Barton Leas
You can't see the tiny village
In the bush, called Barton Leas
For it's hidden in a hollow,
Down a track and through the trees,
And you'd pass it on the highway
Never knowing where to stop,
If it wasn't for a broken sign
That indicates a shop.
There are just two dozen houses
By the shop, a little pub,
And an oval with no grass on
All burnt up, just like the scrub,
While the buildings look forsaken
Peeling paint in every street,
And the roofs are made of iron
Fending off the scorching heat.
You would think the place deserted
If you ventured there by day,
For the streets are always empty
Like the folk have gone away,
But that's only in the summer
When the sun is at its height,
If you want to see some movement
Then, you have to go at night.
For it's then that all the neighbors
Gather, drinking at the pub,
Or go out to tend their gardens
Though their gardens are burnt up,
For it hasn't rained in Barton Leas
For years that I can see
When a passing shower startled them,
The first since fifty-three.
The people seemed so friendly
When John Inkerman turned up,
He was just a passing drifter
Quite a jolly, friendly chap,
And the locals thought he'd fit right in
And rented him a place,
They would pay him for odd jobs,
Invite him round for tea and cake.
There had never been an argument
Before in Barton Leas,
For the folk were all good neighbors
Helped each other, tried to please,
But when Inkerman had called and
Whispered things to Molly Brown,
The atmosphere began to change,
He'd said, they 'put her down.'
Then little Amy Pearson
Began to fret and cry,
When Inkerman had called on her,
The neighbors asked her why?
He'd told her that her husband Jeff
Was sweet on Ellen Tredd,
He'd seen the couple necking
In the trees behind the shed.
Then Mrs. Bartlett snubbed a friend
She'd had for twenty years,
While Mr. Bartlett smashed a glass
And went for old Carstairs,
While Peggy Neap had wandered out
To tend her veggie patch,
To find that it was all dug up
Her vegetables trashed.
Then Gordon almost hit a tree
When heading out to town,
His truck had veered off the track,
The tyres all let down,
It seemed that almost everything
That could was going wrong
In Barton Leas, since Inkerman,
The drifter came along.
One night they held a meeting
In the little village hall,
The place was packed that night
With all the neighbors, wall to wall,
But later, when John Inkerman
Had tried to join the crowd,
He found the doors and windows there
Had been both locked and barred.
The meeting went 'til midnight
Then the neighbors wandered home,
While Inkerman had stopped a few,
Asked what was going down;
'Don't let that worry you, my lad, '
Said Benjamin Tresize,
'You'll find out soon enough! We'd like
To keep it a surprise.'
One night as Inkerman had slept
Beneath a haloed moon,
Dark figures stirred around his house
Moved quietly through the gloom,
From every house in Barton Leas
They issued in the mist,
On every face a coloured mask,
A blade in every fist.
The screams were truly terrible
That night in Barton Leas,
As in they filed and, one by one
Ignored the drifter's pleas,
And every blade was bloodstained
When they filed on out the door,
That not one would be guilty;
As good neighbors, they would share.
The villagers of Barton Leas
Are friendly, never dull,
Their pub has gained an ornament
That looks quite like a skull,
And Peggy Neap grows veggies
That when cooked, just fall apart,
So succulent, they're fertilized
By a drifter's heart.
15 March 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
These Are Our Neighbors
Offered are no alternatives.
But complaints are voiced and heard.
Suggestions they have none.
But they come with venom,
On their tongues.
Exposing the teeth of wolves...
Seeking tender meat,
To consume and run!
These are my neighbors.
These are your neighbors.
These are our neighbors...
Every one.
These are my neighbors.
These are your neighbors.
These are our neighbors...
Every one.
Knockingdownwhatcanbefoundtogetnothin gdone.
Takingoutofcontextwithawishfailurecomes!
And these are my neighbors.
These are your neighbors.
These are our neighbors...
Every one.
Yes these are my neighbors.
These are your neighbors.
And these are our neighbors...
Every one.
Pickinguptheirtelephonestogossipwithm orelies.
Hopingwhatissaidwillkeepthetruthindis guise.
To keep deceit and defeat on the rise!
And...
These are my neighbors.
These are your neighbors.
These are our neighbors...
Every one.
Yes...
These are my neighbors.
These are your neighbors.
These are our neighbors...
Every one.
Offered are no alternatives.
But complaints are voiced and heard.
Suggestions they have none.
