En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Those Two Boys

WHEN Bill was a lad he was terribly bad.
He worried his parents a lot;
He'd lie and he'd swear and pull little girls' hair;
His boyhood was naught but a blot.

At play and in school he would fracture each rule— 5
In mischief from autumn to spring;
And the villagers knew when to manhood he grew
He would never amount to a thing.

When Jim was a child he was not very wild;
He was known as a good little boy;
He was honest and bright and the teacher's delight—
To his mother and father a joy.

All the neighbors were sure that his virtue'd endure,
That his life would be free of a spot;
They were certain that Jim had a great head on him 15
And that Jim would amount to a lot.

And Jim grew to manhood and honor and fame
And bears a good name;
While Bill is shut up in a dark prison cell—
You never can tell.

poem by Franklin P. Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Deadly Dummy

'It's the dummy wot done it,' said Bleary Bill.
'As a child I was out o' luck.
A kid in me pram, that's wot I am
When they gimme the thing to suck.
An' I took to it good, for I like the taste;
With never a thought of a life laid waste.

Then I took to nippin' upon the sly,
Or avin' a suck with a friend,
Tho' a neighbourin' kid warned me, 'e did,
It would get me, sure, in the end.
An' git me it did, as you see today.
In a most insidius an' 'orrible way.

I know as me 'abits is not the best.
An' I know as the beer's a curse;
But don't blame me, for me choice weren't free,
An' the blame of it's all on nurse.
So, please, yer Honor, don't make it 'ot,
An' I'll swear off dummies right on the spot.'

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

Catholic School Girls Rule

Catholic school girls rule...

In the class she's taking notes
Just how deep is my throat
Mother Mary don't you know
She's got eyes like Marylin Monroe

Catholic school girls rule...

From the cross she's raised her head
This is what the sister said
Give no love until you're wed
Live no life until you're dead

The good books says we must suppress
The good books says we must confess
But who cares what the good books says
Cause now she's taking off her dress

Catholic school girls rule...

Lead us into temptation
We are pure divine creation
Talkin' about my generation
Injected with the seed of emaculation
Catholic!

song performed by by Backstreet Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Success has name

Each success has name
Women are there to claim
Stands like rock behind
Firm but very much kind

Right from wife
To show the meaning of life
To give a company with courage
How best both the ends to meet and manage!

Delightful figure to a small child
Stick on hand but at heart good and mild
No one can control her when turned wild
If honor and pride was to be seen as blind

As daughter too shown enough of affection
No protest to any one if beaten with reaction
Not only equal love to father, mother and brothers
But around all who live in vicinity and as neighbors

Good teacher, good economist and now good administrator
Right from councilor to chief minister and prime minister
Has served the head of the nation and now liberty torch bearer
Women can lead honorable life without any fear

Sky they have explored and proved good scientists
Stood as solid rock and faced rough weather amidst
So to say bow the head to the feat of glorious mother
Be she a lover, friend, sister or in form of any other

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Be Good Johnny

Skip de skip, up the road
Off to school we go
Dont you be a bad boy johnny
Dont you slip up
Or play the fool
Oh no ma, oh no da,
Ill be your golden boy
I will obey evry golden rule
Get told by the teacher
Not to day-dream
Told by my mother:
Be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good be good (johnny)
Be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good (johnny)
Be good be good.
Are you going to play football this year, john?
No!
Oh, well you must be going to play cricket this year then,
Are you johnny?
No! no! no!
Boy, you sure are a funny kid, johnny, but I like you! so tell me,
What kind of a boy are you, john?
I only like dreaming
All the day long
Where no one is screaming
Be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good be good (johnny)
Be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Be good be good be good
Johnny!

song performed by by Men At Work
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Catholic School Girls Rule

Catholic school girls rule...

In the class she's taking notes
Just how deep deep is my throat
Mother Mary don't you know
She's got eyes like Marylin Monroe

Catholic school girls rule...

From the cross she's raised her head
This is what the sister said
Give no love until you're wed
Live no life until you're dead

The good books says we must suppress
The good books says we must confess
But who cares what the good books says
Cause now she's taking off her dress

Catholic school girls rule...

