Fitzmickle Unbends
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Still with an iron hand
Rules house and home. Like a peevish gnome
He barks each curt command.
And he packs the family off to bed
Since a wireless 'fan' he's grown
And each obeys, while Papa stays
And harks to the Test alone.
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Sat, last Saturday night,
Glowing with pride as Australia's side
Rose to the loftiest height.
Then, just as the fun grew furious
And the batsmen forged ahead,
Came a horrible shriek, a click and a squeak;
And the speaker went stone dead!
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Fiddled, with urgent thumb,
At many a screw, in a terrible stew;
But ever the set stayed dumb.
So up the stairs in his stocking feet,
He stole to his small son there,
Whose expert hand now took command;
And the Test was again on the air.
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Frowned at his small, meek heir.
'You'll wait,' said he, 'lest the thing won't gee.
Quiet, sir! Sit over there!'
And his small son; hugging himself in glee
As the game went merrily on
Sat listening in with a rapturous grin
To the triumphs of 'Billy' and 'Don.'
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Seized with a strange wild joy,
As the centuries came, with his eye aflame,
Clutched at the startled boy . . . .
And Mrs Fitzmickle, roused from sleep,
Saw a sight to wonder at;
Fitzmickle and son, at half-past one,
Dancing a jig on the mat.
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Said with a sheepish grin,
'Why, Mother's here! Sit down, my dear,
Sit down and listen in!' . . .
And the small son whispered - when all was o'er,
And the winter dawn began
In his mother's ear: 'Ma, ain't it queer.
Pappas's just like a man!'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Related quotes
Mr Fitzmickle Has A Test Match Fright
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Stern lord of his house and kin,
Is a small, bald man, and a cricket fan
Since the night he listened in
On his young son's set one winter morn.
Now his Test complex grows tireless;
But his small, meek wife tends a lonely life,
And the small son mourns his wireless.
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Was met at his door last night
By the low-voiced maid whose eye betrayed
A state of chronic fright,
And Mary stammered in nervous tones
'Mum-Madam's took a chill, sir.'
Fitzmickle gasped, 'What's that?' he asked,
Said Mary, 'Madam's ill, sir.'
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Clutched at his brow and groaned,
His face grew white in the evening light,
'Oh, this is the end!' he moaned.
'All hope has gone!' But Mary said,
'Please, sir; don't look so sad, sir.
A 'eadache's wot the missus got.
Don't fret. She ain't that bad, sir.'
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Glared, as his voice came back
Glared at the maid, 'You mumbling jade!
Wretch! You deserve the sack!'
'But, sir -' 'Enough! Can't you speak plain?
'Madam?'' He raved like a madman,
'Out of my sight! . . . Lord! What a fright!
I thought that you said 'Bradman'!'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Fall of Fitzmickle
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Rules with an iron rod
His house and home; 'neath its red-tiled dome
He struts like a little tin god.
When Popper says stay, the family stay;
When Popper says go, they go;
And early and late, like the trumpet of Fate,
Sounds the fierce Fitzmicklean 'No!'
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Came on his small son when
There, listening in to the cricketing din,
He sat as the clock struck ten.
'What? Sporting rubbish? At this hour, too!'
Said he: and his brow grew black.
'Things that I wouldn't do my son musn't do.
Bed, sir! And don't answer me back!'
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
His hand on the wireless switch,
Listened a wile, and a ghost of a smile
His stern face seemed to twitch.
'Another man out!' He paused in doubt,
As he noted the latest score.
'Well, I might as well sit and listen a bit;
But a bare half hour, no more.'
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Just as the clock struck four,
Weary and worn in the cold, bleak morn
Crept by his small son's door.
And out of the stygian darkness there,
Swift to discover his sin,
A small voice cried from the gloom inside:
'Please Popper. Did our side win?'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Matter Of Privacy
Ben Bowyang spluttered with rage suppressed, 'Hi, there!' And his brow was black,
As two by two and three by three the tourists left the track,
Climbing the fence to his 'tater' patch, and down thro' his orchard land,
Flannelled or fashioned in strides and shorts - a saucy suburban band -
Giggling gambolling into his yard calling inane 'Cooees'
While Bowyang frothed at the mouth and fumed. But his voice was a futile wheeze,
And, heading the horde, in a blazer bright, monarch of all he surveyed,
Strode little Fitzmickle, the martinet, a Don in the drapery trade.
