The Foot-Hill Resort
Assembled in the parlor
Of the place of last resort,
The smiler and the snarler
And the guests of every sort
The elocution chap
With rhetoric on tap;
The mimic and the funny dog;
The social sponge; the money-hog;
Vulgarian and dude;
And the prude;
The adiposing dame
With pimply face aflame;
The kitten-playful virgin
Vergin' on to fifty years;
The solemn-looking sturgeon
Of a firm of auctioneers;
The widower flirtatious;
The widow all too gracious;
The man with a proboscis and a sepulcher beneath.
One assassin picks the banjo, and another picks his teeth.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Related quotes
picks up attitude;
rejects, vagabonds alike;
picks up a guitar
haiku by Chris Gardner
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Trekking The Seams
I never felt too young
To feel this old
Break me once
And I will go
To the place beneath
All our years;
The warehouse beneath
The sepulcher.
poem by Norman Santos
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Warrior Is A Child
Lately I've been winning battles left and right
But even winners can get wounded in the fight
People say that I'm amazing
I'm strong beyond my years
But they don't see inside of me
I'm hiding all the tears
Chorus:
They don't know that I come running home when I fall down
They don't know who picks me up when no one is around
I dropp my sword and cry for just a while
(Look up for His smile)
'Coz deep inside this armor
The warrior is a child
(Aahhh)
Unafraid because His arrow is the best
But even soldiers need a quiet place to rest
People say that I'm amazing
I never face retreat, oh no
But they don't see the enemies
That lay me at His feet
Chorus:
They don't know that I come running home when I fall down
They don't know who picks me up when no one is around
I dropp my sword and cry for just a while
(Look up for His smile)
'Coz deep inside this armor
The warrior is a child
(Aahhh)
They don't know that I come running home when I fall down
They don't know who picks me up when no one is around
I dropp my sword and cry for just a while
(Look up for His smile)
'Coz deep inside this armor
The warrior is a child
(Aahhh)
poem by Sirius White
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One Face
One face in a crowd is hard to find.
One face in that crowd is on my mind.
How can I find the face of one,
The face that to me is like the sun?
Shiny and bright with a radiant glow,
The face that picks me up when I'm low,
Eyes that light up wherever they are
Just like the splendor of an evening star,
Lips that break into the sweetest smile
That lingers for me for the longest while,
Hair that surrounds that face like a frame
That always sets my heart aflame.
I search all the faces but cannot see
The one that means the world to me.
I'm lost. I'm wretched. This should not be.
There are too many faces. I'm lost at sea.
One last glance and to my surprise
There's your face, your smile, your eyes.
The crowd's still there but not for me.
For the face I love is all I see.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Comparison
A bird can live anywhere.
It doesn't worry about rent.
Finds a tree. Picks one out.
Never feels that its without.
A man can't live anywhere
and worries about his rent.
Finds a house. Picks one out.
Loses his job and is left to shout
Now what?
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Widower is hopeless
A widow is the pod shed seed.
A widower is the seed spilled pod.
Seed can remain; pod disintegrates.
A widower is the most unfortunate.
07.03.2002, Pakd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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One's Temperament And Disposition
One's temperament and disposition,
Seldom are instilled as a choice one picks.
If little boys hear they are suppose to be bad,
They will head in that direction to make someone proud...
A bad boy is going to be had!
Although sad it is for the women attracted to this.
And it is difficult to decide to have a good disposition,
To let that 'funkier' side subside when given a pride.
Espcially when a dumbing down done is welcomed,
By nearly everyone.
And those wanting to show themselves to be good natured,
Grit their teeth to the point to make their gums bleed.
One's temperament and disposition,
Seldom are instilled as a choice one picks.
And although barking is never found on anyone's top ten list,
It it suggested as a remedy...
That quickly relieves,
Without prescribing to mind altering medications.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Black Widow
These words he speaks are true
We're all humanary stew if
We don't pledge allegiance to
The Black Widow
The horror that he brings
The horror of his sting
The unholiest of kings
The Black Widow
Our minds will be his toy
And every girl and boy will learn to be employed by
The Black Widow
Love him
Yes we love him
Love him
Yes we love him
He sits upon his throne and picks at all the bones of his
Husbands and his
Wives he's devoured He stares with a gleam
With a laugh so obscene at the virgins and the children
He's deflowered
Love him
Yes we love him
Love him
Yes we love him
Love me
Yes we love him
Our thoughts are hot and crazed
Our brains are webbed in haze
Of mindless senseless daze
The Black Widow
These words he speaks are true
We're all humanary stew
If we don't pledge allegiance to
The Black Widow
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gun Play One
Gunplay 1
They don´t have guns in heaven only tooth picks,
but god has got a golden gun, given to him by
the producer of James Bond movies.
He toys with it just for fun when newcomers
arrive, but most of the time the gun is on top
of the bible he wrote once upon a time.
Not that he has copyright, he will be the first
to tell you, but with the help of strange people
who insisted he had spoken to them.
Sometimes when god is alone he put the gun
to his temple and…click... nothing happens
it is all in jest or is it? Infinity can be a burden.
Now, if you wonder about the tooth picks,
angels like to welcome you with a bright smile.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Like a Little Kitten
Can't help but smile
when I think of you
You make me so happy
with the sweet things you do
Like a playful little kitten
playing out in the sun
You brighten my day
cause you're so much fun
You bring me laughter
when I've had a rough day
Just like a little kitten
you always want to play
So if I'm sitting there
with a smile on my face
From the laughter you bring
while sad moments you erase
poem by Nicii Parsons
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Social Life
Nervous you need a drink
Tired you need a lift
You feel on the brink
Maybe you need new tits
Vulnerable as a ship
But you re not on the sea
Can you talk to anyone here?
