En.Citatepedia^®.ro

You'll know Her—by Her Foot

634

You'll know Her—by Her Foot—
The smallest Gamboge Hand
With Fingers—where the Toes should be—
Would more affront the Sand—

Than this Quaint Creature's Boot—
Adjusted by a Stern—
Without a Button—I could vouch—
Unto a Velvet Limb—

You'll know Her—by Her Vest—
Tight fitting—Orange—Brown—
Inside a Jacket duller—
She wore when she was born—

Her Cap is small—and snug—
Constructed for the Winds—
She'd pass for Barehead—short way off—
But as She Closer stands—

So finer 'tis than Wool—
You cannot feel the Seam—
Nor is it Clasped unto of Band—
Nor held upon—of Brim—

You'll know Her—by Her Voice—
At first—a doubtful Tone—
A sweet endeavor—but as March
To April—hurries on—

She squanders on your Ear
Such Arguments of Pearl—
You beg the Robin in your Brain
To keep the other—still—

poem by Emily Dickinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Song of the Shirt

The Song of the Shirt

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread--
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt."

"Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work — work — work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's Oh! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!

"Work — work — work
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work — work — work
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!

"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch — stitch — stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

But why do I talk of Death?
That Phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear its terrible shape,
It seems so like my own —
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work — work — work!
My Labour never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread — and rags.
That shatter'd roof — and this naked floor —
A table — a broken chair —
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

"Work — work — work!
From weary chime to chime,
Work — work — work!
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd,
As well as the weary hand.

"Work — work — work,
In the dull December light,
And work — work — work,
When the weather is warm and bright —
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.

Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet —
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!

Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread —
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, —
Would that its tone could reach the Rich! —
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

poem by Thomas Hood
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sand-Between-The-Toes

I went down to the shouting sea,
Taking Christopher down with me,
For Nurse had given us sixpence each-
And down we went to the beach.

We had sand in the eyes and the ears and the nose,
And sand in the hair, and sand-between-the-toes.
Whenever a good nor'wester blows,
Christopher is certain of
Sand-between-the-toes.

The sea was galloping grey and white;
Christopher clutched his sixpence tight;
We clambered over the humping sand-
And Christopher held my hand.

We had sand in the eyes and the ears and the nose,
And sand in the hair, and sand-between-the-toes.
Whenever a good nor'wester blows,
Christopher is certain of
Sand-between-the-toes.

There was a roaring in the sky;
The sea-gulls cried as they blew by;
We tried to talk, but had to shout-
Nobody else was out.

When we got home, we had sand in the hair,
In the eyes and the ears and everywhere;
Whenever a good nor'wester blows,
Christopher is found with
Sand-between-the-toes.

poem by Alan Alexander Milne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Art is Long - Hair is Shorter

When artists wore a flowing mane,
Then, in a sentimental vein,
With pastorals they lured the eye,
Or sad, sweet scenes of sea and sky.
But now that hair sprouts from the face
They chuck their paint about the place
And, in the modern manner, seek
To baffle one with the unique.

I've often wondered if this surge
Of hirsute foam denotes some urge
Artistic that controls and sways
The hand and brain to newer ways.
For instance, might we not expect
An artist in dundrearies decked
In other manner to behave
From him who wore a monkey shave?

I've known but one of this quaint throng
Who wore both hair and whiskers long,
But he, poor bloke, was short of cash,
And wore a full beard and moustache
That he might draw on this supply
When price of brushes soared to high ...
But there are ways, it seems to me.
To test my novel theory.

If some brave man would range the land
And catch a few of this quaint band
And hold them captive for a while
Who knows what tricks of school and style
One might evolve if, to each man,
We gave a different hirsute plan?
You doubt, perhaps? But all the same,
There might be money in the game.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Rubberband

