Ill fated motherhood! -Haikkoo
Stuffed calf
Cow licks with tears
Ill fated motherhood!
Rent arrears
Spider evicted
Cobweb cleaning!
Books in the loft
Stomach is full
Well bloated rat!
poem by V.K. Kanniappan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Nobody leaves a hotel without getting a full measure of three months of rental assistance. So no one has been evicted - no one who's eligible has been evicted from a hotel without getting a significant amount of money to find - to pay for their rent.
quote by Michael Chertoff
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When ego is fed…
Someone would remember me:
My stomach goes full.
Someone would be grateful to me:
My stomach goes full.
Someone would broadcast of me:
My stomach goes full.
Someone would long for me:
My stomach goes full.
Whenever ego gets food,
The stomach is fed without food.
05.05.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A hungry calf cannot frisk happily over another with a full stomach.
Taxidermists
To the calf-less cow, a stuffed calf
Serves as a stimulus. She is in fantasy
To squash her teats.
To a thirsty man, a woman in photo
Or in thought is held in fantasy
To release his seeds.
Cow is fooled. Man is self-fooled.
09.08.2000, Paralakhemundi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stomach with food
Dont full
Fill your stomach...at
Food...
Stomach is
Full fill
The food...
Only at only
With waste of
Basket...
Making
At your stomach...
Drink...
Eat...
A llways
With your stomach
Limet... limet...
Healf stomach
Is good...
Bada full food
Eating...
Mothley once
ok...
Every day
Not better for
Your body health...
Diside to eat food...
Daily...!
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Spiderman
Spider man, spider man
Does whatever a spider can
Spins a web any size
Catches thieves just like flies
Look out!
There comes the spider man
Is he strong?
Listen, bud
Hes got radioactive blood
Can he swing from a thread?
Take a look overhead
Hey, there!
There goes the spider man
In the chill of the night
At the scene of a crime
Like a streak of light
He arrives just in time
Spider man, spider man
Friendly neighborhood spider man
Wealth and fame
Hes ignorant
Action is his reward
Look out!
Here comes the spider man
To him, lifes a big bang up
Whenever theres a hang up
Youll find the spider man.
song performed by by Ramones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You must kill the spider to get rid of the cobweb.
Man In The Middle
Did you see that man in the limousine
With a pretty blond, he is fifty and the girls only seventeen
But she doesnt care, and she never will
If hes ninety-five she dont give a damn
Just as long as he pays the bill
Did you see that man with a fat cigar
He just left his lunch with a belly full of lobster and caviar
He can choose the wine from a vintage year
He can drink champagne in his limousine
While the rest of us drink a beer
cause hes the man in the middle, never second fiddle
Just like a spider in a cobweb
Hard as a hammer, not the kind of boss you double-cross
cause hes the man in the middle, knows the way to diddle
Hes never bothered by his conscience
Deals with the devil, cause he wants to be
Man in the middle, the middle, the middle
In the middle (in the middle, in the middle...)
But you see that man made a big mistake
Even though hes got all his servants and a mansion beside a lake
And the money too, all that he can spend
He can buy the most, nearly anything
But he cant buy an honest friend
cause hes the man in the middle, never second fiddle
Just like a spider in a cobweb
Hard as a hammer, not the kind of boss you double-cross
cause hes the man in the middle, knows the way to diddle
Hes never bothered by his conscience
Deals with the devil, cause he wants to be
Man in the middle, the middle, the middle
In the middle (in the middle, in the middle...)
song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A spider's cobweb isn't only its sleeping spring but also its food trap.
Touch but a cobweb in Westminster Hall, and the old spider of the law is out upon you with all his vermin at his heels.
Second Hand Books
Books! Books! Books! There are so many different designs.
There are some which, by the author, are personally signed.
Some books have pages with gilt edges, which look all posh.
Some have nice pictures on their covers, which are embossed.
Some books have hard covers, while some have soft.