But they come with venom,
On their tongues.
Exposing the teeth of wolves...
Seeking tender meat,
To consume and run!
Pickinguptheirtelephonestogossipwithmorel ies.
Hopingwhatissaidwillkeepthetruthindisguis e.
To keep deceit and defeat on the rise!
And these are my neighbors.
These are your neighbors.
These are our neighbors...
Every one.
Yes these are my neighbors.
These are your neighbors.
And these are our neighbors...
Every one.
These are my neighbors.
These are your neighbors.
These are our neighbors...
Every one.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In Fullmoon...
In full moon night,
the moon walked
with me with his light.
There was cool breeze,
his light touched
the heads of trees--
and the green darkness,
spread its sheet
over the leas' face.
The moon sat under
a leafy tree....
looking at me with wonder
He told how he does fade,
and the dust, smoke, fog,
cover him with shade!
He wept, and I heard,
until, he slept and woke
listening to the call of bird!
poem by Nilakshi Das
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Drifter In The Dark
Do you ever walk alone?
Like a drifter in the dark
Seeking out what isnt there
Looking only for a spark
From a girl whos all alone
Maybe shes a-driftin too
Like a shadow in the night
Waitin just to meet with you
And then perhaps in love youll stay
Or fall and go your separate ways
Still searchin for a spark
Like a drifter in the dark
Doodn doo doo doodn doo (da da da da da) [8x]
(repeat first verse)
Like a drifter in the dark [4x]
song performed by by Ween
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mr. What's-His-Name
They called him Mr. What's-his-name:
From where he was, or why he came,
Or when, or what he found to do,
Nobody in the city knew.
He lived, it seemed, shut up alone
In a low hovel of his own;
There cooked his meals and made his bed,
Careless of all his neighbors said.
His neighbors, too, said many things
Expressive of grave wonderings,
Since none of them had ever been
Within his doors, or peered therein.
In fact, grown watchful, they became
Assured that Mr. What's-his-name
Was up to something wrong--indeed,
Small doubt of it, we all agreed.
At night were heard strange noises there,
When honest people everywhere
Had long retired; and his light
Was often seen to burn all night.
He left his house but seldom--then
Would always hurry back again,
As though he feared some stranger's knock,
Finding him gone, might burst the lock.
Beside, he carried, every day,
At the one hour he went away,
A basket, with the contents hid
Beneath its woven willow lid.
And so we grew to greatly blame
This wary Mr. What's-his-name,
And look on him with such distrust
His actions seemed to sanction just.
But when he died--he died one day--
Dropped in the street while on his way
To that old wretched hut of his--
You'll think it strange--perhaps it is--
But when we lifted him, and past
The threshold of his home at last,
No man of all the crowd but stepped
With reverence,--Aye, _quailed_ and _wept_!
What was it? Just a shriek of pain
I pray to never hear again--
A withered woman, old and bowed,
That fell and crawled and cried aloud--
And kissed the dead man's matted hair--
Lifted his face and kissed him there--
Called to him, as she clutched his hand,
In words no one could understand.
Insane? Yes.--Well, we, searching, found
An unsigned letter, in a round
Free hand, within the dead man's breast:
'Look to my mother--_I'm_ at rest.
You'll find my money safely hid
Under the lining of the lid
Of my work-basket. It is hers,
And God will bless her ministers!'
And some day--though he died unknown--
If through the City by the Throne
I walk, all cleansed of earthly shame,
I'll ask for Mr. What's-his-name.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Grant Us Peace, Father of Abraham, Isaac and Ishmael
Grant us peace,
that we may not oppress our neighbors
Grant us justice,
that we may not enslave our neighbors
Grant us sanity,
that we may not torture our neighbors
Grant us mercy,
that we may not murder our neighbors
Grant us conscience
that we may not expel our neighbors
Grant us love,
that we may hunger for truth
Grant us discernment
that we may know what is ours, and what is not
Grant us decency
that we may return what we stole
Grant us courage
that we may admit what we’ve done
Give us strength to atone.
Ask only
that we end our silence.
The Drifter
The wolf was not too keen to mix,
A drifter, nothing more...
And his own company he picks,
As if he knows the score...
Responsibilities dismissed,
Discarded out-of-hand,
They could not help him to exist
In water or on land...
He checks the water carefully,
Avoiding pain and strife,
As if he wanted certainty
Through each day of his life...
