
of the face of a bull
just the bull, all marks of nature in it
and just itself
no symbolism, no conceit, no artifice
no High sounding theology, no Revelation
but just animal nature in its nudity
being a bull
just animal, its eyes and mouth and horns
just all coming together to form one creature
a portrait of a bull anytime for me
Sirs and most inimitable Ladies
none of the Holy Ones and the Great Prophets
and the Mighty and the Divine
and the Grand-Looking:
no bull for me, please;
just the plain head of a bull, as it is
poem by Raj Arumugam
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No Sourdough
To be a bony feed Sourdough
You must, by Yukon Law,
Have killed a moose,
And robbed a sluice,
AND BUNKED UP WITH A SQUAW. . . .
Alas! Sourdough I'll never be.
Oh, sad is my excuse:
My shooting's so damn bad, you see . . .
I've never killed a moose.
poem by Robert William Service
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The Swan I Married Became a Moose
Crusted mustard breath,
I awakened to...
When I loved you.
String beans on your teeth,
I thought divine.
One time.
But when we got divorced,
I forced myself to really see...
How the Swan I married,
Became a Moose!
A big and wide behind,
I didn't mind to follow.
I thought it fantastic,
To climb on top.
When we made our version,
Of love.
But when we got divorced,
I forced myself to really see...
How the Swan I married,
Became a Moose!
I saw you recently,
I did not recognize you.
My eyes laid on your breasts,
And hips so fine.
But then you reminded me,
Of my ignorance.
And what that did to you.
You then left me looking stunning!
And I felt such the fool!
Crusted mustard breath,
I awakened to...
When I loved you.
String beans on your teeth,
I thought divine.
One time.
But when we got divorced,
I forced myself to really see...
How the Swan I married,
Became a Moose!
And that 'moose' today...
I wish I had not abused!
'Wow, dude?
WHO was that gorgeous woman you tried to hit on?
She's hot! '
That 'was' my ex-wife!
'Yeah, right.
Then one of us is a big liar.
You told me your ex-wife
Could be a side attraction at a circus! '
That was my ex-wife!
'Okay. Snap out of it! '
That was my ex-wife.
'Man, you okay?
Hey...
We all got our fantasies, right? '
Seriously,
That WAS my ex-wife!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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F A M E
Frank Halliwell
Jimboomba, Qld.Oz.
Around me spin the galaxies which I have helped to chart
When the first among the spacemoose, I became.
-Surrounded by these wonders now I stand with heavy heart
And ponder on the brevity of fame.
..The concrete moose that sat atop the rocket's blinding blaze
As it left earth on a pillar of white fire...
It was just a few short weeks ago that poets sang my praise,
and I felt that of my deeds they'd never tire..
It seems they've all forgotten Slack, the famous concrete moose..
..but I was once the hero of their tales..
Once famous, now a nobody, .. a virtual recluse-
Where food abounds but never snow prevails.
So beam me up, MacAntelope and set our course outbound-
To seek among the stars to find out where
The Planet of the Rhyming Versifiers may be found,
We both may become famous, way out there...
Fickleness, thy name is poet, ('specially from the Lone Star State!)
But my name will become legend, though not soon...
And moms and dads in future times will help their kids locate
The concrete moose that's living on the moon.
o0o
poem by Frank Halliwell
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Stalk Of Wheat
I went for a walk on a stalk, on a stalk of wheat
And it felt like a trillion feet
I was looking for a friend at the end, at the end of the line
And it took me till the end of time
I was all out of luck like a duck, like a duck that died
I was all out of juice like a moose, like a moose denied
I was all out of money like a bunny that's broke
I was all out of work like a jerk who's a joke
And I was out of ideas, like I is, like I is,
Like I is, like I is, I was out of ideas...of ideas
I once had a dream of a gleam, of a gleam in my eye
And I'll have it till the day I die
I had a thought bubble of trouble, of trouble and strife
And I'll have it for the rest of my life
I was all out of luck like a duck, like a duck that died
I was all out of juice like a moose, like a moose denied
I was all out of money like a bunny that's broke
I was all out of work like a jerk who's a joke
And I was out of ideas like I is, like I is,
Like I is, like I is, I was out of ideas...of ideas...of ideas...of ideas
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lyric four bulls
Woman walked in forest alone
Met man
Man aroused appetite for her
Man ran and knocked his head on tree
Tail grew out
Hairy jaw grew in mouth
Hind legs grew
Man metamorphosed because was
Lion cannibal
Tried to attack man
Woman asked cannibal
‘’where’re your four
red and white bulls’’
‘’Do you know them’’
‘’Yes, you sing their
Oldest lyric’’
Cannibal laughed
In hoarse voice
Sang,
‘’One red and white spotted bull is sold
One red and white bull spotted is stolen
One red and white spotted bull is swallowed
One red and white spotted bull is scattered
On earth, scattered on earth, on earth, on earth……………….., cannibal sang tune of ‘’scattered on earth’’ happily for long and until
He napped and woman disappeared.