'You've trampled me taters,' Bowyang roared. 'Pinched bloom from me orchard bough!
You've pelted me poddies an' dished me fence! Look at that nettin' now!
Ain't you no respeck for a privit home, you towerist coots from town?'
But Mr Fitzmickle, he turned on his heel with a very superior frown.
'Come, ladies,' he said, 'come, gentlemen. Unmannerly rustic brute!
My card, with name and address, my man, if you wish to prosecute.'
Then back they trampled thro' the 'tater' patch, back o'er the orchard land,
While Bowyang gaped like a stranded fish, with the pasteboard cluthed in his hand.
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet, sat in his smug retreat -
A very respectable villa set in a very respectable street.
For Mr Fitzmickle found harbor here when the contry boors came down
To dawdle about for their Show-week spree and clutter the streets in town.
Then in to him rushed his terrified wife, eyes wide, and breathing hard.
'Come quick!' she gasped. 'There's a mob of roughs gone crazy in our back yard!
They've trampled herbaceous borders down, they've kicked the canary's cage -'
'Enough!' cried Fitzmickle, all pink with wrath; and his rage was a ratepayer's rage.
Poker in hand, he rushed without; but paused by the scullery door
For there, on his seedlings, trodden and tossed, stood one whom he'd seen before.
And, gathered about in the burgeoning beds, were strangely silent men;
Till one with a beard spoke up and said, 'Explain to the gentleman, Ben.'
Ben Bowyang smiled, and his voice was bland as he said, 'Aw, well; we're 'ere
Jist sorta returnin' yer social call as you made on us last year.
My card!' And he bounced a clod from the face of the proud Fitzmicklian cat
But Mr Fitzmickle oblivious lay. He was having a fit on the mat.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Pony Street
She lives on pony street
And they should scatter flowers at her feet
But when they come calling I think its appalling
Theyre sober and theyre polite
Theyre deeply respectful when I would expect them
To keep her out all night
That little martinet
Will get her own way yet
If you need instruction in mindless destruction
Ill show you a thing or two
You used to adore me but now my life flashes before me
For you to view
Oh mother, oh mother, sometimes you are so mortifying
From the hole in your leopard skin tights I can tell youve been spying
But your generation confesses before it transgresses
Those super-8 movies of daddy in your disco dresses
If youre going out tonight
I wont wait up
Reading das kapital
Watching home shopping club
While youre flogging a dead horse
All the way down pony street
Where you live after a fashion
All the way down pony street
The life and the soul of every indiscretion
That lives on, that lives on, that lives on
Pony street
Daughter, oh daughter, you know I will love you forever
But spare me the white ankle socks with the lace and the leather
For you and your cartoon threat do no good to resist me
For I am the genuine thing but for you its just history
If youre going out tonight
How can you be sure
Where you lay your pretty head
Mother may have been before
So youre flogging a dead horse
All the way down pony street
Where you live after a fashion
All the way down pony street
The life and the soul of every indiscretion
That lives on [5x]
She lives on pony street [2x]
She lives on, she lives on [2x]
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Schizophrenic
Each morning as I catch my bus,
A-fearing I'll be late,
I think: there are in all of us
Two folks quite separate;
As one I greet the office staff
With grim, official mien;
The other's when I belly-laugh,
And Home Sweet Home's the scene.
I've half a hundred men to boss,
And take my job to heart;
You'll never find me at a loss,
So well I play my part.
My voice is hard, my eye is cold,
My mouth is grimly set;
They all consider me, I'm told,
A "bloody martinet."
But when I reach my home at night
I'm happy as a boy;
My kiddies kiss me with delight,
And dance a jig of joy.
I slip into my oldest cloths,
My lines of care uncrease;
I mow the lawn, unhook the hose,
And glow with garden peace.
It's then I wonder which I am,
the boss with hard-boiled eye,
Or just the gay don't care-a-damn
Go-lucky garden guy?
Am I the starchy front who rants
As round his weight he throws,
or just old Pop with patchy pants,
Who sings and sniffs a rose?
poem by Robert William Service
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The Martinet
Some time ago, in simple verse
I sang the story true
Of CAPTAIN REECE, the MANTELPIECE,
And all her happy crew.
I showed how any captain may
Attach his men to him,
If he but heeds their smallest needs,
And studies every whim.