On his own a hundred rainbows,
On Earth, beneath the sky,
The drifter chose this path he goes,
No family nearby...
He drifts just like the sun by day
And like the moon at night,
Alone, yet choosing come what may,
No conscience as a guide...
To him, life is no funfair ride,
No easy path to stroll...
The drifter has no sense of pride...
The drifter has no soul...
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Out of Sight
They held a polo meeting at a little country town,
And all the local sportsmen came to win themselves renown.
There came two strangers with a horse, and I am much afraid
They both belonged to what is called "the take-you-down brigade".
They said their horse could jump like fun, and asked an amateur
To ride him in the steeplechase, and told him they were sure
The last time round he'd sail away with such a swallow's flight
The rest would never see him go -- he's finish out of sight.
So out he went; and, when folk saw the amateur was up,
Some local genius called the race "the Dude-in-Danger Cup".
The horse was known as "Who's Afraid", by "Panic" from "The Fright" --
But still his owners told the jock he's finish out of sight.
And so he did; for Who's Afraid, without the least pretence,
Disposed of him by rushing through the very second fence;
And when they ran the last time round the prophecy was right --
For he was in the ambulance, and safely "out of sight".
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Karma
He looked down over the valley,
Over the verdant green and trees,
And suddenly felt so humbled
That he sighed, and fell to his knees,
He'd only been out a single day
With the world before him spread,
So still he could hear those prison gates
As they'd clanged behind, in his head.
He'd finished his twenty seven years
He'd paid society's due,
Locked in a cell of eight by ten
For the things that he'd had to do,
He'd shown no mercy to Annabel,
No more to the Widow Peak,
He'd drowned them, just as he meant to do
When they'd met, in less than a week.
He thrilled at the thought of their staring eyes
As he held them down in the bath,
Watching their lives leach out of them,
Just as he'd done with Kath,
There'd been so many, he'd not confessed
But been convicted for two,
The other ten would have got him life
Without reprieve, if they knew.
He went to live in the valley
Rented a cottage under the trees,
Owned by a man called Anderson
Who'd visited him for years,
He'd said he knew of a valley where
He could start his life again,
He'd said, ‘Now here is your second chance,
Back in the world of men! '
He wandered round in the cottage
Took in the bathroom at a glance,
Took in the nice deep marble tub
With a smirk and a rub of his hands,
The village was just a walk away
But he'd give it a day or two,
Then check for a widow or single girl
At the store, as he wandered through.
He spent the night reminiscing
Thinking of all those staring eyes,
Of Kristen Poole, that silly young fool
That he'd fed with outrageous lies,
Her mouth had flapped like a goldfish
As she fought in a bleak despair,
But nearly a foot of water lay
Between her face and the air.
And who was that girl, that Marigold,
That he'd met in the Shop ‘n Save?
He'd thought that her name was Sanderson,
She didn't know how to behave,
She'd said her brother looked out for her
Would interfere with her fun,
But once in a bath of water,
It would only be fun for one.
He lay and stared at the ceiling as
He felt quite suddenly cold,
The name of his mentor Anderson
Came creeping back to his soul,
He heard the rushing of water
Off in the distance, up on the heights,
And made his way to the village
Lying in darkness, deep in the night,
The cottages all were empty
So was the chapel, totally bare,
The door of the shop was open
Nothing but garbage left in there,
He turned and ran up the village street
But the thunder was hard at his heels,
When a wall of water, ten feet high
Rushed over the verdant fields.
They'd opened the sluices at the dam
To flood the Valley at night,
To turn it into a reservoir
For a city that lay nearby,
The villagers had been gone for a month
But they stood and they watched the tide,
Flooding their tiny cottages
While Anderson laughed, and cried!
11 November 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poetry At Night Time And Beethoven's Piano Music
this is like playing the piano pieces
at night when everyone in the neighborhood is already sleeping,
they wonder if there is a ghost in this house
someone that cannot accept death someone that claims
an unfinished business
still roaming in limbo and plays the piano at night
they are all disturbed and will close their windows earlier
turn off the lights and retreat inside their thick blankets
the piano is heard and it is playing some pieces of Beethoven
the story of his death...
it is not the same with your poetry
all night long, you write, and there is no stopping and the neighbors think
that everything is all right
that the lights are on because there is a baby in the house
it is you that sob silently inside the limbo of your dreams
that refuse to die
roaming the streets at night
breathing the cold in the darkness
the following morning, nothing is changed
the neighbors as usual do their normal activities
the street is heavy with traffic
people are busy chasing the hours
and there is no stopping anymore.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Door To Door
Find me out awalkin, time the whistle starts acallin,
Maybe stoppin early, knockin at your door.