No, not really
And the crowd stays on your back
And the girls are all s0 stacked
And the stress it lines your face
And you realy need a place
Its just that social life
Its got you on the run
That goddamn social life
Its torture dressed as fun
Its just that social life
They got you seein things
That goddamn social life
And now you re chasin strings
That goddamn social life
God-awful art and clothes
Plenty of money, though
You guess it must be worth somethin
What that would be you don t know
In your imagination
Theres a face of love
Someone who will come along
Instead of comin on
Anp the forces ebb and flow
And the money goes and goes
And something makes you
Want to throw a brick
Through the window
Its iust that social life
Its got you on the run
That goddamn social life
Its torture dressed as fun
Its iust that social life
They got you chasin strings
That goddamn social life
And you are seeing things
song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I told my father I wanted to play the banjo, and so he saved the money and got ready to give me a banjo for my next birthday, and between that time and my birthday, I lost interest in the banjo and was playing guitar.
quote by Jackson Browne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As the Wind Blows...
As the wind blows in the
moment so blue
i say my last goodbyes to you
i let go of all my fears
i let fall all my tears
as the wind picks up
i look in the sky
as the wind picks up
i waves goodbye
so as the wind blows
in the moments so blue
i say my last goodbyes to you...
poem by Eilena Sharpe
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Reentry of chance
Four women who were in love with me
In my youth have now become widows
In succession after fifty years.
Not a widower as I'm, I am helpless.
23.10.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Mercenary View
I knew a poor remittance man,
A decent chap, but funny,
In days when my ideas began
To be controlled by money
He wore a swank, patrician air;
But, oh, his life was filled with care,
For he had seldom cash to spare;
His mien was far from sunny.
I fear I was a snobbish youth
Who led a prig's existence.
I snubbed the chap, to tell the truth,
And kept him at a distance.
His clothes, well cut, were often worn
Threadbare. Tho' he was gently born
His friendship I refused with scorn
Despite his soft insistence.
But now the whirligig of time
Sees fit to elevate him.
While, lo, the money that was mine
Is shrinking, seriatim;
And faced by serious mishap.
While he reclines in Fortune's lap.
I'd like to find the dear old chap
I'd want to cultivate him.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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It's Rewarding Yet So Unforgiving
If you write poetry seeking fortune and fame
Impossible is the term I would use,
Very rarely do you receive such acclaim,
The odds are it's a battle you'll lose.
Yes there'll be people, who'll print what you write,
But usually they want money up front,
For demands for more you'll get no respite,
It's purely a money making stunt.
The chosen few who make loads of money,
Who picks them, who says they're the best,
It is quite sarcastically funny,
But some are crap when put to the test.
Poems are like songs or even books,
You could write a million or more,
It all depends on just who looks,
Whether you're printed or dumped in a store.
If you enjoy your literary jewels,
Be happy with what you achieve,
At times it's your critics, who'll behave like fools,
In yourself you have got to believe.
Treasure what you do it's a talent supreme,
But don't count on ever making a living,
Like all of us concerned with the arts it's a dream,
‘' It's Rewarding Yet So Unforgiving ‘'
My Father, With His Arthritic Hands
My father, with his arthritic hands
Closes his door, picks up the bow
Tucks the bit under his chin
Tunes it real low
My father can compete with the world's best bands
My father plays the violin.
His eyes are dim but the notes are clear
His hearing is faulty but we can hear
The songs that pour out from within
People outside stop to listen
When my father plays the violin.
He opens up another world
Far from stress and pain
I become a child again
As without a word
He picks up the bow, tunes it real low
My father plays the violin.
My father with his arthritic hands
Holds a magnifying glass to his eyes to read
He sits out there under the clear blue skies
Now that he can hardly walk
(Luckily my sisters are there when he needs to talk) .
And when its dusk and he enters within
Then with his arthritic hands
Father picks up his violin.
poem by Rani Turton
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Innocence
Oh wreary traveller,
Hush now and listen,
To the high notes ringing,
So sweet in the air.
Like a nightingale she flits,
From place to place,
A cascade of melody,
Pouring from her mouth.
She picks a flower,
And inhales deeply.
Then laughs a tinkling laugh,
Like bells singing in harmony.
And when her mother calls,
She runs to her,
With child-like glee,
Her face as bright as the sun.
poem by Anushna Satapathy
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Funny Money
Some poems may be funny,
But mine is not so funny,
A shocking reality,
That involves money.
The funny thing about money,
It makes the world go round,
The real and funny money,
Banks make the world go around,
By loaning and keeping money,
A dirty secret found,
They even do the laundry,
We all are so confound!
We love the smell of money,
But don't smell the funny money,
The banks are in big trouble,
They found one, now it's double.
And that's not so funny,
Coz it's one too many.
Renaissance
The fifties and earlier were the ignorant past of ideals
The people then didn’t know nor could conceive great ideas
Like dating, together living and mini-bars at the homes
Generations have changed; the once kids are now epitomes
Of elegance, newness and souring up social renaissance
The elders at home started looking obsolete and vacuous
Like the relics of the Stone Age; to remain at the homes
As obelisks of the past; not supposed to raise their voices;
Stop trumpeting about their past and to youth giving advices
And in silence wait for the days they proceed to their tombs
But I can’t help thinking of the days ahead, when today’s kids
Become elders and the way the kids of that future day think
When social renaissance picks up further momentum and in a bid
To cleanse the world of all the old, useless and stagnant stink
Send all those above fifty to live in catacombs waiting for death
poem by Sathya Narayana
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