Now mark how, by Draconic rule
And HAUTEUR ill-advised,
The noblest crew upon the Blue
May be demoralized.
When his ungrateful country placed
Kind REECE upon half-pay,
Without much claim SIR BERKELY came,
And took command one day.
SIR BERKELY was a martinet -
A stern unyielding soul -
Who ruled his ship by dint of whip
And horrible black-hole.
A sailor who was overcome
From having freely dined,
And chanced to reel when at the wheel,
He instantly confined!
And tars who, when an action raged,
Appeared alarmed or scared,
And those below who wished to go,
He very seldom spared.
E'en he who smote his officer
For punishment was booked,
And mutinies upon the seas
He rarely overlooked.
In short, the happy MANTELPIECE,
Where all had gone so well,
Beneath that fool SIR BERKELY'S rule
Became a floating hell.
When first SIR BERKELY came aboard
He read a speech to all,
And told them how he'd made a vow
To act on duty's call.
Then WILLIAM LEE, he up and said
(The Captain's coxswain he),
"We've heard the speech your honour's made,
And werry pleased we be.
"We won't pretend, my lad, as how
We're glad to lose our REECE;
Urbane, polite, he suited quite
The saucy MANTELPIECE.
"But if your honour gives your mind
To study all our ways,
With dance and song we'll jog along
As in those happy days.
"I like your honour's looks, and feel
You're worthy of your sword.
Your hand, my lad - I'm doosid glad
To welcome you aboard!"
SIR BERKELY looked amazed, as though
He didn't understand.
"Don't shake your head," good WILLIAM said,
"It is an honest hand.
"It's grasped a better hand than yourn -
Come, gov'nor, I insist!"
The Captain stared - the coxswain glared -
The hand became a fist!
"Down, upstart!" said the hardy salt;
But BERKELY dodged his aim,
And made him go in chains below:
The seamen murmured "Shame!"
He stopped all songs at 12 p.m.,
Stopped hornpipes when at sea,
And swore his cot (or bunk) should not
Be used by aught than he.
He never joined their daily mess,
Nor asked them to his own,
But chaffed in gay and social way
The officers alone.
His First Lieutenant, PETER, was
As useless as could be,
A helpless stick, and always sick
When there was any sea.
This First Lieutenant proved to be
His foster-sister MAY,
Who went to sea for love of he
In masculine array.
And when he learnt the curious fact,
Did he emotion show,
Or dry her tears or end her fears
By marrying her? No!
Or did he even try to soothe
This maiden in her teens?
Oh, no! - instead he made her wed
The Sergeant of Marines!
Of course such Spartan discipline
Would make an angel fret;
They drew a lot, and WILLIAM shot
This fearful martinet.
The Admiralty saw how ill
They'd treated CAPTAIN REECE;
He was restored once more aboard
The saucy MANTELPIECE.
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Thy Will Be Done!
I always thought that Jean La Mare was strange,
Gave me the creeps,
With lank, uncared for russet hair
And eyes with depths and deeps,
She hung her head when walking by
Wore dresses to her shins,
She had no friends at school, at lunch
Sat by the rubbish bins.
Her father was the picture of a
Martinet of old,
Bolt upright, at attention he
Would rant at her, and scold.
An Army Colonel, long retired
His wife dead in the ground,
His thoughts for bringing daughters up
Were ancient, and profound.
She dared not answer back, nor baulk
At anything he said,
He kept her close, so close we thought
That she slept in his bed.
We never saw her out of school
She cooked and cleaned and swept,
When asked if she'd be at the Ball,
She turned away, and wept.
Time passed, and we had left the school,
Got on with living life,
I met someone, and pretty soon
Had caught myself a wife,
But my old friend from schooldays
Richard Carson, lived alone,
He said he'd not met anyone
Who thrilled him to the bone.
We'd all turned just on thirty when
He dropped the big surprise,
He said that he'd asked Jean La Mare!
I answered, 'Is that wise? '
It seems the Martinet had died,
Was safely in his box,
So Jean was free, and so was he
To tie the wedding knots.
I saw her at the wedding there,
The first time then for years,
I saw her laugh for once, she laughed
So much, it came to tears.
They seemed so happy in that church,
Her burden dead and gone,
But Richard told me later of
Her curse - 'Thy Will Be Done! '
For every evening of her life
She'd get down on her knees,
Before a varnished wooden box
And pray that she had pleased!
