Spry is not a look, spry is behavior.
quote by Robert Culp
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The daughter of a spry old woman makes a poor housekeeper.
Luscious Guy
Branches reaching to the sky,
'climb up' says I,
up high,
where I can spy
that luscious guy
who's caught my eye.
He is nearby
but he's kind of shy,
perhaps a smile is worth a try.
Oh My!
I can't deny
he could add stimuli
and he's very spry.
I'm pretty sure that he could electrify, or even petrify,
but he would very certainly, satisfy.
He'd be my sweetie pie,
if I could only occupy
his personae.
Oh Gosh! I shouldn't pry.
should I!
I think I'll say goodbye!
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Birthday Twinkle
The years pass by
Without even giving it a try
Without pushing it to the limits
And you wonder why
You feel older.
The veneer chips away
Soon you can’t hide
What is inside
An empty chest or a treasure trove
Surprise the spry second
With strength, happiness and love
And of birthdays, you'll be fond
Celebrating, with a twinkle in your eye
poem by Kamini Arichandran
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bellas Birthday Cake
Bellas birthday cake
Bella played the bridge every second loneliest night of the year
Took a certain liking to a fellow there - bella
She said I brought her back to some old better man - fellah
Bella she was born today feeling kinda spry
Bellas birthday cake was burning
Like lightning, like fire
Bellas birthday cake was burning...
Bella made her bed in red every loneliest night of the year
Tied me to the rages of her rocking chair - bella
Fed me quiet offer through her ever wares - Ill tell ya
Bella she was born today feeling kinda spry
Bellas birthday cake was burning
Like lightning, like fire
Bellas birthday cake was burning
Ever yearning forest fire
And all of her lines she left unread
Spirits and battles won, she said
And over her mountian tops she ground me off
Where...i cant remember...
Bella played the bridge on the second loneliest night of the year
Bella she was born today...
Bellas birthday cake was burning
Bellas birthday cake was burning
Bellas birthday cake was burning
Bellas birthday cake was burning...50 years gone.
song performed by by Five For Fighting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What the Miner in the Desert Said
The moon's a brass-hooped water-keg,
A wondrous water-feast.
If I could climb the ridge and drink
And give drink to my beast;
If I could drain that keg, the flies
Would not be biting so,
My burning feet be spry again,
My mule no longer slow.
And I could rise and dig for ore,
And reach my fatherland,
And not be food for ants and hawks
And perish in the sand.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bronze Star
From the ambience of the boundless sky,
A twinkling and perfect bronze star,
As if a saint had gotten spry
And left the everlasting ajar.
The splendor of the palace beds
On the corner of the firmament
Where ice cloud and star weds,
Beyond all chills of any extent.
The twilight verse of the turtledove
Awakens us at morning's dawn
Foretelling blessings from above
And glory to the heaven-bound.
poem by Albert Price
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Scene From The Future's Web
Gorilla, man, have played their innings out,
Freeway turned to grass without a doubt
Spider, which waited long, will reign supreme.
Sirens silent, mankind just dust done dream
Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall all spiders scout
winging hummers, shawl fly caught, spun scheme
singing drummers' sprawl, spry sought fun theme!
(2 March 2012)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Writing passion
On the bright tail of the lake
Contribution from the bright rays
I put part of the writing passion
holding my loves finger
Hiding from the world's eyes
I hav to go flying across the sky
with stars filled in my hands
flowing in your love ocean
wanna go deep down high
When you step down gently
in deep water of the lake
go quietly tocuhing your lips
These spry waves falling shy
poem by Seema Gupta
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Spanish Men
The Men of Seville are, they say,
The laziest of Spain.
Consummate artists in delay,
Allergical to strain;
Fr if you have a job for them,
And beg them to be spry,
They only look at you with phlegm:
"Mañana," they reply.
The Men of gay Madrid, I'm told,
Siesta's law revere;
The custom is so ages old,
And to tradition dear;
So if you want a job done soon,
And shyly ask them: "When?"
They say: "Come back this afternoon:
We'll hope to do it them."
The Men of Barcelona are
Such mostly little caps,
That when you see them from afar
They make you think of Japs;
Yet they can take life on the run,
Quite peppy, I'll allow,
For when there's something to be done,
They shout: "We'll do it NOW."
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When You Grow Old
When You Grow Old
I'm not as spry
As I once was
That's what happens
When you grow old
Edwin Tanguma © 2/10/2012
poem by Edwin Tanguma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fable
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel;
And the former called the latter "Little Prig."
Bun replied,
"You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together
To make up a year
And a sphere.
And I think it's no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry.
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ: all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut."
poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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‘romance Point’ [1]
‘ROMANCE POINT’ [1]
esspeecee … [06.10.08.]
Questing the fragrance
Of dews,
On the sod
Where you left
Foot print.
Blind I’m
To view,
But will
Find that fragrance
Thro’ my
Acute sense.
But –
Alas!
You’ve lastly
Effaced
To take back
With you.
Oh spry
Dear,
Thanks for
Left fragrance
Of sod.
Happy I’m
That grass carpet
And nascent leaf blades
Whispering-
‘tis is your
‘Romance Point’.
