The Discontented Manicure Scissors
Said the manicure scissors one day,
'The shears always have their own way,
And I think it absurd
That I am deterred
From entering into life's fray.
My task might be jolly for snails,
But I must confess that it fails
To give pleasure to me;
I am sick as can be
Of snipping the ends of pink nails.
I want to do work like the shears!'
So the scissors set out it appears,
And very much wroth
They tried to cut cloth,
And so split themselves open, my dears.
And the cloth, well you should have seen that;
It looked as if gnawed by a rat.
Now little folks, you
Must not think you can do
Whatever your elders are at.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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A Scissor's Story
there was once a boy
who is afraid of scissors
and the scissors keep on
threatening him,
until one day when the boy
gained strength to face
that scissor and
he tied it with a string
on his neck and
paraded it on the streets
of the town
his thumb was cut
and blood dripped along the
path
towards his self-gained
freedom
and then he laughed
as the scissor gets too sharp
for the pleasure of
his neck
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Paper Men To Air Hopes And Fears
The first speaker said
Fear fire. Fear furnaces
Incinerators, the city dump
The faint scratch of a match.
The second speaker said
Fear water. Fear drenching rain
Drizzle, oceans, puddles, a damp
Day and the flush toilet.
The third speaker said
Fear wind. And it needn't be
A hurricane. Drafts, open
Windows, electric fans.
The fourth speaker said
Fear knives. Fear any sharp
Thing, machine, shears
Scissors, lawnmowers.
The fifth speaker said
Hope. Hope for the best
A smooth folder in a steel file.
poem by Robert Francis
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Who shears the sheep's head will live a couple of days, who shears its tail will live a hundred years.
A Birthday
THE three Fates sat in a house of birth,
Ah, well a day; ah, well a day;
Their eyes were bright, but not with mirth—
They have no love for the sons of earth—
And their lips were parched and gray.
5
Their gray locks hung from brow to chin,
Ah, well a day; ah, well a day;
One held the distaff, and one did spin,
And one held shears in her fingers thin;
Three silent hags were they.
10
We saw not the thread which the sisters spun,
Ah, well a day; ah, well a day;
Nor whether in white or in black begun,
But on her with the shears, that elder one,
Our eyes were fixed alway.
15
A thread, I ween, of tangled years,
Ah, well a day; ah, well a day;
God stay her hand that holds the shears;
Our hopes are stronger than our fears
For the bud upon life's spray.
20
poem by Frederick George Scott
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For A Poet
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
And laid them away in a box of gold;
Where long will cling the lips of the moth,
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth;
I hide no hate; I am not even wroth
Who found the earth's breath so keen and cold;
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
And laid them away in a box of gold.
poem by Countee Cullen
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To Kiss Your Lips To Say I Love You
you are in bed waiting for me
transparent cloth tempting and
you close your eyes you signal
my body that you are ready for
this old time ritual of sweet sweat
surrender and worship of the
deepest sighs of the marrows.
somewhere inside my heart is
this thirst unsatisfied, this insatiability
of a bulging rock, the towering cliffs
unreachable by your giving in hands.
to kiss your lips, to touch your body
once more, to say i love you, all these
i cannot anymore do, i leave no note.
i find no justification to explain this
art of leaving, the intricate threads
of goodbye, the feared art of the
scissors, cutting and then so clearly
there is no blood, just air moved and
hearts skillfully split into two, painlessly.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Scissors-Grinder
The old man had his box and wheel
For grinding knives and shears.
No doubt his bell in village streets
Was joy to children's ears.
And I bethought me of my youth
When such men came around,
And times I asked them in, quite sure
The scissors should be ground.
The old man turned and spoke to me,
His face at last in view.
And then I thought those curious eyes
Were eyes that once I knew.
"The moon is but an emery-wheel
To whet the sword of God,"
He said. "And here beside my fire
I stretch upon the sod.
Each night, and dream, and watch the stars
And watch the ghost-clouds go.
And see that sword of God in Heaven
A-waving to and fro.
I see that sword each century, friend.
It means the world-war comes
With all its bloody, wicked chiefs
And hate-inflaming drums.
Men talk of peace, but I have seen
That emery-wheel turn round.
The voice of Abel cries again
To God from out the ground.
The ditches must flow red, the plague
Go stark and screaming by
Each time that sword of God takes edge
Within the midnight sky.
And those that scorned their brothers here
And sowed a wind of shame
Will reap the whirlwind as of old
And face relentless flame."
And thus the scissors-grinder spoke,
His face at last in view.
And there beside the railroad bridge
I saw the wandering Jew.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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The Cloth of Time
The concept of time is
Like a cloth
Waving in the wind.
The wind collides
And bounces,
Causing the cloth to sway.
We are the specks
Of dust
Nestled within
The fibers of time.
This cloth is where
We sleep and wake.
This wind is the result
Of our existence.
When the wind is still
The cloth of time
Hangs
Like a man
Whose time has run out.
poem by by unknown author
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Art of Cloth
From fiber, to spinning wheel
From thread, to weaving mill
From textile, to sewing machine
Cloth is continuous ceremony
Whether knitting, whether embroider
Whether patchwork, whether bead work
The beautiful batik, the intricate songket
Cloth is concentration lesson
The strata symbol, the politeness norm
The body art, the cover part
Wedding dress, black tie suit
Cloth is human civilization
From skin, to fabric
From corset, to mini skirt
From blue jeans, to legging
Cloth is history record
Classic style, replied fashion
Color play, motif trend
Mismatch mode, big bang accessories
Cloth is social adaptation
Conservative nerd, ethnic vintage
Religion veil, punk rebel
Costume play, Gothic Lolita
Cloth is identity crisis
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Sizzling
Sizzle the cloth of its fibres,
To cut a razor you are unable to,
But it burns your fibres and the cloth,
As an open weapon of warfare
Like the fighting and the bands of people
Who die in war,
Who liven the place with guts and glory.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Magnet and the Churn
A MAGNET hung in a hardware shop,
And all around was a loving crop
Of scissors and needles, nails and knives,
Offering love for all their lives;
But for iron the Magnet felt no whim,
Though he charmed iron, it charmed not him,
From needles and nails and knives he'd turn,
For he'd set his love on a Silver Churn!