poem by David Aoloch Bion
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Spiral Horns
My bull spiral horns
Like fishing rod
Spun horns like branch and
Bough of tree
We spray cattle in forest
In name and honour of my bull
I mock those who beat drum of war
But can’t dance in battleground
The monkey groans
The falcon scramble hens
If nothing happened
All men are men even who
Will whine like women
If war comes to teeth of cows
The monkey groans
The falcon scrambles hen
I find husband of buffalo sick in
Brave sickness I kill him by spear
Until lay head down
I find husband of man in brave fury
I kill him by spear until lay head down
I find husband of lion in brave cancer
I kill him by spear until lay head down
The monkey groans
The falcon scramble hen
poem by David Aoloch Bion
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Telling The Truth
Telling of Truths
A brown horse galloped across a snowy field at the end
of the pasture a fence, it jumped over and continued its
crazy gallop into the woods only came to a shuddering
halt when it saw a moose. Steaming nostrils, the moose
charged, horse fled deeper into the woods. Where it met
a forest troll who took it into his cave and gave the horse
a bucket of hot chocolate to drink. Since the snow deep
and tiring to sink into when walking, the troll also fitted
the horse with snow shoes; also, the troll had no need of
a horse led it back to its field. When the farmer came to
fetch his horse and saw the snowshoes, he had a nervous
breakdown and sent away to an asylum, where doctors
tried to convince him it was all in his mind. But the farmer
would have none of it. So he is still there and they will not
release him until he agrees with them that a horse wears
iron shoes and not snowshoes.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Winter Fun In Newfoundland
Cross country skiing, spectcular views along the way
Ski-dooing across the country side
A fantastic ride
Ice fishing in the ponds, rivers and bays
An ending to a nice day
Winter camping is such fun
Rabbit stew for everyone
Playing cards with family and friends,
On a cold stormy winter day
Moose hunting in the winter cold
A daring adventure for any soul
Moose steaks frying in the pan
A glass of screech in your hand
I f your lucky, home made beer and moonshine too
Hiking through the park
Breathing in the air so fresh
Walking over the crispy snow
Hearing the crunch as you go
Enjoy a country dance
Where they play a jig two
Indudge in a winter scoff,
With family, friends and visitors too
All this and more,
In Newfoundland and Labrador
poem by Verna Ralph
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The Meeting
The ox-team and the automobile
Stood face to face on the long red road,
The long red road was narrow
At the turn of the hill,
And below was the sun-dancing river
Afoam over the rocks.
The mild-mannered beasts stood par, chewing their cud.
The stubble-bearded man from the mountains,
Rustier than his wagon,
Unmoving eyed the proud chauffeur.
The little ragged girl,
With sun-bleached hair,
Sitting on a ahrd, yellow-powdrey bag,
Looked across at the smart motor hats of the ladies,
And their chiffon scarfs
That the light breeze fingered.
The proud chauffeur blew his horn,
But nothing moved-
Except the foaming, sun-dancing river down below.
Then he jerked his head,
And turned the wheel,
And slowly, carefully,
The automobile moved back over the long red road.
And the mild-mannered beasts lifted their feet,
And the stubble-bearded man flipped his rein,
Ad the ragged little girl looked ahead up the hill,
And the ox-team lumbered and limped over the long red road.
poem by Harriet Monroe
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The Solitary Woodsman
When the grey lake-water rushes
Past the dripping alder-bushes,
And the bodeful autumn wind
In the fir-tree weeps and hushes, --
When the air is sharply damp
Round the solitary camp,
And the moose-bush in the thicket
Glimmers like a scarlet lamp, --
When the birches twinkle yellow,
And the cornel bunches mellow,
And the owl across the twilight
Trumpets to his downy fellow, --
When the nut-fed chipmunks romp
Through the maples' crimson pomp,
And the slim viburnum flushes
In the darkness of the swamp, --
When the blueberries are dead,
When the rowan clusters red,
And the shy bear, summer-sleekened,
In the bracken makes his bed, --
On a day there comes once more
To the latched and lonely door,
Down the wood-road striding silent,
One who has been here before.
