The Twelve Apostrophes
There once were twelve apostrophes
Who'd served their English writers well,
But soon despite concerted pleas,
Their use had all but gone to hell.
The first to go was poor old you're,
Became just your, then out the door,
And closely followed by old it's,
Whose usefulness had had the fritz.
So it's was its, then we'd was wed,
And pretty soon poor that's was dead.
The next to go was faithful where's,
He's dead and buried - no one cares.
And number six was we're to were,
And that's to thats - another pair.
Then the apostrophe of who's,
Where he has gone there are no clues.
The ninth to go was good old you've,
He didn't fit the modern groove.
And didn't closely followed him,
Into the apostrophic bin.
(I made this up to put them in)
The last to go were can't and he's,
To cant and hes with just a squeeze.
Now of the twelve not one is left,
We're now apostrophe bereft.
Now I've misused apostrophes,
And missed them out on words like shes,
But it's a crime to let them drop,
Apostrocide has got to stop.
(OK, invented word - fair cop)
Now writing's going to the dogs,
Apostrophes popping their clogs;
These signs are there to show what's not,
They matter much more than a jot,
Let's hope that writers out there please,
Can resurrect apostrophes.
poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Originality in Writing
when my writing
greets your mind
like a waterfall
crashing through
mind lane with
commas, apostrophes
pull stops as it plunges
down the slope
and then glide
along a stretch
to show us what
it sees with all its
commitments to
translating its true
feelings, and sights
sha sha sha all the way down
carrying a heaven with it
i know i have made it
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Four Main Types of Writers (personal opinion)
The Lonely Writer
Some writings tell me
This person is lonely
And is reaching out
For the touch of a friendly comment
These writers are sad, solitary,
Isolated, but good persons
And quite often very good writers
The needy juvenile writer
Some writings contain words
Or language meant to shock
And to offend.
These writers are lonely also
But in a different way.
These writers are simply saying
Like a little child
“hey! I exist! Someone better
Acknowledge me! ”
These writers can often write well
But usually don’t, can’t, or choose not to
The Spite Writer
This writer can be of either gender
But seems to be in a female majority
They’ve been spurned or rejected
Two-timed or lied to.
And they are going to vent their ire
In the most public way they can.
These writers can also be very good writers
But too often let their anger get in the way.
The Religious Writer
These writers show people passionate
And zealously devoted to singing the praises
Of the Lord and goodness and charity.
They’re probably austere, honest people
Who almost always write very well.
For the most part these writers seem
To want to spread the word and
At the same time tend to be rather singular
In the subject matter of their writings,
Rarely attempting other genres.
poem by David Whalen
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Most Writers
Most writers 'twould seem have moments of self doubt
But they never go short of things to write about
And to become a top writer of one a big ask
And to succeed as a writer for many seems too daunting a task.
Most writers do not write for wealth or for fame
And despite lack of success they pen on just the same
For every one hundred thousand writers perhaps one writing millionaire
Amongst the ranks of the wealthy the writers are rare.
Few writers can hope for to scale success height
For the love of writing they only do write
Few writers get published and fewer know of success
But in their writings on paper their thoughts they express.
Most writers will never know wealth and renown
And they are not even well known in their own Hometown
They never will be known beyond their home shore
They write for the love of it and little more.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Drop Dead Gorgeous
Totally out of control
She owns me
I didnt know that she'd know She stoned me
I think I got it bad and I cant let it go
I thought and youd be much better
All of the cashmere all orange and green
Shes naturally drop dead gorgeous
cleanly gardenia and black lessareen
shes naturally drop dead gorgeous
its so not fair
Completely inside my head imagine pretending
Shes the book that Ive read with a beautiful ending
It really drives me mad I cant leave her alone
cause I wont let me forget her
Rose colored glasses you know what that says
shes naturally drop dead gorgeous
Her sweet molasses on my slice of bread
shes naturally drop dead gorgeous
Totally out of control
She owned me
Sweet almond eyes just to see and be seen
shes naturally drop dead gorgeous
she tasted like cherries sweet loves grenadine
shes naturally drop dead gorgeous
Makes love like a rabbit to my velveteen
shes naturally drop dead gorgeous
a gem with a smile like a young norma jean
shes naturally drop dead gorgeous
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dead Against It
And when she drowns
Within and in the fizzy gin, begins to sigh
Good God or my I cry and die and lie beside
She is the apple in my eye
She talked to god
I couldnt cope
Ord hope eloped
A dope she roped
This salty lie
And when shes dreaming, I believe
And when shes reading, I retreat
Cant believe her
Telling me shes dead again
Telling me shes dead against it
And deep my wound
Within for every second chance it was
Thy-tore
From deep within, despite the rain, my words are worn
She loves to talk into the phone
No matter who
No matter when
No matter where
No better than the faulty line
And when shes dreaming, I believe
And when shes reading, I retreat
Cant believe her
Telling me shes dead again
Telling me shes dead against it
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Identity Of Moment
At twelve of night philosopher thinks with a cup of tea
At twelve of night exuded in dream
At twelve of night cloud of blue sky burns
At twelve of night strip by strip waves fall to ground
At twelve of night full moon flashes of light
At twelve of night horn of car strikes on door
At twelve of night couple enters into dwell of love
At twelve of night loud cry of progenitors comes
At twelve of night machinegun of devilish roars
At twelve of night whistles of train strikes
At twelve of night the red sun of monument raises.