Jumping into streams of nectar
Falling through these clouds of silver
Reaching for these angels faces
Waking up in fields of feathers
Its tied me up inside its tied me up inside
You spin me around you lift me right off the ground
You twist me around I feel like a rubber band
You spin me around then you wind me back up
Cause I'm your rubber band
Crashing onto cotton wool floors
Breaking my fall if I land short
Wrapped up in these arms of velvet
Drifting in sea of regret
Its tied me up inside its tied me up inside
I've got to pull myself together
Its tied me up inside Its tied me up inside
You spin me around you lift me right off the ground
You twist me around I feel like a rubber band
You spin me around then you wind me back up
Cause I'm your rubber band
I wish I knew what to say but words escape me today
I wish I knew what to say just take away the pain
Jumping into streams of nectar
I've got to pull it back together
Its tied me up inside its tied me up inside
Its tied me up inside its tied me up inside
You spin me around you lift me right off the ground
You twist me around I feel like a rubber band
You spin me around then you wind me back up
Cause I'm your rubber band
You spin me around you lift me right off the ground
You twist me around I feel like a rubber band
You spin me around then you wind me back up
Cause I'm your rubber band

song performed by by Feeder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Little Ballads Of Timely Warning; II:

Little Ballads Of Timely Warning; II: On Malicious Cruelty To Harmless Creatures
The cruelty of P. L. Brown—
(He had ten toes as good as mine)
Was known to every one in town,
And, if he never harmed a noun,
He loved to make verbs shriek and whine.

The 'To be' family’s just complaints—
(Brown had ten toes as good as mine)
Made Brown cast off the last restraints:
He smashed the 'Is nots' into 'Ain’ts'
And kicked both mood and tense supine.

Infinitives were Brown’s dislike—
(Brown, as I said, had ten good toes)
And he would pinch and shake and strike
Infinitives, or, with a pike,
Prod them and then laugh at their woes.

At length this Brown more cruel grew—
(Ten toes, all good ones, then had Brown)
And to his woodshed door he drew
A young infinitive and threw
The poor, meek creature roughly down,

And while the poor thing weakly flopped,
Brown (ten good toes he had, the brute!)
Got out his chopping block and dropped
The martyr on it and then propped
His victim firmly with his boot.

He raised his axe! He brandished it!
(Ye gods of grammar, interpose!)
He brought it down full force all fit
The poor infinitive to split—

*
(Brown after that had but six toes!

Warning

Infinitives, by this we see.
Should not he split too recklessly.

poem by Ellis Parker Butler
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Upon A Wasp Chilled With Cold

The bear that breathes the northern blast
Did numb, torpedo-like, a wasp
Whose stiffened limbs encramped, lay bathing
In Sol's warm breath and shine as saving,
Which with her hands she chafes and stands
Rubbing her legs, shanks, thighs, and hands.
Her pretty toes, and fingers' ends
Nipped with this breath, she out extends
Unto the sun, in great desire
To warm her digits at that fire.
Doth hold her temples in this state
Where pulse doth beat, and head doth ache.
Doth turn, and stretch her body small,
Doth comb her velvet capital.
As if her little brain pan were
A volume of choice precepts clear.
As if her satin jacket hot
Contained apothecary's shop
Of nature's receipts, that prevails
To remedy all her sad ails,
As if her velvet helmet high
Did turret rationality.
She fans her wing up to the wind
As if her pettycoat were lined,
With reason's fleece, and hoists sails
And humming flies in thankful gales
Unto her dun curled palace hall
Her warm thanks offering for all.

Lord, clear my misted sight that I
May hence view Thy divinity,
Some sparks whereof thou up dost hasp
Within this little downy wasp
In whose small corporation we
A school and a schoolmaster see,
Where we may learn, and easily find
A nimble spirit bravely mind
Her work in every limb: and lace
It up neat with a vital grace,
Acting each part though ne'er so small
Here of this fustian animal.
Till I enravished climb into
The Godhead on this ladder do,
Where all my pipes inspired upraise
An heavenly music furred with praise.

poem by Edward Taylor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Bora Bora Button

Riding in a taxi around the mountain side
I was in Bora Bora have a very funtime.
I was with Melodie and Razel who wore
their island gowns-
we were being driven all around Bora Bora's towns.
Taxi driver was sweet and Melodie said so
she gave him a button that sparkled not glowed.
He wore on his dress to the Pearl Jewelry store,
the pearl jewelry owner remembered Melodie
who she adored.
For we met her in the airports first class waiting room
she recognized Melodie first as Melodie sang her tune.
Jewelry store lady said "I saw you on a button when the
taxi driver came in—he was very happy to have met you both—
he is a true fan."
One day I will go back and visit, I hope his button is holding up
if not I will give many more he can wear around to the shops.