The box stood on the mantelpiece
And Richard dared not ask
Just what was in that box; he thought
It was her father's ash!
She'd pray and ask for guidance, then
She'd listen in the gloom,
He never heard a murmur but, she did,
Before that tomb!
She'd answer statements no-one made,
Would wail, then plead, implore,
While Richard stayed away and hid,
Stood listening by the door!
He asked her what her father said
When he'd approached him once,
The old man turned and marched away,
He'd felt quite like a dunce!
He'd asked if he could take her out,
The Colonel stood and glared:
'If you should even speak to her, young man,
I'll see you dead! '
But Jean had blushed and looked away,
And wouldn't answer then,
She muttered: 'He just didn't want me
Mixing with young men! '
But then she started acting strange,
Would slyly look away,
Whenever he came in the room
As she was going to pray.
He came to see me, looking ill,
He said he was unwell,
That Jean was getting stranger by the day
His life was hell!
She'd served him up a meal that made
Him sick, perspire and weak,
I told him he should get away...
He found it hard to speak!
I didn't want to interfere
But things were looking grim,
I went around to see them, well, not her,
I cared for him.
She flashed a look of hate at me,
Unbridled, undisguised,
She looked like some fanatic with
Grey analytic eyes.
She left us then to talk, and I
Saw on the mantelpiece,
The box that he'd described to me,
I said, 'Just call the Police! '
I'd flipped the clasp, the front swung down
It opened up to dread,
For staring at us both, we saw
His eyeless, staring head!
Then Jean came back, let out a scream,
Attacked me with a knife,
I caught her wrist, said: 'Richard,
Just restrain your crazy wife! '
She fell down on her knees and cried:
'I tried to be a son! '
Then listened, as if hearing it,
Then said, 'Thy will be done! '
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Big Time
(ian hunter)
One more town on the merry-go-round
One more room with no view
One more punk eatin nothing but junk
Trin to make a phone call to you
Well maybe Ill never, get myself together
But somethings in the back of my mid
It only takes one call-you can laugh at em all
Youre never too small to hit the big time
One more slob feeling sick as a dog
After one more night on the booze
One more dive more dead that alive
Tryin to get my message through
Now, maybe Ill never get my self together
Maybe its the end of the line
But Im having a ball-bouncin off the walls
Youre never too small to hit the big time
Youre never too small, youre never too small
Youre never to small to hit the big time
They can make you crawl, they can make you fall
But youre never to small to hit the big time
Youre never too small, youre never to small
Youre never too small to hit the big time
If youre fat, if youre bald it dont matter at all
cos youre never to small-i said youre never to small
To hit the big time (yes indeed)
(the big time(- limousines)
(the big time)-you can have it all
(the big time)- I say youre never too small
One more crowd shoutin-turn it up loud
One more rose at my feet
One more ring from that cute little thing
One more reason to cheat
Well, maybe Ill never get myself together
Maybe its the end of the line...
song performed by by Ian Hunter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Chanson d'autrefois (autre)
Jamais elle ne raille,
Étant un calme esprit ;
Mais toujours elle rit. -
Voici des brins de mousse avec des brins de paille ;
Fauvette des roseaux,
Fais ton nid sur les eaux.
Quand sous la clarté douce
Qui sort de tes beaux yeux,
On passe, on est joyeux. -
Voici des brins de paille avec des brins de mousse ;
Martinet de l'azur,
Fais ton nid dans mon mur.
Dans l'aube avril se mire,
Et les rameaux fleuris
Sont pleins de petits cris. -
Voici de son regard, voici de son sourire,
Amour, ô doux vainqueur,
Fais ton nid dans mon coeur.
poem by Victor Hugo
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Small Victories!
small minds, small dreams,
small prayers, small God.
small thoughts, small answers,
to questions not small!
playing the race game,
the salvation game,
the mine and yours game,
the right and wrong game.
like cattle herded
unknowingly to slaughter.
every body a ticket,
to pay the fare.
bigger picture, bigger concepts,
bigger than i and me!
bigger risk, bigger world,
bigger choices, small victories.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Jack Roy
Kept up by relays of generations young
Never dies at halyards the blithe chorus sung;
While in sands, sounds, and seas where the
storm-petrels cry,
Dropped mute around the globe, these halyard
singers lie.
Short-lived the clippers for racing-cups that
run,
And speeds in life's career many a lavish
mother's-son.