poem by Bongokobida Zakaria
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Grammarotics
The angle of delight is best
achieved while rubbing
the pluperfect button
in tiny syllabic circles
while the glottal stop needs
firm accentual strokes
for copulative conjunction
to occur. The placement
of the preterite tense
at the entrance
of a lubricated sentence
assures the inevitable
apostrophe. However,
if the apostrophe occurs
prematurely the result
is then a dangling
modifier, also
commonly known as
a pathetic fallacy.
poem by Nick Carbo
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End of Eleven Eleven
This unique day came to an end
Like any other that we saw,
I thanked God for all that happened:
Good things that gave me awe!
The day did not see something bad,
Nor something worst to surprise all;
It only served good things to add,
And didn’t turn water gall!
The festivity mood came down
As hearts and minds got satisfied;
As grains got sifted, chaff was blown;
And science, the date defied!
It was a mighty day indeed
To many who thought it was so;
Some made more cash and fame by greed,
With poor, no other go!
But good or bad, day ended then,
As clock had struck midnight twelve;
That day, some lines, I tried to pen,
Some day for men to delve!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 11/11/11
poem by John Celes
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If the English language made any sense, a catastrophe would be an apostrophe with fur.
quote by Doug Larson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Too Late
HOPE? What! hope !—you say there is hope for the long-lost one!
Hope! when the light is out; hope! when the oil is done;
Hope! No, no, good lady! no hope for me, at least;
No home for me but the clammy grave when life has ceased.
Hope! Well, there might have been hope had my mother lived; but, then,
5
God struck her dead, and I was left alone among men.
God knows how I loved her; and shall I never see her again?
Is there no glimpse of heaven for those who are doomed to pain?
Oh, cannot she come and kiss me? Oh, cannot she pray by my side,
As she did long ago on that terrible evening before she died?
10
If she prayed God would hear her, and perhaps—but no;
I'm too old a sinner for mercy—there is nothing for me but woe.
You say that I yet could be saved if I sorrowed for my sin;
That the Lord is at heaven's gate to take poor sinners in!
God knows that I hate my sin, but I feel that it cannot be;
15
I've so often forsaken Him, that He must have forsaken me.
Nay, don't offer a prayer for me, lady, it's only mocking at God:
Who knows but my tired heart still may rest beneath the sod?
For I always loved the sunny fields and the sweet, sweet flowers,
And longed to be pure once again like them, in my better hours.
20
But after I first had fallen the devil opened my eyes,
And I saw that the world knew my shame, and I hadn't the heart to rise;
So I gave up trying to be good, and sank down lower in sin,
Tho' the thought of poor dead mother made me always hate it within.
Oh, many's the night that I've wandered about thro' rain and snow,
25
Wandered about in the street, and didn't know where had to go;
And I've often crept to the river and looked at it, still and black,
And thought how every one spurned me—but something held me back.
I remember how once, when I stopped, half-dead, one rainy day,
To rest on his steps for a moment, the servants drove me away;
30
Drove me away like a dog from the door of the man for whom,
O God! I had given up all in this world and beyond the tomb.
But don't weep at my story, good lady; I'm not worth it living or dead!
Ha, ha! I'm not frightened of Death, nor the devils that dance round my bed:
There cannot be any hell deeper nor fuller of devils and strife
35
Than the hell that burns in my heart, and the fire that eats out life.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Eclaircie
Quand on est sous l'enchantement
D'une faveur d'amour nouvelle,
On s'en défendrait vainement,
Tout le révèle :
Comme fuit l'or entre les doigts,
Le trop-plein de bonheur qu'on sème,
Par le regard, le pas, la voix,
Crie : elle m'aime !
Quelque chose d'aérien
Allège et soulève la vie,
Plus rien ne fait peine, et plus rien
Ne fait envie :
Les choses ont des airs contents,
On marche au hasard, l'âme en joie,
Et le visage en même temps
Rit et larmoie ;
On s'oublie, aux yeux étonnés
Des enfants et des philosophes,
En grands gestes désordonnés,
En apostrophes !
La vie est bonne, on la bénit,
On rend justice à la nature !