Green spruce branches for his head,
Here he makes his simple bed,
Crouching with the sun, and rising
When the dawn is frosty red.
All day long he wanders wide
With the grey moss for his guide,
And his lonely axe-stroke startles
The expectant forest-side.
Toward the quiet close of day
Back to camp he takes his way,
And about his sober footsteps
Unafraid the squirrels play.
On his roof the red leaf falls,
At his door the bluejay calls,
And he hears the wood-mice hurry
Up and down his rough log walls;
Hears the laughter of the loon
Thrill the dying afternoon;
Hears the calling of the moose
Echo to the early moon.
And he hears the partridge drumming,
The belated hornet humming, --
All the faint, prophetic sounds
That foretell the winter's coming.
And the wind about his eaves
Through the chilly night-wet grieves,
And the earth's dumb patience fills him,
Fellow to the falling leaves.
poem by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
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The Squaw Man
The cow-moose comes to water, and the beaver's overbold,
The net is in the eddy of the stream;
The teepee stars the vivid sward with russet, red and gold,
And in the velvet gloom the fire's a-gleam.
The night is ripe with quiet, rich with incense of the pine;
From sanctuary lake I hear the loon;
The peaks are bright against the blue, and drenched with sunset wine,
And like a silver bubble is the moon.
Cloud-high I climbed but yesterday; a hundred miles around
I looked to see a rival fire a-gleam.
As in a crystal lens it lay, a land without a bound,
All lure, and virgin vastitude, and dream.
The great sky soared exultantly, the great earth bared its breast,
All river-veined and patterned with the pine;
The heedless hordes of caribou were streaming to the West,
A land of lustrous mystery -- and mine.
Yea, mine to frame my Odyssey: Oh, little do they know
My conquest and the kingdom that I keep!
The meadows of the musk-ox, where the laughing grasses grow,
The rivers where the careless conies leap.
Beyond the silent Circle, where white men are fierce and few,
I lord it, and I mock at man-made law;
Like a flame upon the water is my little light canoe,
And yonder in the fireglow is my squaw.
A squaw man! yes, that's what I am; sneer at me if you will.
I've gone the grilling pace that cannot last;
With bawdry, bridge and brandy -- Oh, I've drank enough to kill
A dozen such as you, but that is past.
I've swung round to my senses, found the place where I belong;
The City made a madman out of me;
But here beyond the Circle, where there's neither right or wrong,
I leap from life's straight-jacket, and I'm free.
Yet ever in the far forlorn, by trails of lone desire;
Yet ever in the dawn's white leer of hate;
Yet ever by the dripping kill, beside the drowsy fire,
There comes the fierce heart-hunger for a mate.
There comes the mad blood-clamour for a woman's clinging hand,
Love-humid eyes, the velvet of a breast;
And so I sought the Bonnet-plumes, and chose from out the band
The girl I thought the sweetest and the best.
O wistful women I have loved before my dark disgrace!
O women fair and rare in my home land!
Dear ladies, if I saw you now I'd turn away my face,
Then crawl to kiss your foot-prints in the sand!
And yet -- that day the rifle jammed -- a wounded moose at bay --
A roar, a charge . . . I faced it with my knife:
A shot from out the willow-scrub, and there the monster lay. . . .
Yes, little Laughing Eyes, you saved my life.
The man must have the woman, and we're all brutes more or less,
Since first the male ape shinned the family tree;
And yet I think I love her with a husband's tenderness,
And yet I know that she would die for me.
Oh, if I left you, Laughing Eyes, and nevermore came back,
God help you, girl! I know what you would do. . . .
I see the lake wan in the moon, and from the shadow black,
There drifts a little, empty birch canoe.
We're here beyond the Circle, where there's never wrong nor right;
We aren't spliced according to the law;
But by the gods I hail you on this hushed and holy night
As the mother of my children, and my squaw.