Written by Suzae Chevalier on June 27,2012
www.suechevalier.com www.christinapoems.com

poem by Suzae Chevalier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Lines On H---'s Foot

It may be you've seen her eyes,
Dark and deep like midnight skies;
You mayhap have seen them flash
Underneath the drooping lash,
And been dazzled by the light
Of those orbs, so dark and bright;
But-have you seen her foot,
In its little gaiter boot?

You have noticed, maybe, how
The lily spreads from chin to brow.
You have thought her cheek more fair
Than if roses lingered there;
(Roses would seem out of place
On her pale patrician face)
But-again I question you,
Have you seen her tiny shoe?

You have thought her mouth, no doubt,
Like a blush-rose half blown out;
Small and sweet, withal, beside,
Touched with scorn and curved with pride;
(Innate pride-not meant to chill)-
You have seen it there, and still-
Answer one more question, pray-
Have you seen her boot? I say.

Such a tiny, tiny thing,
Is that foot of which I sing;
No. 3 would hide it so
It could not be found, I know.
No. 2 must stand aside
All too long and large and wide,
No. 1
must
be the boot
For this maiden's little foot.

You may envy, sir, the clerk
In the shoe-store, hard at work,
Who tries the gaiter boot
On this cunning little foot.
On his knee, supporting it,
Saying, 'It's a perfect fit,'
Buttoning on the No. 1,
Looking sorry, when it's done.

You have seen her, slight and neat,
As she tripped along the street,
You have
heard
the pit-pat-fall
Of that foot so very small.
That she's fair, and pure, and good,
Bright, and sweet is understood,
But-have you
seen
that foot-
In its dainty gaiter boot?

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Year's Courtship

I saw her, Harry, first, in March --
You know the street that leadeth down
By the old bridge's crumbling arch? --
Just where it leaves the dusty town

A lonely house stands grim and dark --
You've seen it? then I need not say
How quaint the place is -- did you mark
An ivied window? Well! one day,

I, chasing some forgotten dream,
And in a poet's idlest mood,
Caught, as I passed, a white hand's gleam --
A shutter opened -- there she stood

Training the ivy to its prop.
Two dark eyes and a brow of snow
Flashed down upon me -- did I stop? --
She says I did -- I do not know.

But all that day did something glow
Just where the heart beats; frail and slight,
A germ had slipped its shell, and now
Was pushing softly for the light.

And April saw me at her feet,
Dear month of sunshine and of rain!
My very fears were sometimes sweet,
And hope was often touched with pain.

For she was frank, and she was coy,
A willful April in her ways;
And in a dream of doubtful joy
I passed some truly April days.

May came, and on that arch, sweet mouth,
The smile was graver in its play,
And, softening with the softening South,
My April melted into May.

She loved me, yet my heart would doubt,
And ere I spoke the month was June --
One warm still night we wandered out
To watch a slowly setting moon.

Something which I saw not -- my eyes
Were not on heaven -- a star, perchance,
Or some bright drapery of the skies,
Had caught her earnest, upper glance.

And as she paused -- Hal! we have played
Upon the very spot -- a fir
Just touched me with its dreamy shade,
But the full moonlight fell on her --

And as she paused -- I know not why --
I longed to speak, yet could not speak;
The bashful are the boldest -- I --
I stooped and gently kissed her cheek.

A murmur (else some fragrant air
Stirred softly) and the faintest start --
O Hal! we were the happiest pair!
O Hal! I clasped her heart to heart!

And kissed away some tears that gushed;
But how she trembled, timid dove,
When my soul broke its silence, flushed
With a whole burning June of love.

Since then a happy year hath sped
Through months that seemed all June and May,
And soon a March sun, overhead,
Will usher in the crowning day.

Twelve blessed moons that seemed to glow
All summer, Hal! -- my peerless Kate!
She is the dearest -- "Angel?" -- no!
Thank God! -- but you shall see her -- wait.