Jusqu'au rêve de faire un nid
L'on s'aventure...
poem by Rene Francois Armand Prudhomme
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Tribute Disproportionate
We read biography of living writers
same constantly repeated theme
'my favourite writers are...' then
listed iconic names immortalized
revered generations centuries
following final fallen interment
dead dead dead dead dead all
all dead shades passed on
yet in life unlike docile you
they had virile interaction
with living vibrant writers
in friendships esteemed
entrusting correspondence
creation hallowed personal
each caring supporting
others pulse contemporary
literary genius interacting
with creative artistic purpose
not ranting subserviently
totally engrossed in themes
past recognizing vital importance
relevant in spirit of age embodied
poem by Terence George Craddock
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They're pretty particular about what they show. They certainly edit the scripts and have conversations with the writers about what they are and aren't willing to portray. But the writers and the network are pretty much on the same page.
quote by James Denton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shallow Grave
When I fall in endless sleep
I hope that I'll be buried deep
Let me be the one that fortune favours
Even good children got shallow graves
Throw another clown to the lions
Throw another Joan on the blaze
Cast me away on the cruel calm ocean
and leave me for days and days and days and days and days
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
I won't lie, I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Bless the poor 'cos like the rich
They all end up in a ditch
In this world of fools and knaves
Even good children got shallow graves
The tinker, the tailor, the fabulous five
Nobody gets out of this alive
Chorus
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down, dig me down, dig me down deep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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They're fancy talkers about themselves, writers. If I had to give young writers advice, I would say don't listen to writers talking about writing or themselves.
quote by Lillian Hellman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Look Me Over Closely
look me over closely
tell me what you see
the lady likes to look her best
before she pours the tea
you said I'm ????
that makes the evening sun go down
oh look me over closely
tell me what you find
but don't be over anxious
I'm not the marryin' kind
I'm a poor in a storm
you'll harbor where it's warm
in my arms you will hide
from the great big world outside
oh but when you come and see me
don't try to change my ways
you'll have a part within my heart
and there you'll always stay
there's room for all
not for all
but don't blame me
if you fall
so look me over closely
and then make up your mind
but darling please remember this
I'm holding you before we kiss
so look me over closely
because I may be the marryin' kind
oh well I may be the marryin' kind
oh well I may be the marryin' kind
oh
song performed by by White Stripes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Writer's Drought
You've heard of a thing called writer's block and you've heard of writer's drought
But writers are never short of things on which they can write about
It's just at times their inspiration well does seem to run dry
And they cannot seem to pen a line though hard enough they try.
The writers drought it causes writers moments of self doubt
Till the words that seem locked in them eventually flow out
Through their pens to their notebooks their dry spells do not last
And on time lost out on penning words they seem to catch up fast.
Some writers in their writing drought cannot seem to feel inspired
To write even a single line they feel mentally tired
But when fresh inspiration comes to them much better stuff they do write
And feeling re-invigorated they sit and pen all night.
Most writers you will talk to of writers drought can tell
When there is no inspiration in their inspiration well
But when inspiration returns to them and their creative juices flow
They become much better writers and in self confidence grow.
poem by Francis Duggan
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On The Amazon
There's a danger zone, not a stranger zone
Than the little plot I walk on that I call my home
Full of eerie sights, weird and skeery sights
Ev'ry vicious animal that creeps and crawls and bites!!
On the Amazon, the prophylactics prowl On the Amazon, the hypodermics howl On
the Amazon, you'll hear a scarab scowl and sting zodiacs on the wing
All the stalactites and vicious vertebrae
Hunt the stalagmites while laryngitis slay
All that parasites that come from Paraguay in the spring
Hmm, hmm hmmm
Snarling equinox among the rocks will seize you
And the fahrenheit comes out at night to freeze you
Wild duodenum are lurking in the trees
And the jungle swarms with green apostrophes
Oh, the Amazon is calling me
On the Amazon, the pax vobiscum bite
On the Amazon, the epiglottis fight
On the Amazon, the hemispheres at night all slink where the agnostics drink
All the hippodromes that lie concealed in mud
Hunt the metronomes that live in swamp and flood
Then the kodachromes run out and drink their blood, poor ginks
While velocipedes among the weeds will scare you
And the menopause with hungry jaws ensnares you
Frenzied adenoids infest the hills and slopes
Everyone avoids the deadly stethoscopes
Oh, the Amazon is calling
Yes, the Amazon is calling
Oh, the Amazon is calling me-ee!!
song performed by by Don McLean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Johnny went to Hollywood
Johnny went to Hollywood
Said he’s gonna be a star
Things didn’t turn out so good
Johnny’s livin’ in his car
You shoulda seen him at the prom back in high school
You woulda bet he’s gonna be a star
Dancin’ with the queen with his tux and his crown on
Now Johnny’s livin’ in his car
Poor Johnny poor Johnny
He played Bo Decker when the senior class did “Bus Stop”
He had the junior girls all in a rage
Lookin’ like James Dean in a leather coat and t-shirt
You’da sworn that Johnny was born for the stage
Go Johnny! Go Johnny!
Johnny went to Hollywood
Said he’s gonna be a star
Things didn’t turn out so good
Johnny’s livin’ in his car
Poor Johnny, poor Johnny
He nearly got himself a diet Coke commercial
But they said he didn’t fit the part
Now he plays a waiter in a small café downtown
The way he says, “What will you have? ” is such an art!
Go Johnny! Go Johnny!
Johnny went to Hollywood
Said he’s gonna be a star
Things didn’t turn out so good
Johnny’s livin’ in his car
Poor Johnny, poor Johnny
poem by KMC Centlivre
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I didn't know writers could be real live people, because I never knew any writers.