But thou, manly king o' the old _Splendid's_
crew,
The ribbons o' thy hat still a-fluttering, should
fly--
A challenge, and forever, nor the bravery
should rue.
Only in a tussle for the starry flag high,
When 'tis piety to do, and privilege to die.
Then, only then, would heaven think to lop
Such a cedar as the captain o' the _Splendid's_
main-top:
A belted sea-gentleman; a gallant, off-hand
Mercutio indifferent in life's gay command.
Magnanimous in humor; when the splintering
shot fell,
'Tooth-picks a-plenty, lads; thank 'em with a
shell!'
Sang Larry o' the _Cannakin,_ smuggler o' the
wine,
At mess between guns, lad in jovial recline:
'In Limbo our Jack he would chirrup up a
cheer,
The martinet there find a chaffing mutineer;
From a thousand fathoms down under hatches
o' your Hades,
He'd ascend in love-ditty, kissing fingers to
your ladies!'
Never relishing the knave, though allowing
for the menial,
Nor overmuch the king, Jack, nor prodigally
genial.
Ashore on liberty he flashed in escapade,
Vaulting over life in its levelness of grade,
Like the dolphin off Africa in rainbow
a-sweeping--
Arch iridescent shot from seas languid
sleeping.
Larking with thy life, if a joy but a toy,
Heroic in thy levity wert thou, Jack Roy.
poem by Herman Melville
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William House and Family
Come all kind friends, both far and near,
Come listen to me and you shall hear --
It's of a family and their fate,
All about them I will relate.
They once did live at Edgerton,
They once did live at Muskegon,
From there they went to Chicago,
Which proved their fatal overthrow.
It was William House's family,
As fine a family as you see --
His family was eleven in all,
I do not think it was very small.
Two children died some years ago,
Before they went to Chicago,
Five children there he had with him,
When death his home there enters in.
The small-pox then was raging there,
And Oh! it would not their house spare,
For all but one was sick of them,
A dreadful house it must have been.
The eldest girl was married then,
The eldest boy was in Michigan,
The second boy he was at home,
And took care of them all alone.
His father and his mother dear,
And dear sister, too, I hear,
Were very sick and in his care,
And no kind friends to help him there:
Two little brothers, and a baby too,
Made six in all -- what could he do,
He had to take care of them all,
The baby, too, was very small.
As he would go to his father's bed,
And try to soothe his aching head,
"My son, I pray you leave me, do
Go take care of poor mother, too."
"Your mother and sister need your care,
And your little infant brother there;
Oh! Charlie, Charlie, take care of them,
My son, do all for them you can."
It seemed as though he did not know
That his poor soul so soon must go,
And leave his little ones he loved,
To go to that bright world above.
But God he called his soul away,
It had to leave, it could not stay --
He never more on earth will be,
His soul is from sin and sorrow free.
Charles helped the sexton, I am told,
To lay his form in the coffin cold --
How sad, how sad, poor soul was he,
When last his father's form did see.
Minnie May House she had to go,
And leave her friends that loved her so --
She was a girl in her teens,
A lovely flower as e'er was seen.
Minnie and her mother lay on one bed,
And when Charles said, "our Minnie is dead,"
His mother then she did grow wild,
And early after knew her child.
They buried Minnie by her father's side,
And left them there where they had died --
Charles took his mother and brothers then
And brought them back to Michigan.
For the mother and the baby too,
Kind friends did all that they could do,
But those poor souls they could not save,
For now they're sleeping in their grave.
Oh! what a noble son was he,
His age was then only sixteen --
Charles House's name I have told before
God bless his soul forever more.
poem by Julia A Moore
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His Christmas List
HE WAS JUST A BOY LIVING ON THE STREET
WITH NO HOME AND ON HIS OWN
WEARING HOLY SHOES ON HIS FEET
AND THE WINTER GETTING COLDER
AND CHRISTMAS IS IN A WEEK
AS HE FEELING OLDER
WHEN WRITING HIS CHRISTMAS LIST
WANTING A HOME NEEDING TO BE LOVE
BUT MORE THAN THIS WANTING TO BE MISS
HOPE SANTA SEE IT, CHECKING IT OFF
ADDING IT TO HIS COURSE.