Some are all dusty, where they’ve been kept in the loft.
Some books have fancy covers; some just have plain.
Some have suffered mishaps, and are now all stained.
Some books are all dog-eared at the corners of their pages.
Some have gone yellow, where they’ve been around ages.
Inside some books, there can be seen a pencilled name;
Someone, who once, on this particular book, had a claim.
Some are obviously well read; their spines are all creased.
From out of a book, amazing adventures can be unleashed.
Some books have pages which are spoiled or a bit torn.
Some have covers which are grubby and look well worn.
Some just have text, while others also include illustrations.
Some are former prize winners; once the toast of the nation.
There are books by famous authors, as well as the lesser known.
Some are former library books which, to the public, were loaned.
There are romances, poetry, classics, sci-fi, humour, and histories;
Gardening, cookery, travel, thrillers, manga, and murder mysteries.
In wooden bookcases, the books are categorised, and are neatly lined.
In a second hand bookshop, you just never know what you may find.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Range-Finding
The battle rent a cobweb diamond-strung
And cut a flower beside a ground bird's nest
Before it stained a single human breast.
The stricken flower bent double and so hung.
And still the bird revisited her young.
A butterfly its fall had dispossessed
A moment sought in air his flower of rest,
Then lightly stooped to it and fluttering clung.
On the bare upland pasture there had spread
O'ernight 'twixt mullein stalks a wheel of thread
And straining cables wet with silver dew.
A sudden passing bullet shook it dry.
The indwelling spider ran to greet the fly,
But finding nothing, sullenly withdrew.
poem by Robert Frost
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Allalu Mo Wauleen (The Beggar’s Address to His Bag)
GOOD neighbors, dear, be cautious,
And covet no man’s pounds or pence.
Ambition’s greedy maw shun,
And tread the path of innocence!
Dread crooked ways and cheating,
And be not like those hounds of Hell,
Like prowling wolves awaiting,
Which once upon my footsteps fell.
An allalu mo wauleen,
My little bag I treasured it;
’Twas stuffed from string to sauleen,
A thousand times I measured it!
Should you ever reach Dungarvan,
That wretched hole of dole and sin,
Be on your sharpest guard, man,
Or the eyes out of your head they’ll pin.
Since I left sweet Tipperary,
They eased me of my cherished load,
And left me light and airy,
A poor dark man upon the road!
An allalu mo wauleen!
No hole, no stitch, no rent in it,
’Twas stuffed from string to sauleen,
My half-year’s rent was pent in it.
A gay gold ring unbroken,
A token to a fair young maid,
Which told of love unspoken,
To one whose hopes were long delayed,
A pair of woolen hoseen,
Close knitted, without rub or seam,
And a pound of weed well-chosen,
Such as smokers taste in dream!
An allalu mo wauleen,
Such a store I had in it;
’Twas stuffed from string to sauleen,
And nothing mean or bad in it!
Full oft in cosy corner
We’d sit beside a winter fire,
Nor envied prince or lord, or
To kingly rank did we aspire.
But twice they overhauled us,
The dark police of aspect dire,
Because they feared, Mo Chairdeas,
You held the dreaded Fenian fire!
An allalu mo wauleen,
My bag and me they sundered us,
’Twas stuffed from string to sauleen,
My bag of bags they sundered us!
Yourself and I, mo stóreen,
At every hour of night and day,
Through road and lane and bohreen
Without complaint we made our way,
Till one sore day a carman
In pity took us from the road,
And faced us towards Dungarvan
Where mortal sin hath firm abode.
An allalu mo wauleen,
Without a hole or rent in it,
’Twas stuffed from string to sauleen,
My half-year’s rent was pent in it!
My curses attend Dungarvan,
Her boats, her borough, and her fish,
May every woe that mars man
Come dancing down upon her dish!
For all the rogues behind you,
From Slaney’s bank to Shannon’s tide,
Are but poor scholars, mind you,
To the rogues you’d meet in Abbeyside!