So all is told! I count on thee
To see the Priest, Hal! Pass the wine!
Here's to my darling wife to be!
And here's to -- when thou find'st her -- thine!

poem by Henry Timrod
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Radioland

Turn the dials with your hand
Till you find the short wave band
Electronic music sounds from Radioland
We are turning dials of the Radio
We are hearing the sound of transmission
By pressing a button fast
We reach the short wave band
After fine tuning by hand
We are listening to the Morse band
Electronic sound from Radioland

song performed by by Kraftwerk
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Velvet Rope (feat. Vanessa Mae)

Featuring Vanessa Mae]
We have a special need
To feel that we belong
Come with me inside
Inside my velvet rope
We have a special need
To feel that we belong
Come with me inside
Inside my velvet rope
This special need
That's within us
Brings out the best
Yet worst in us
Follow the passion
That's within you
Living the truth
Will set you free
We have a special need
To feel that we belong
Come with me inside
Inside my velvet rope
We have a special need
To feel that we belong
Come with me inside
Inside my velvet rope
Put others down
To fill us up
Oppressing me
Will oppress you
Outside leave judgment
Outside leave hate
One love's the answer
You'll find in you
We have a special need
To feel that we belong
Come with me inside
Inside my velvet rope
We have a special need
To feel that we belong
Come with me inside
Inside my velvet rope

song performed by by Janet Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Free Verse

I now delight
In spite
Of the might
And the right
Of classic tradition,
In writing
And reciting
Straight ahead,
Without let or omission,
Just any little rhyme
In any little time
That runs in my head;
Because, I’ve said,
My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed
Like Prussian soldiers on parade
That march,
Stiff as starch,
Foot to foot,
Boot to boot,
Blade to blade,
Button to button,
Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton.
No! No!
My rhymes must go
Turn ’ee, twist ’ee,
Twinkling, frosty,
Will-o’-the-wisp-like, misty;
Rhymes I will make
Like Keats and Blake
And Christina Rossetti,
With run and ripple and shake.
How pretty
To take
A merry little rhyme
In a jolly little time
And poke it,
And choke it,
Change it, arrange it,
Straight-lace it, deface it,
Pleat it with pleats,
Sheet it with sheets
Of empty conceits,
And chop and chew,
And hack and hew,
And weld it into a uniform stanza,
And evolve a neat,
Complacent, complete,
Academic extravaganza!

poem by Robert Graves
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Mr. John Glenn

There once was an apple
That had fallen from a tree
I picked it up, and it was stuck
To my hand, I could'nt get free

So I shook and shook and shook
Until my hand was sore
But from deep inside, I heard a cry
Way inside the core

I ask myself what could it be
A snake or even a worm
Can it breathe or even sneeze
Should I be concerned

But then I heard a voice within
And now I'm really baffled
I'll ask my teacher if there's a creature
Inside this nice red apple

And if she says no, there's no such thing
Why are you asking me this
Cause if I don't ask, this too shall not pass
And i'll be taking a risk

The teacher says, now don't be silly
There's nothing inside this fruit
Now don't be a clown, just go put it down
And join the rest of the group

Then she stood up and held up the apple
And said, class this is my friend
I was a little concerned about bringing a worm
Whom I call, Mr. John Glenn

But teacher you said to never ever lie
Not even a little or a lot
Well if he gets loose, you'll see it's the truth
A creature John Glenn is not

poem by Kevin Seales
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The hunter

With a bow in his hand
the hunter sneaks
above the wind,
following the tracts
of the wild antelope.

His brown skin
melts into the field
and the bushes,
and like a wild cat
he sneaks
from cover to cover.

The sun is hot
where it hangs in the half-Kalahari sky
and he drinks a tiny bit of water
out of the ostrich egg flask,
before a brown hand
with caked sand
wipes sweat out of his dark brown eyes.

Again he takes the trail
and follows it at a jog
until the oryxes are closer
and again he sneaks nearer
and stalks still closer.

When he is in striking distance
an arrow is taken from the quiver
and the small bow’s string
made out of roped intestines draws
and for a moment,
it sounds like the buzz of a bee
while the arrow
rushes away from the bow.

The arrow hits the antelope
and when the startled oryx
rushes away
the hunter follows
faithful on the spoor,
till he finds it
where in time
it lies stretched out
on the red brown Africa sand.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Beauty Of A Friend

Walking on the tiny tan rocks of the sand. Looking for my brown soft horse. Running to my brown soft horse. Leaping on the back of the brown horse. Holding tight while my horse rides. Throwed the tan sand. The ocean breeze flows through my redish brownish hair. Comming closer to the forrest. I leaped off my horse. Walking close to my horse. While we enter the forrest. Moving my hand out touching the rough brown branches of the trees. Walking around the forrest. Getting losted. I'm alone sitting on the dirt. Tears falling from my face.

poem by Christina Weinke
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Seven-Month-Long Lane

From October to May
All in all it's been okay.