NOW HE SEARCHING FOR FOOD
IN THE NEIBORDHOOD
BUT THEY CHASE HIM AWAY
LEAVING HIM TO STRAY
BUT HE MAIL HIS LETTER ANY WAY
HOPE SANTA WILL SEE IT
AND CHECK IT OFF
AND ADDING IT TO HIS COURSE
NOW HIS BOX IS WET FROM THE SNOW
BUT HE GRIN AND BEAR IT
HE GOT NO WHERE TO GO
HOPE SANTA SAW HIS LIST
AND CHECKING IT OFF
ADDING IT TO HIS COURSE
NOW HE GOES TO SLEEP ON CHRISTMAS EVE
WITH HIS SMALL CHRISTMAS TREE
WHILE THE CLOCK STRIKES TWELVE
AS HE WAKES UP LOOKING AROUND
KNOWING CHRISTMAS IS HERE
AND SEEING IS MOTHER
HUGGING HER TIGHT
ALONG WITH HIS BROTHER
SAYING LETS GO HOME TONIGHT
AS HE THANK SANTA
FOR MAKING IT RIGHT
AS HE THANK SANTA
FOR MAKING IT RIGHT
AND HUGGING HIS MOTHER TIGHT
WHILE THANKING SANTA
FOR MAKING IT RIGHT
THANKING SANTA
FOR MAKING IT RIGHT.....
poem by Bruce Martone
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Fathercraft
Well (said the small, meek man) we look for change
In this sad world, for these are stirring days;
And men pin hopes to methods new and strange
And see lost happiness thro' altered ways.
And I, who many a bitter cup have quaffed,
Hailed with delight this cult of Fathercraft.
But (said the small, meek man) I've scanned the rules
And studied well all that this author says,
Oh, I have pinned such faith to modern schools,
Hoping one day to see a great light blaze.
And now, it seems, I'm rather at a loss;
For all I glean is that the wife should be boss.
If (said the small, meek man) yielding one's pay,
Yielding one's will, seems new to Fathercraft,
And letting woman have her own sweet way;
Then (said the small, meek man) the author's daft!
I had such hopes! But, far as I can see,
Things go on in the same old way. Ah, me!
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Father
The evening found us whom the day had fled,
Once more in bitter anger, you and I,
Over some small, some foolish, trivial thing
Our anger would not decently let die,
But dragged between us, shamed and shivering
Until each other's taunts we scarcely heard,
Until we lost the sense of all we said,
And knew not who first spoke the fatal word.
It seemed that even every kiss we wrung
We killed at birth with shuddering and hate,
As if we feared a thing too passionate.
However close we clung
One hour the next hour found us separate,
Estranged, and Love most bitter on our tongue.
To-night we quarrelled over one small head,
Our fruit of last year's maying, the white bud
Blown from our stormy kisses and the dead
First rapture of our wild, estranging blood.
You clutched him: there was panther in your eyes,
We breathed like beasts in thickets, on the wall
Our shadows in huge challenge seemed to rise,
The room grew dark with anger. Yet through all
The shame and hurt and pity of it you were
Still strangely and imperishably dear,
As one who loves the wild day none the less
That breaks in bitter hands the buds of Spring,
Whose cold hand stops the breath of loveliness,
And drives the wailing ghost of beauty past,
Making the rose, — even the rose, a thing
For pain to be remembered by at last.
I said: 'My son shall wear his father's sword.'
You said: 'Shall hands once blossoms at my breast
Be stained with blood?' I answered with a word
More bitter, and your own, the bitterest
Stung me to sullen anger, and I said:
'My son shall be no coward of his line
Because his mother choose'; you turned your head
And your eyes grew implacable in mine.
And like a trodden snake you turned to meet
The foe with sudden hissing… then you smiled,
And broke our life in pieces at my feet,
'Your child?' you said: 'Your child?'
poem by Muriel Stuart
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On such a night, or such a night
146
On such a night, or such a night,
Would anybody care
If such a little figure
Slipped quiet from its chair—
So quiet—Oh how quiet,
That nobody might know
But that the little figure
Rocked softer—to and fro—
On such a dawn, or such a dawn—
Would anybody sigh
That such a little figure
Too sound asleep did lie
For Chanticleer to wake it—
Or stirring house below—
Or giddy bird in orchard—
Or early task to do?