I see your little slender face set in the firelight glow;
I pray that I may never make it sad;
I hear you croon a baby song, all slumber-soft and low --
God bless you, little Laughing Eyes! I'm glad.
poem by Robert William Service
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When The Carousel Amimals Got Loose.....[LONG; Humor; Fantasy; Adventure]
In the park for peoples' amusement……
were some workers with an accusement.
T'was on the merry-go-round
where they were all found,
feeling their labor was abusement.
These workers who labored without wages,
were taken from storybook pages.
They were most of them mild...
though some were beasts 'wild'.
Some were loved, some were feared, through the ages.
Three were birds, though one never could fly;
two, that could, rarely took to the sky.
Six of them were mammals...
though none were humped-camels.
One was make-believe, from days-gone-by.
All, including Elephant and Goose,
Unicorn, and big-antlered Moose,
Rooster and Lion,
Ostrich (not flyin') ,
Horse and Tiger, ...all wished to be loose.
Freedom from 'Go-Round' they had discussed.
Then one fine fall day it just seemed a must.
No people were in sight....
(a good time for their 'flight') .
That their plan would succeed, they all did trust.
Unicorn's horn worked Tiger's tether,
loosening its tight knot of leather.
Then Elephant's trunk tip
off Tiger's knot did rip.....
They freed Tiger, working together.
The first thing he did was flex his paws.
Then he freed all his friends, using sharp claws.
They took their bridles off.
Their saddles they did slough.
They stretched their stiff legs and tight jaws.
To be free, for them, was something new.
They'd not all yet thought what they would do.
They were free of their poles.
A bright sun warmed their souls.
Though not human, they'd have some fun too! ! !
Ms. Ostrich tried to fly, but in vain.
Then Rooster and Goose cried 'there's a plane! '
So Ms. Goose and sir Rooster
together did boost her.
And the three rode with Horse, the wind blowing his mane.
Getting off the ride, they were all woozy.
They agreed the ride was a doozy.
And while their five friends cavorted,
the four honked and snorted.
Then they lay in the shade for a snoozy.
' Tiger, let's ride the coaster' said Lion.
'I don't like planes, and I don't like flyin '.'
So while they both rolled along
Tiger sang an old song.
Lion held tight, but ended up cryin '.
Elephant sniffed the cart of peanut vendor.
The peanut smell to 'heaven' did 'send' her.
She ate nuts (shells and all)
till her appetite did fall,
then she rested against a truck fender.
The fantasy beast preferred popcorn,
so he opened the popper with his horn.
Then Unicorn washed his snack down
with a drink, colored brown,
in which floated marshmallows, 'newborn'.
In the Fun House Moose looked in mirrors (curved) .
Then through a dark maze Moose swerved.
Big Moose felt like a fool
when scared by a fake ghoul,
and she ran out of Fun House unnerved.
When their long day was nearly all done
They agreed they'd all had some fun.
Then as it was getting late
one of them tried lock on park gate,
but as a group they chose not to run.
Though freedom was nice for a while
they agreed they'd miss each bright smile…..
of each happy child-rider
and each grown up beside her.
So they all returned to 'go-round', single file.
(12-20-2006/revised 2012)
poem by Bri Edwards
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Johnnie's First Moose
De cloud is hide de moon, but dere's plain-
tee light above,
Steady Johnnie, steady-kip your head down
low,
Move de paddle leetle quicker, an' de ole canoe
we'll shove
T'roo de water nice an' quiet
For de place we're goin' try it
Is beyon' de silver birch dere
You can see it lak a church dere
W'en we're passin' on de corner w'ere de lilly
flower grow.
Was n't dat correc' w'at I'm tolin' you jus
now?
Steady Johnnie, steady-kip your head down
low,
Never min', I'll watch behin'- me - an' you
can watch de bow
An' you'll see a leetle clearer
W'en canoe is comin' nearer-
Dere she is-now easy, easy,
For de win' is gettin' breezy,
An' we don't want not'ing smell us, till de
horn begin to blow-
I remember long ago w'en ma fader tak' me out,
Steady Johnnie, steady-kip your head down
low,
Jus' de way I'm takin' you, sir, hello! was
dat a shout?
Seems to me I t'ink I'm hearin'
Somet'ing stirrin' on de clearin'
W'ere it stan' de lumber shaintee,
If it's true, den yuo'll have plaintee
Work to do in half a minute, if de moose don't
start to go.