His most aesthetic,
Very magnetic
Fancy took this turn -
"If I can wheedle
A knife or needle,
Why not a Silver Churn?"
And Iron and Steel expressed surprise,
The needles opened their well-drilled eyes,
The pen-knives felt "shut up," no doubt,
The scissors declared themselves "cut out,"
The kettles they boiled with rage, 'tis said,
While every nail went off its head,
And hither and thither began to roam,
Till a hammer came up - and drove it home,
While this magnetic
Peripatetic
Lover he lived to learn,
By no endeavour,
Can Magnet ever
Attract a Silver Churn!
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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The Mouse That Gnawed The Oak-Tree Down
The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down
Began his task in early life.
He kept so busy with his teeth
He had no time to take a wife.
He gnawed and gnawed through sun and rain
When the ambitious fit was on,
Then rested in the sawdust till
A month of idleness had gone.
He did not move about to hunt
The coteries of mousie-men.
He was a snail-paced, stupid thing
Until he cared to gnaw again.
The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down,
When that tough foe was at his feet—
Found in the stump no angel-cake
Nor buttered bread, nor cheese, nor meat—
The forest-roof let in the sky.
“This light is worth the work,” said he.
“I’ll make this ancient swamp more light,”
And started on another tree.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Scissor Man
Snipping, snipping, snipping goes the scissor man
Putting end to evil doers games
Snipping, snipping, snipping goes the scissor man
Maybe you are in his book of names
Maybe you are in his book of names
So be kind and helpful to your mother
Just think twice before you try and steal
When he cuts with sticky silver snippers
You may find the wounds will never heal
All self made bad boys
If you refuse to believe he exist
You won't be frightened when you find out
You're on his list
You're on his list
You're on his list
So be good and never poison people
Just think twice before the deed is done
When you wake up guilty in the morning
You may find important pieces gone
song performed by by Primus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Augustine II
Tears, wears, fears, bears, sears, pears, dears, years;
But, who let the cats out? ! !
And like the history of Augustine my friend,
For, the days are now longer.
Gears, hears, ears, nears, rears, shears, swears!
But, who let the dogs out? ! !
And like the sad news in the land of your muse,
For, the days are now shorter.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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My Heart
as my heart is not made of wood
please do not hammer it with your nails
not of iron
please do not test it with the hottest fire
not of sand
please do not take it carelessly with your open fingers
not of paper
please do not cut it with your scissors or crumple it with your hands
because my heart like yours
is made of flesh and blood
handle it with care, do not stab it because it will bleed,
caress it with your hands and place it near your heart
it becomes a bird and it will beat and fly and sing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Racism man wearing white
No stop pushing me becos
of the colour of my cloth
if nothing is done my cloth
will torn
i cann't put on white to please
you
my cloth is n't white
so leave me with my
own colour
if you do n't leave me alone
i will be force to shout
for help and if nobody help
i will be force to fight
and if i fight i will fight
to the last
so stop this racism of white
and black cloth.
poem by Senator alufalism
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Well, no. I was getting into trouble messing around with it for roles. So one night I went home, cut it down with a pair of scissors and then got in the bath and shaved it all off. I've never looked back.
quote by Richard O'Brien
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Scissor Man
Snipping, snipping, snipping goes the scissor man,
Putting end to evil doers games.
Snipping, snipping, snipping goes the scissor man,
Maybe you are in his book of names.
Maybe you are in his book of names.
So be kind and helpful to your mother,
Just think twice before you try and steal.
When he cuts with sticky silver snippers,
You may find that some wounds never heal.
All self made bad boys,
If you refuse to believe he exist,
You wont be frightened when you find out,
Youre on his list.
Youre on his list.
Youre on his list.
So be good and never poison people,
Just think twice before the deed is done.
When you wake up guilty in the morning,
You may find important pieces gone.
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ida Frickey
Nothing in life is alien to you:
I was a penniless girl from Summum
Who stepped from the morning train in Spoon River.
All the houses stood before me with closed doors
And drawn shades -- I was barred out;
I had no place or part in any of them.
And I walked past the old McNeely mansion,
A castle of stone 'mid walks and gardens,
With workmen about the place on guard,
And the County and State upholding it
For its lordly owner, full of pride.
I was so hungry I had a vision:
I saw a giant pair of scissors
Dip from the sky, like the beam of a dredge,
And cut the house in two like a curtain.
But at the "Commercial" I saw a man,
Who winked at me as I asked for work --
It was Wash McNeely's son.
He proved the link in the chain of title
To half my ownership of the mansion,
Through a breach of promise suit -- the scissors.
So, you see, the house, from the day I was born,
Was only waiting for me.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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My Little Doll
I once had a sweet little doll, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world;
Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears,
And her hair was so charmingly curled.
But I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day;
And I cried for more than a week, dears,
But I never could find where she lay.
I found my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day:
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,
For her paint is all washed away,
And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears
And her hair not the least bit curled:
Yet for old sakes' sake she is still, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world.
From The Water-Babies.
Eversley, 1862.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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