There was a little figure plump
For every little knoll—
Busy needles, and spools of thread—
And trudging feet from school—
Playmates, and holidays, and nuts—
And visions vast and small—
Strange that the feet so precious charged
Should reach so small a goal!
poem by Emily Dickinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Small Town
Well I was born in a small town
And I live in a small town
Probly die in a small town
Oh, those small communities
All my friends are so small town
My parents live in the same small town
My job is so small town
Provides little opportunity
Educated in a small town
Taught the fear of jesus in a small town
Used to daydream in that small town
Another boring romantic thats me
But Ive seen it all in a small town
Had myself a ball in a small town
Married an l.a. doll and brought her to this small town
Now shes small town just like me
No I cannot forget where it is that I come from
I cannot forget the people who love me
Yeah, I can be myself here in this small town
And people let me be just what I want to be
Got nothing against a big town
Still hayseed enough to say
Look whos in the big town
But my bed is in a small town
Oh, and thats good enough for me
Well I was born in a small town
And I can breathe in a small town
Gonna die in this small town
And thats probly where theyll bury me
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Annoying Woodpecker
The woodpecker pecks gracefully
On the side of the house.
It's bothersome raps
wake me from a sound sleep.
I stumble out of bed in a
Sleepy fog, and walk outside
To somehow quiet the loud clatter.
I walk up to the house
The small woodpecker is startled
And hastily flies away.
He perches on a small branch
And looks at me
I leave the woodpecker
To his business
In hopes that he would get
Bored and leave
For my house's sake.
poem by Melanie Dickie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Small Talk
Its not the chapters he reads when youre feeling low down
Its not the touch of his skin when you kiss him goodnight
Its not the money he spends when you want to buy a daydream
And not that miracle smile that makes the sky bright
Its not the way his hands behave
When youve turned out the light
Its the small, small small talk that makes it all happen
Small, small small talk that makes you want to fly, yes it does
Its not the way he believes in you like a religion
Its not the thrill that you get when hes holding you tight
Its not the way his eyes persuade
You to stay the night
Its the small, small small talk that makes it all happen (just like that)
Small, small small talk that makes you feel like flying, yes it does
Information, heart and soul, a whisper, a word
Confessions that have to be heard
Small small talk
Come on now, come on now
Come on - you make it rock so heavenly
Come on now, come on now
Come on - you seem to talk so heavenly
Big words...
Small talk...
Its not the way his eyes persuade
You to stay the night
Its the small, small small talk that makes it all happen
Small, small small talk that makes you feel like flying, yes it does
song performed by by Roxette
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ballad of Rudolph Reed
Rudolph Reed was oaken.
His wife was oaken too.
And his two good girls and his good little man
Oakened as they grew.
"I am not hungry for berries.
I am not hungry for bread.
But hungry hungry for a house
Where at night a man in bed
"May never hear the plaster
Stir as if in pain.
May never hear the roaches
Falling like fat rain.
"Where never wife and children need
Go blinking through the gloom.
Where every room of many rooms
Will be full of room.
"Oh my home may have its east or west
Or north or south behind it.
All I know is I shall know it,
And fight for it when I find it."
The agent's steep and steady stare
Corroded to a grin.
Why you black old, tough old hell of a man,
Move your family in!
Nary a grin grinned Rudolph Reed,
Nary a curse cursed he,
But moved in his House. With his dark little wife,
And his dark little children three.
A neighbor would look, with a yawning eye
That squeezed into a slit.
But the Rudolph Reeds and children three
Were too joyous to notice it.
For were they not firm in a home of their own
With windows everywhere
And a beautiful banistered stair
And a front yard for flowers and a back for grass?
The first night, a rock, big as two fists.
The second, a rock big as three.
But nary a curse cursed Rudolph Reed.
(Though oaken as man could be.)
The third night, a silvery ring of glass.
Patience arched to endure,
But he looked, and lo! small Mabel's blood
Was staining her gaze so pure.
Then up did rise our Roodoplh Reed
And pressed the hand of his wife,
And went to the door with a thirty-four
And a beastly butcher knife.
He ran like a mad thing into the night
And the words in his mouth were stinking.
By the time he had hurt his first white man
He was no longer thinking.
By the time he had hurt his fourth white man
Rudolph Reed was dead.
His neighbors gathered and kicked his corpse.
"Nigger--" his neighbors said.
Small Mabel whimpered all night long,
For calling herself the cause.
Her oak-eyed mother did no thing
But change the bloody gauze.
poem by Gwendolyn Brooks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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