Lead us into temptation
We are pure divine creation
Talkin' about my generation
Injected with the seed of emaculation
Catholic !

song performed by by Red Hot Chili Peppers from Freaky Styley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

She Sinful Or Wild

All or nothing at all
her father had said
and it seemed right

until she met Harpoon
and he seemed her
Mr Right the one she

had been waiting for
the one she'd dreamed
about but then it all

went wrong and he
became Mr Wrong
and oh yes that was

the downfall that was
the way to her deep
depression and that

episode in the bath
when she tried to
drown herself as her

mother had before her
and she discovered her
as a child coming home

from school and the
door was ajar and when
she went in there was

her mother with her
wrists slit and blood
and her mother drowned

and dead and now sitting
there in her mother's
chair her father some

place her husband poking
some other and all or
nothing at all seemed all

there was left apart from
the few books on the shelf
the Bill Burroughs her mother

had read and left and that
Bukowski book she'd found
in some second shop and the

battered Bible which her
father had beat her about
the head and backside with

as a child when her father
had been boozing or she
had been sinful or wild.

poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

I Grew My Hair Out

I finally grew my hair out.
I had tried before, but it frightened me.
It grew large, thick, black and wavy,
The hair my ancestors gave me.
They wore it long and free.

I finally grew my hair out,
And a friend said 'You look like a Greek god.'
And I said 'Which one? '
And he said 'I don't know. The chubby one that drank wine.'

And I thought about red wine
And the delighted laughter of women
About the hooves and horns
That I'd hidden inside my head
And had forgotten about, before I ever knew them.

But they were there all along, waiting.
Then I grew my hair out.

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

Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: XXV

My childhood, then, had passed a mystery
Shrouded by death, my boyhood a shut thing.
The passion of my soul as it grew free
With growing youth, a bird with broken wing,
Knew nothing of its strength to dare or do,
Or, if it dreamed of battle still to come,
That was its secret hidden in the blue
Of life's great vault of tears which was its doom,
A duty of revenge some day for blood.
Enough! You know I held me from the press
To whom base things are nothing, that I stood
Parted from this world's weekday wickedness
By a whole legend of romance sublime,
Perhaps by the dead virtue of a crime.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Best School of All

It's good to see the school we knew,
the land of youth and dream.
To greet again the rule we knew,
before we took the stream.
Though long we've missed the sight of her,
Out hearts may not forget:
We've lost the old delight of her,
We keep her honour yet.

Chorus:
We'll honour yet the school we knew
The best school of all
We'll honour yet the rule we knew
Till the last bell call
For working days or holidays
And glad or melancholy days
They were great days and jolly days
At the best school of all

The stars and sounding vanities
That half the crowd bewitch.
What are they but inanities
To him that treads the pitch?
And where's the welth I'm wondering,
Could buy the cheers that roll
When the last charge goes thundering
Towards the twilight goal?

Then men that tanned the hide of us,
Our daily foes and friends,
They shall not lose their pride of us,
However the journey ends.
Their voice to us who sing of it,
No more its message bears,
But the round world shall ring of it,
And all we are be theirs.

To speak of fame a venture is,
There's little here can bide,
But we may face the centuries,
And dare the deepending tide;
for though the dust that's part of us,
To dust again be gone,
Yet here shall beat the heart of us,
The school we handed on!

We'll honour yet the school we knew
The best school of all
We'll honour yet the rule we knew
Till the last bell call
For working days or holidays
And glad or melancholy days
They were great days and jolly days
At the best school of all

poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Home is the first school and mother is the first teacher

Home is the first school and mother is the first teacher
Parents are the builder of children’s characters and minds,
The mother won’t be a fighter but should be a well preacher,
If she is an illiterate she must carry her children to tuition,
Howsoever the mother should educate their children first,
And she should send her children to school daily and regularly,
Teachers are not blamed not to fulfil children’s educational thirst,
Both the parents and teachers should make them the best citizens,
As we can’t work with one hand likewise we can’t walk with one leg,
Hence, parents and teachers are the same faces of the same coin,
If parents and teachers do them careless they suffer in life to beg,
Do well and have well it is said to see your own profit in life or ruin,
That is why parents and teachers are the best artists of the child,
If an art is spoilt the statue of the child looks like an ugly and a wild.

poem by INDIA Mazid S Kazi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Vull a Man

No, I’m a man, I’m vull a man,
You beat my manhood, if you can.
You’ll be a man if you can teake
All steates that household life do meake.
The love-toss’d child, a-croodlen loud,
The bwoy a-screamen wild in play,
The tall grown youth a-steppen proud,
The father staid, the house’s stay.
No ; I can boast if others can,
I’m vull a man.

A young-cheak’d mother’s tears mid vall,
When woone a-lost, not half man-tall,
Vrom little hand, a-called vrom play,
Do leave noo tool, but drop a tay,
An’ die avore he’s father-free
To sheape his life by his own plan;
An’ vull an angel he shall be,
But here on e’th not vull a man,
No; I could boast if others can,
I’m vull a man.