Take so long to answer, lord knows it aint the milkman
Could be stoppin early, sellin door to door.
Heres my latest sample; like to show you how to use it.
First, you pull the curtain while I spread some here.
Wipe the surface gently, try to use a circle motion,
Safe for all your problems, and my price is fair.
This stuffll get the stain out if you use it loosely wadded;
This herell take the pain out and wont mess your hair.
Place your order early cause you know Im in a hurry;
Your neighbors in her doorway, wont you sign right here.
Place your order early cause you know Im in a hurry;
Your neighbors in her doorway, wont you sign right here.
Man is on the last train, all that work and no play,
Could be stoppin early, knockin at your door.
Time for me to head on; pack my kit and so long;
Catch you bright and early sellin door to door.
This stuffll get the stain out if you use it loosely wadded;
This herell take the pain out and wont mess your hair.
Place your order early cause you know Im in a hurry;
Your neighbors in her doorway, wont you sign right here.
Place your order early cause you know Im in a hurry;
Your neighbors in her doorway, wont you sign right here.
Place your order early cause you know Im in a hurry;
Your neighbors in her doorway, wont you sign right here.
(repeat 2x)
song performed by by Creedence Clearwater Revival
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Haystack Called Happiness
I thought that I would begin your day,
with a mixed flower bouquet.
There's going to be a change in the weather,
so let's spend the day together.
We'll go to the country on a Barton bus,
and walk where people won't bother us.
We'll saunter hand in hand, talk and kiss,
and find a haystack called happiness.
We'll lie on top and catch the sun
and if it rains we'll have some fun
by digging a tunnel inside the hay,
and make the most of this your day.
After that we'll find an old country pub
where the locals will sit and stare at us.
We'll sip our beer and talk, and eat,
whilst the locals look on in disbelief.
They'll see the hay still in our hair
and watch as it falls around the chair.
They'll no doubt smile at the untidy mess
and know of the place called happiness.
We'll return their smiles, and I'll pick up the hay,
and we'll keep a piece each for a memory day.
The touch of the piece will then take us back
to the day we shared in the happy haystack.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I would not have done, if I knew it earlier..
When you called me other day,
and told me your sad story,
I should have listened to you, not have done it.
When you called me middle of the night,
and told me that you had given up all hopes,
I should have listened to you only, not have done that.
When you came to my house,
cried your heart out,
I should have listened to you ONLY, not have done that.
When you made a hell out my weak heart,
pestered me to part the hard earned money,
I should have listened to you, not have lent the cash.
When I call you now,
You already changed your phone number,
several times.
When I come to your house,
your neighbors have become old,
and you shifted to a new house.
When I manage to get your new number,
and call you, you do tell me,
that I called the wrong number.
If I knew it earlier,
that you bargained my affection for money,
I would not have lent you the money,
at least I still have a friend or a relative intact.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Caseworker's Tune
Housing Project, Chicago
Where I am now
there are no leas, no
sheep feeding.
There are tenements,
children breeding.
Where I am now
there are no trees, no
wrens lighting.
There are halls far, dark,
an old man peeing.
poem by Donal Mahoney
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Midnight Sun
They say you know your way around
They say you are a man of the world
You say she is a new kid in town
You think shes just another girl
You get suspicious that something is wrong
No explanation why it lasts so long
And by the look on your face, everybody knows
You cant deny that you feel exposed
You can feel the heat when the night is gone
You been burnt by the midnight sun
When you look for relief but you cant find none
You been burnt by the midnight sun
Like a train running down the track
Its too late, things are out of control
Theres no way she can take you back
Theres no release for the brand on your soul
You never noticed the touch of her hand
You messed around with things
You dont understand
Now you sit in darkness while a new day dies
Her face is shining when you close your eyes
When you feel the heat when the light is gone
You been burnt by the midnight sun
When you look for relief but you cant find none
You been burnt by the midnight sun
I know the feeling, you wish youd been warned
Now you and I are brothers in arms
cause I know the pain cause I know her kind
One left a feeling burning in my mind
And you feel the heat when the night is gone
I been burnt by the midnight sun
And I look for relief but I cant find none
I been burnt by the midnight sun
I can feel the heat when the light is gone
I been burnt by the midnight sun
And I look for relief but I cant find none
I been burnt by the midnight sun
song performed by by Todd Rundgren
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flying Squirrels
On the rugged water shed
At the top of the bridle track
Where years ago, as the old men say,
The splitters went with a bullock dray
But never a dray came back.