An' now we're on de shore, let us hide de ole
canoe,
Steady Johnnie, steady-kip your head down
low,
An' lie among de rushes, dat's bes' t'ing we
can do,
For de ole boy may be closer
Dan anybody know, sir,
An' look out you don't be shakin'
Or de bad shot you'll be makin'
But I'm feelin' sam' way too, me, w'en I
was young, also-
You ready for de call? here goes for number
wan,
Steady Johnnie, steady-kip your head down
low,
Did you hear how nice I do it, an' how it
travel on
Till ir reach across de reever
Dat'll geev' some moose de fever!
Wait now, Johnnie, don't you worry,
No use bein' on de hurry,
But lissen for de answer, it'll come before you
know.
For w'y you jomp lak dat? w'at's matter wit'
your ear?
Steady, Johnnie, steady-kip your head down
low-
Tak' your finger off de trigger, dat was only
bird you hear,
Can't you tell de pine tree crickin'
Or de boule frog w'en he's spikin' ?
Don't you know de grey owl singin'
From de beeg moose w'en he's ringin'
Out hees challenge on de message your ole
gran' fader blow?
You're lucky boy to-night, wit' hunter man
lak me!
Steady, Johnnie, steady-kip your head down
low-
Can tole you all about it! H-s-s-h! dat's
somet'ing now I see,
Dere he's comin' t'roo de bushes,
So get down among de rushes,
Hear heem walk! I t'ink, by tonder,
He mus' go near fourteen honder!
Dat's de feller I been watchin' all de evening,
I dunno.
I'll geev' anoder call, jus' a leetle wan or
two,
Steady, Johnnie, steady-kip your head dwon
low-
W'en he see dere's no wan waitin' I wonder
w'at he'll do?
But look out for here he's comin'
Sa-pris-ti! ma heart is drummin'!
You can never get heem nearer
An' de moon is shinin' clearer,
W'at a fine shot you'll be havin'! now
Johnnie let her go!
Bang! bang! you got heem sure! an' he'll
never run away
Nor feed among de lily on de shore of Wes-
sonneau,
So dat's your firse moose Johnnie! wall! re-
member all I say-
Does n't matter w'at you 're chasin',
Does n't matter w'at you 're facin',
Only watch de t'ing you're doin'
If you don't, ba gosh! you 're ruin
An' steady, Johnnie, steady-kip your head
down low.
poem by William Henry Drummond
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Show Me This!
Where does one go...
To 'not' take those risks,
That ultimately benefit?
Every aspect of what life truly is.
And where does one go to show...
A life can be lived,
Without daring to take chances?
As they sit and romance a life enhanced.
How many are completely satisfied,
To have lived a life AND survived...
With a quality of it achieved and done,
Without one obstacle...
They had to face and overcome.
Show me this!
And I'll find you a moose,
With thick big lips.
Whose only concern...
Is finding a soft couch to lay on,
To spread latexed covered wide hips.
While munching on chips and onion dip!
And that will be one moose taking more of a risk,
Than anyone deliberately...
Taking a stroll down any street,
In fear of being mugged.
Or gundown by vacationing terrorists!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Both Feet
Do not curse the deaf or,
Put a stumbling block in front of the blind!
But the fool does not understand this and,
This world has seen much of its mistakes.
The fathers shall not be put to death because of their children,
Nor shall the children be put to death because of their fathers!
For, a person must be put to death of his or her own sins.
Watch your steps! !
For there is life in the blood!
And a judge must not show pity to the guilty.
Do not harden your heart when the truth comes to you,
For the fool tests the depth of the water with both feet;
And this world is all that we have to learn from.
Muse, moose, mouse!
Anyone who says you can't see a thought simple doesn't know Art;
For you now have both feet in the water and,
You can easily be drawn!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Young Girl
Young girl Abused and broken
Young girl Alone and Frightened
Young girl Worthless and Ugly
Young girl feels so alone
She has no one to hold her
Young girl's father to drunk to even care
The young girl gets beaten everyday
The young girl wanting to runaway
Young girl will not leave her father alone
Like he has done to her
This young girl's teacher has a note
She reads the note aloud to the class
This young girl was beaten to death
No one had the guts to save her
This young girl bruised and dead
This young girl buried in the cold ground
This young girl has no one to visit her grave
No one asked her how she got her bruises
No one even took a second chance
Goodbye young girl fly away into the arms of God
For He loved you and always will
This young girl happy again
poem by Jasmine Kayleen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Prodigal Son
Young man—
Young man—
Your arm’s too short to box with God.