I woonce, a child, wer father-fed,
An’ I’ve a-vound my childern bread;
My earm, a sister’s trusty crook,
Is now a faithvul wife’s own hook;
An’ I’ve agone where vo’k did zend,
An’ gone upon my own free mind,
An’ of’en at my own wits’ end.
A-led o’ God while I were blind.
No; I could boast if others can,
I’m vull a man.

An’ still, ov all my tweil ha’ won,
My loven maid an’ merry son,
Though each in turn’s a jay an’ ceare,
‘Ve a-had, an’ still shall have, their sheare
An’ then, if God should bless their lives,
Why I mid zend vrom son to son
My life, right on drough men an’ wives,
As long, good now, as time do run.
No, I could boast if others can,
I’m vull a man.

poem by William Barnes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

My Mother's Kiss

My mother's kiss, my mother's kiss,
I feel its impress now;
As in the bright and happy days
She pressed it on my brow.

You say it is a fancied thing
Within my memory fraught;
To me it has a sacred place-
The treasure house of thought.

Again, I feel her fingers glide
Amid my clustering hair;
I see the love-light in her eyes,
When all my life was fair.

Again, I hear her gentle voice
In warning or in love.
How precious was the faith that taught
My soul of things above.

The music of her voice is stilled,
Her lips are paled in death.
As precious pearls I'll clasp her words
Until my latest breath.

The world has scattered round my path
Honor and wealth and fame;
But naught so precious as the thoughts
That gather round her name.

And friends have placed upon my brow
The laurels of renown;
But she first taught me how to wear
My manhood as a crown.

My hair is silvered o'er with age,
I'm longing to depart;
To clasp again my mother's hand,
And be a child at heart.

To roam with her the glory-land
Where saints and angels greet;
To cast our crowns with songs of love
At our Redeemer's feet.

poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

I Am Bill!

I like to drink and I love to smoke
Which sadly though is not a joke
I even like to take an occasionally pill,
So I now have a really bad heart
Which is to blame on my part
So now, you can call me Bill.

I am not at all very tall
Others say that I am very small
Men are mountains I am just a hill,
I have no hair upon my head
So my head is covered or it would be red
So of course, you can call me Bill.

I have myself this one daughter
Whom says she has no father
That statement makes me feel so very ill,
It makes me feel also really sad
I cheated on her mom so she is mad
So of course, you can call me Bill.

I ride myself a motor bike
As it reminds me of my other trike
I ride it to impress women and others with a thrill,
I want people to think I am rough
But I am coward and I am not at all tough
So of course, you can call me Bill.

I have myself a girlfriend
She is just like me till the very end
She’ll do anything for me even against her will,
She has cheated and she has also lied
Threw away her dignity and also her pride
So of course, you can call me Bill.

I don’t have a job so I never go to work
Other persons call me lazy but that’s a perk
As now our government pays for all of my bill,
They also paid me to go to school
I used the money but I am still a fool
So of course, you can call me Bill.

I am jealous what other men own
As I have nothing living inside a broken home
So from others I like to rob and also steal,
It is hard to see me while I prowl at night
Where I cower in the shadows away from light
So of course, you can call me Bill.

When my life comes to an end
And I go to meet GOD with all my sin
Then finally I will know what in life was real,
I shamefully will walk to GOD in my platform shoes
While covering my head so he wont be amused
And I will say I am sorry; but of course, I am Bill.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Good teacher

A Good teacher is one, who teaches with love.
A Good teacher is one, who Corrects Students and make them Grow, Instead of shouting and making them slow.
A Good teacher is one, who makes Things to Flow.
A Good teacher is one, who gets things done as and when.
A Good teacher is one, who never treats a student as Foe.
A Good teacher is one, who Teachings must help in long Run.
A Good teacher is one, who says always it can be done.
A Good teacher is one, who should never make students Run, Instead have Great Fun.
A Good teacher is one, who must be always Bright and Teach Students Right.
A Good teacher is one, who is always a best Friend

poem by Narendra Kuppan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

What Happened to Billy Ray?

As a matter of stature, this man is not very tall.
The stories he tells could fill a shopping mall.
Bill is a word technician in a local high school.
As an English teacher, he is nobody's fool.

Generations of students have learned at his feet.
They will not face the future being incomplete.
How many of us wished we'd had a teacher like Bill?
Thinking of my English teacher still gives me a chill.