From October to November
It was like pure bliss.
From November to December
I just wore my silly simper.
December to the next month,
Then came thoughts about a kiss.

From January to February
We were both beneficiary.
February to March
I felt a little out of place.
From March to April
I just held up the anvil
After April came May,
The final stage of our decay...

(One thing after another)
An uncomfortable place.

(I had to make it alright again.)

Today is the first full day
With these old, new shoes on.
Pardon my pout;
They're a little bit tight.
I'm trusting God to keep me,
To pardon my doubt,
Help me get back in these old, new shoes.

From October to May,
All in all I can't complain.

(May 18,2009; the day after the breakup. For Lane, thank you for the past seven months. Like I said, all in all it was great! You were so wonderful to me all the way and I thank you for understanding me & being among the best of my friends. I love you.)

poem by Chanlin Boyd Cox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Everything Small

feet will be short and hands so fragile that may even break with
the force of your whisper everything small like tight buds a voice in between two silk cloths tightly folded in ten layers of

silence and indifference

unreadable
syllables, that to you sound so cute and so lovely
small soft thought ike fingers of a new born brother

your father walks to and fro
in the house 27 years ago, like a pendulum counting time
wasting thought

going nowhere, when he died, he said
did you doubt him? that boy he never looks like me.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Iva

Arm yourself for war!
For the end is at hand;
And, how shall i make a mends to you?
For the end is at hand.

One belt is for a warrior like Absalom's Statue,
But Yahweh is worthy to be praised;
Iva, life is like a gigantic man with six fingers on each hand;
But you are not to be intoxicated with wine!
Iva, life is like a gigantic man with six toes on each foot;
And merciful and compassionate like,
The god (el) of gold in this war!
But you have the sweet-smelling cinnamon around you,
So arm yourself for war! !

Iva, you have the sweet-smelling cane around you too;
And the end is at hand for all of us but,
Those who sin always are unconfortable with righteousness.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

I Can Have Both

Staring in the window of the shop that never opens
Planning my selection from all the treats inside
Should I take as I desire - oh shall i, oh shall I ?
Or should I hang around to be enticed inside ?
Im trying to explain to myself
I can have both
Im trying to explain to the voice inside
I can have both
I can have both
Theres nobody around to say no
Whove brain-washed the small shy boy inside
He doesnt know he can have both
Smiling through the window to the one who never serves you
Ive not been feeling myself tonight
Should I take as I feel like it - well shall i, oh shall I ?
Or should I wait and hope to be dragged inside ?
Oh ...
Im trying to explain to myself
I can have both
Im trying to explain to the voice inside
I can have both
I can have both
Theres nobody around to say no
Whove brain-washed the small shy boy inside
He doesnt know he can have both
I can have both
Theres no need to choose
Because
I can have both
Theres no need to choose
I can have both
Theres no need to choose
Because
I can have both
Theres no need to choose
I can have both
Theres no need to choose

song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Bluebird

A wistful note from out the sky,
'Pure, pure, pure,' in plaintive tone,
As if the wand'rer were alone,
And hardly knew to sing or cry.

But now a flash of eager wing,
Flitting, twinkling by the wall,
And pleadings sweet and am'rous call,-
Ah, now I know his heart doth sing!

O bluebird, welcome back again,
Thy azure coat and ruddy vest
Are hues that April loveth best,-
Warm skies above the furrowed plain.

The farm boy hears thy tender voice,
And visions come of crystal days,
With sugar-camps in maple ways,
And scenes that make his heart rejoice.

The lucid smoke drifts on the breeze,
The steaming pans are mantling white,
And thy blue wing's a joyous sight,
Among the brown and leafless trees.

Now loosened currents glance and run,
And buckets shine on sturdy boles,
The forest folk peep from their holes,
And work is play from sun to sun.

The downy beats his sounding limb,
The nuthatch pipes his nasal call,
And Robin perched on tree-top tall
Heavenward lifts his evening hymn.

Now go and bring thy homesick bride,
Persuade her here is just the place
To build a home and found a race
In Downy's cell, my lodge beside.

poem by John Burroughs
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!