At the time of the gum tree bloom,
When the scent in the air is strong,
And the blossom stirs in the evening breeze,
You may see the squirrels among the trees,
Playing the whole night long.
Never a care at all
Bothers their simple brains;
You can see them glide in the moonlight dim
From tree to tree and from limb to limb,
Little grey aeroplanes.
Each like a dormouse sleeps
In the spout of a gum tree old,
A ball of fur with a silver coat;
Each with his tail around his throat
For fear of his catching cold.
These are the things he eats,
Asking his friends to dine:
Moths and beetles and newborn shoots,
Honey and snacks of the native fruits,
And a glass of dew for wine.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Im A Drifter
Im a drifter, a driftin drifter
Got no place to call my home no more
Im a wanderer, a wandering wanderer
Got no one to call my own no more
Got no strings to tie me down
Got no cause to hang around
What difference does it make which way I go
Got an empty feelin down inside
Still I need to stay alive
And who can tell what waits beyond this road
Im a drifter, a driftin drifter
Got no one to call my own no more
Got no strings to tie me down
Got no cause to hang around
What difference does it make which way I go
Got an empty feelin deep inside
Still I need to stay alive
Who can tell what waits beyond this road
Im a drifter, a driftin drifter
Got no one to call my own no more
Tag:
Got no place to call my home no more
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fighting for America
“Fighting for America”
I am Fighting for America. I wonder if I’ll live for another day. I hear the shooting of the guns. I see the bombs busting in air. I want to make a difference. I am Fighting for America. I wonder if I’ll live for another day. I pretend not to be scared. I feel cold. I tough the coldness of the gun. I worry if I’ll live or die. I cry cause I don’t want to leave my family behind. I am Fighting for America. I wonder if I’ll live for another day. I understand why we fight. I just say why. I dream of a perfect life. I try to make it true. I hope for a peaceful life. I am Fighting for America. I wonder if I’ll live for another day.
John D Barton
poem by John D Barton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Little Fun Keeps You Young
A Little Fun Keeps You Young
A little fun keeps you young;
A little laughter keeps you bright.
When you get to that age
When a mid life crisis looms
Go out and act like a kid again.
Don’t worry what the neighbors might say
They are probably crazy anyway.
Change your hair color grow it long
Change your style and wear a thong
That will put some spring in your step
Or goose yourself to give you some pep
Don't worry what the neighbors might say
They are probably crazy anyway
Dance till the wee hours in the morning
Let loose, but don’t get lost in the spring
Smile, even if there’s nobody around
Run, until you’re nowhere to be found
Don’t worry what the neighbors might say
You are more than crazy than they anyway..
Pssst..have fun reading this, please, lol.
a fun collab write with David Harris and Jojo Bean
poem by Meggie Gultiano
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Benjamin Bandicoot
If you walk in the bush at night,
In the wonderful silence deep,
By the flickering lantern light
When the birds are all asleep
You may catch a sight of old Skinny-go-root,
Otherwise Benjamin Bandicoot.
With a snout that can delve and dig,
With claws that are strong as steel,
He roots like a pigmy pig
To get his evening meal,
For creeping creatures and worms and roots
Are highly relished by bandicoots.
Under the grass and the fern
He fashions his beaten track
With many a twist and turn
That wanders and doubles back,
And dogs that think they are most astute
Are baffled by Benjamin Bandicoot.
In the depth of the darkest night,
Without a star in the sky,
He'll come to look at a light,
And scientists wonder why:
If the bush is burning it's time to scoot
Is the notion of Benjamin Bandicoot.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It is the same reason
Why she sings, why she sings out loud at night
When all the neighbors need the peace and quiet
Why she keeps nagging me why she keeps going to
Church everyday why she keeps some dogs in the house
Why she keeps her garden why she keeps an updated menu
Why she sleeps late and wakes up early why she keeps away
From nosy neighbors now why she buys so many shoes
Why she keeps on buying more bags why she scolds the maids
Why she keeps all the things to herself why she experiences
Nightmares why she escapes to the malls and shops all day
Why she keeps asking me what time is it now?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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