Copyright reserved by the Author
poem by Dr. Sakti P. Chakravorty
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Weaves
Rose blooms were fading like flames;
in my serene garden, and your advent
quiet downpouring was, flow in veins.
Unspoken wraith I was on distant sky;
(quiet downpouring - rain flow godsent) ,
nicely on fields the pure drops fell spry;
Your raindrops I transformed to song,
sweet melodic play, while the leaves,
accepted this entreaty I strung along,
in my blooming solitude's fate weaves.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Proud to be a frog
I am proud to be a frog, though I know not why.
The green of my skin, so utterly devine;
as to what others say, (to which I am blind)
'You are proud to be a frog, though we do not know why'.
To look at the toad or turtle, they are a shame.
They are slow and weak, their legs poorly shaped.
If you dare to look closely at the great frog race;
we are quick and spry, objects of envious hate.
To the toad that is brown or the newt that is orange.
Their ugliness is a disgrace, no more than a sore;
and as to what I say, (to frogs it is right)
'We are proud to be frogs, all apart must die! '
poem by Shirow Walker
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Romance Point [3]
ROMANCE POINT [3]
esspeecee … [12.10.08]
O floral bed
En-bosom the,
Foot marks indelibly
-of her.
Bohemian me
Know well,
She’ll efface
Like a
Spry shadow.
Her balmy
Coquette feet will
Gush out,
But to -
Dumfound me
Achefully.
O floral bed
En-bosom foot prints,
My-
Romance Point
For an image
In my sterile cache.
End up
Game of romance
Before the mellow light
O you not
My Romance Point.
Copyright reserved by the Author
.
poem by Dr. Sakti P. Chakravorty
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Drought Won Too or Drought To One
Dewdrops on hedgerows once we knew,
Rainbows bridging the sky,
Over our heads dark storm clouds grew,
Ugly, we thought, - but why?
Grieving for failed crops we view
Here fields that once grew spry,
Too arid, unproductive too,
Dust ridden waste, bone dry.
Rose sere upon the stem, no clue
Of moisture meets the eye,
Unless the tears that filter through
Good news to bad reply.
Heat comes to roost-roast, all’s askew,
Turns wild oats sown awry...
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Grand-Pa's Whim
While for me gapes the greedy grave
It don't make sense
That I should have a crazy crave
To paint our fence.
Yet that is what I aim to do,
Though dim my sight:
Jest paint them aged pickets blue,
Or green or white.
Jest squat serenely in the sun
Wi' brush an' paint,
An' gay them pickets one by one,
--A chore! It ain't.
The job is joy. Although I'm slow
I save expense:
So folks, let me before I go,
Smart that ol' fence.
Them pickets with my hands I made,
When young and spry;
I coloured them a gleeful shade
To glad the eye.
So now as chirpy as a boy,
'Ere I go hence,
Once more let me jest bright to joy
Our picket fence.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pearl, Merle and Earl
Pearl, Merle and Earl are an unlikely crew…
The two girls are 87; the ol’ man 92.
They say they live alone, but hardly true
Their cavalcade of caretakers is always in view.
There’s the day nurse and night nurse
And the two for weekends.
Then the stock boy who buys the food
And a healthy dose of Depends.
Pearl, Merle and Earl can still get around
With jaunts getting shorter with less of a sound.
They love everybody, but one thing all hate;
Why can’t folks keep their simple names straight?
“I’m Pearl with one “e” not at the end of my name.
“I’m Merle with two “e’s”, but pronounced the same.”
“It’s Earl. My one “E” is a capital letter at the start.”
This spry crew will tug at the strings of your heart.
poem by Gregory Huyette
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Having A Whale Of A Time!
'Gangway! Gangway! I'm coming through! '
The massive whale declared!
'Yes, move aside, I'm wide, it's true!
If quick, you won't get scared!
I'll wave goodbye as I swim past!
Then I'll bid you farewell...
My, my, I'm really going fast!
As if you couldn't tell...'
'The new kid on the block, that's me!
I've not been here before!
I've put on weight, that's plain to see...
I'm bound to eat much more!
One day, I might be twice the size!
If that were possible!
I'll exercise, don't worry, guys!
I'll still look wonderful! '
'It's warm today, I'm feeling spry...
Quite frisky, don't you know?
And when I feel I'm on a high,
There's no point going slow...
I'm on my way to who knows where...
That could be miles, OK?
Yes, move aside, don't stop and stare!
Gangway! Gangway! Gangway! '
Denis Martindale, copyright, October 2011.
poem by Denis Martindale
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Rondeau Reclimbing Childhood Tree
In rhyme reclimbing childhood tree we try
to paint trunk soaring through dark clouds to sky
as tot from cot in garden grot advanced
upon strong branch in innocence. Dream chanced
reclimbing childhood tree.
Tot tottering trotted to Spring sprig so spry
that, tempting, seemed to beckon on the sly:
imagination is thereby enhanced,
reclimbing childhood tree.
Child's venture wild seemed Everest so high,
as on a whim adventured, - tree limbs fly
towards the heavens where their branches danced.
Sage in old age keeps image deep entranced
recalling day way up above grass dry
reclimbing childhood tree.
19 October 2011
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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