But Jesus spake in a parable, and he said:
A certain man had two sons.
Jesus didn’t give this man a name,
But his name is God Almighty.
And Jesus didn’t call these sons by name,
But ev’ry young man,
Ev’rywhere,
Is one of these two sons.
And the younger son said to his father,
He said: Father, divide up the property,
And give me my portion now.
And the father with tears in his eyes said: Son,
Don’t leave your father’s house.
But the boy was stubborn in his head,
And haughty in his heart,
And he took his share of his father’s goods,
And went into a far-off country.
There comes a time,
There comes a time
When ev’ry young man looks out from his father’s house,
Longing for that far-off country.
And the young man journeyed on his way,
And he said to himself as he travelled along:
This sure is an easy road,
Nothing like the rough furrows behind my father’s plow.
Young man—
Young man—
Smooth and easy is the road
That leads to hell and destruction.
Down grade all the way,
The further you travel, the faster you go.
No need to trudge and sweat and toil,
Just slip and slide and slip and slide
Till you bang up against hell’s iron gate.
And the younger son kept travelling along,
Till at night-time he came to a city.
And the city was bright in the night-time like day,
The streets all crowded with people,
Brass bands and string bands a-playing,
And ev’rywhere the young man turned
There was singing and laughing and dancing.
And he stopped a passer-by and he said:
Tell me what city is this?
And the passer-by laughed and said: Don’t you know?
This is Babylon, Babylon,
That great city of Babylon.
Come on, my friend, and go along with me.
And the young man joined the crowd.
Young man—
Young man—
You’re never lonesome in Babylon.
You can always join a crowd in Babylon.
Young man—
Young man—
You can never be alone in Babylon,
Alone with your Jesus in Babylon.
You can never find a place, a lonesome place,
A lonesome place to go down on your knees,
And talk with your God, in Babylon.
You’re always in a crowd in Babylon.
And the young man went with his new-found friend,
And bought himself some brand new clothes,
And he spent his days in the drinking dens,
Swallowing the fires of hell.
And he spent his nights in the gambling dens,
Throwing dice with the devil for his soul.
And he met up with the women of Babylon.
Oh, the women of Babylon!
Dressed in yellow and purple and scarlet,
Loaded with rings and earrings and bracelets,
Their lips like a honeycomb dripping with honey,
Perfumed and sweet-smelling like a jasmine flower;
And the jasmine smell of the Babylon women
Got in his nostrils and went to his head,
And he wasted his substance in riotous living,
In the evening, in the black and dark of night,
With the sweet-sinning women of Babylon.
And they stripped him of his money,
And they stripped him of his clothes,
And they left him broke and ragged
In the streets of Babylon.
Then the young man joined another crowd—
The beggars and lepers of Babylon.
And he went to feeding swine,
And he was hungrier than the hogs;
He got down on his belly in the mire and mud
And ate the husks with the hogs.
And not a hog was too low to turn up his nose
At the man in the mire of Babylon.
Then the young man came to himself—
He came to himself and said:
In my father’s house are many mansions,
Ev’ry servant in his house has bread to eat,
Ev’ry servant in his house has a place to sleep;
I will arise and go to my father.
And his father saw him afar off,
And he ran up the road to meet him.
He put clean clothes upon his back,
And a golden chain around his neck,
He made a feast and killed the fatted calf,
And invited the neighbors in.
Oh-o-oh, sinner,
When you’re mingling with the crowd in Babylon—
Drinking the wine of Babylon—
Running with the women of Babylon—
You forget about God, and you laugh at Death.
Today you’ve got the strength of a bull in your neck
And the strength of a bear in your arms,
But some o’ these days, some o’ these days,
You’ll have a hand-to-hand struggle with bony Death,
And Death is bound to win.
Young man, come away from Babylon,
That hell-border city of Babylon.
Leave the dancing and gambling of Babylon,
The wine and whiskey of Babylon,
The hot-mouthed women of Babylon;
Fall down on your knees,
And say in your heart:
I will arise and go to my Father.
poem by James Weldon Johnson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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