An allalu mo wauleen,
My little bag I treasured it,
’Twas stuffed from string to sauleen,
A thousand times I measured it!
poem by Anonymous English
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Now Let Us Begin
man if he is true to be man, is more real if he is at first
less of himself, when he is empty, when he is emptied,
when he is emptying. It is like the stomach, you feel it more
when it is empty rather than when it is full
it speaks to you when it is hungry
it grunts
it growls
it even howls
and sometimes it whistles
than when it is bloated with so much food
and wine and desserts.Because in hunger, in the hopelessness
of our state, in the emptiness of our being
we know where we will place
everything.
we will know our dreams, we meet our hopes,
for the first time
we know precisely when to wish,
and where to put them
when we are emptying,
when we are emptied
and now we are sure when we are filling.
let us begin.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Night Worker
A spider spun his web all night
and waited patiently.
A fly had circled all the morn
and buzzed there cautiously.
The spider watched and stayed so still.
No movement did he make.
And by and by the fly descended
and landed wide-awake.
He spotted the spider and tried his best
to escape the sticky trap.
The spider watched and slowly moved
and the fly with his handicap
became the bait inside the web
that the spider made at night.
The spider had his breakfast early
in the morning light.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Men Cleaning Women Cannot Abide
My wife said she was going out to shop,
I knew she'd be gone for hours,
So I cleaned the house from bottom to top,
Then went out and bought her some flowers.
On arriving home she asked what's that smell,
I boasted I had just cleaned the house,
With what she said it's like something from Hell,
It stinks like a hundred dead grouse.
By doing the cleaning I thought you'd be flattered,
She said exactly what have you cleaned,
That really left my giant ego shattered,
How dare she leave me feeling demeaned?
The house is filthy what did you use,
I replied the same stuff as you,
She said it's my intelligence you're trying to abuse,
I'll now have to start cleaning anew.
What have you done to my kitchen floor?
You've got it full of stellar streaks,
The worktops are scratched like an old barn door,
My mop bucket's now full of leaks.
The toilet is filthy I said no it's not,
She said look at the state of the pan,
You've left enough stains to play dot to dot,
As for cleaning you're now on a ban.
She'll be so impressed she'll be singing,
That's what I honestly thought,
Now she's saying I've got the house minging,
Remember good cleaners cannot be bought.
I walked away totally deluded and sad,
It's moan if we don't then moan if we do,
If they had a self- cleaning house they'd still go mad,
I'm going down to the pub for a brew.
The moral of my story affects far more than me,
It's a problem that is truly worldwide,
It's a sexist thing I'm sure all males would agree,
‘' Men Cleaning, Women Cannot Abide ‘'
‘' They think we do it deliberately''
The Lonely Spider
The lonely spider reaches out
For what, you might ask?
If not to spin his web then for what?
For his identity
The identity of him
His identity...
The lonely spider calls out
For what, you might ask?
If not for his mate then for what?
For his identity
The identity of him
His identity...
The lonely spider waits
For what, you might ask?
If not for his food then for what?
For his identity
The identity of him
His identity...
'A spider doesn't have feelings! '
How should you know?
'A spider isn't that smart! '
That could be true.
'A spider can never have a real identity! '
And neither could you, or any of us
But we try to find one even if we're not looking
And thats our life... after which we die
What have we done with our life up until then?
Either we've thrown it away, gave it up, wrecked it, lived it up to the fullest, took it for granted, or got far in it.
We still had one.
It's up to us what we shall do with it
Just like the lonely spider
Who will probably just end up on the bottom of your shoe anyways
poem by Andreanna Atkins
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Who Turns Out the Lights?
what happens when
the United States of America
cant pay the rent?
i mean, do we get evicted?
do we pack up our senators
and congressmen, and
load them on the back
of an old pickup truck...
and send them into the great
beyond? what happens?
do Native Americans get it back?
do the Chinese take over?
and who turns out the lights?
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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