Now Bill the Great also likes to fish from time to time.
According to him, his fishing ability is simply sublime.
He worked the worm like strumming a fine instrument.
The poor bass ending up on his hook was his testament.

I write this poem to honor a simple English teacher.
Oh by the way, he once was a country preacher.
Unappreciated by others, he left his current position.
Making more money became his new mission.

In 2006, he had a motorcycle accident that was very grim.
Thereafter, another in his life began to assimilate him.
Resistance proved futile as he had finally become the 'Borg.'
As a result, you'll find our relationship residing in the morgue.

poem by Manager Poet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sibling Children at Play

Two sibling children are at play;
The ‘horse’ is elder sister, Jill,
Whose younger brother ‘driver’ Bill
Sits on an ‘Umbrella-cart’, gay!

‘Giddap! ’ ‘Giddap! ’ shouts Bill to her;
‘Pull me, pull me, pull me faster! ’
The fuming, panting tired Jill,
Finds it hard pulling Bill ‘uphill’?

The ‘Umbrella-cart’ moves with speed;
Poor Jill is pulling fast indeed;
Her brother giggles, laughs aloud;
The cart-drive makes him truly proud!

But, Jill is only five-years’ old;
Her baby brother is quite bold;
She does not have the strength to pull;
But give a joy-ride for Bill, she’ll!

The wheels of th’ cart wobble along;
Bill insists her to sing a song;
‘Neigh like a horse! ’ he commands her;
If she does not, Bill will holler.

Her little brother loves the ride;
The cart stops often by road-side;
The ‘driver’ shouts, ‘Pull on farther! ’
Or I will cry and call mother.

Poor Jill cannot pull on and on;
But she must do: she is first-born;
Jill loves her little brother, Bill;
Do anything for him, she will.

Yes, children love to play all day;
They do not know dangers en way;
They copy elders, come what may;
They never like the word called ‘nay’.

But children love a simple ride;
They do it on their own with pride;
They love to learn and enjoy too;
You never know what they can do.

To children, work is also play;
They love to learn in playful way;
At times, they fight as though by right;
They sleep like angels small, at night!

Their innocence is worth watching;
Their childish ways befit smiling;
Their scuffles are worth too, prying;
But sad ’tis to see them sobbing.

And adults dream of childhood years-
The loveliest in life with dears!
That was the time they knew not fears,
While parents never allowed tears.

Copyright by Dr John Celes 11-21-2007

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

The Hymn of the Socialists

By the bodies and minds and souls that rot in a common stye
In the city’s offal-holes, where the dregs of its horrors lie —
By the prayers that bubble out, but never ascend to God,
We swear the tyrants of earth to rout, with tongue and with pen and sword!
By the child that sees the light, where the pestilent air stagnates,
By the woman, worn and white, who under the street-lamp waits,
By the horror of vice that thrives in the dens of the wretched poor,
We swear to strike when the time arrives, for all that is good and pure!

By the rights that were always ours — the rights that we ne’er enjoyed,
And the gloomy cloud that lowers on the brow of the unemployed;
By the struggling mothers and wives — by girls in the streets of sin —
We swear to strike when the time arrives, for our kind and our kith and kin!

By our burning hate for men who rob us of ours by might,
And drive to the slum and den, the poor from the sun and light,
By the hell-born greed that drives our sons o’er the world to roam,
We swear to strike when the time arrives, and strike for our friends and home.

By the little of manhood left in a world of want and sin,
By the rift in the dark cloud’s brow where the light still struggles in,
By the love that scarce survives in a stream that is sluggish and thin,
We swear to work till the time arrives for ourselves and our kind and kin.

The little of love may dry in its stream that scarcely flows,
The little of manhood die and the rift in the dark clouds close,
And hope may vanish from earth and all that is pure and bright,
But we swear to strike eer that time has birth with the whole of our gathered might!

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

Teacher Love

My mother is

Home

Teacher...

My

Teacher is

School

Mother....

My

Father is

Home

Teacher...

My

Teacher is

School father...

Female or male...

Not differnet for

Love...

And Teaching....

Any thing fals...?

No problem....!

poem by Otteri Selvakumar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

My Brother Bill

This is the sad true story about my brother Bill
who was four years older than me.
He was born and then tossed aside by his mother
who left him to his father’s parents to raise,
then promptly disappeared out of his life forever.
My grandparents brought him up
hoping his father would take care of him
when he returned from the war.
His father also my dad returned from the war
married with another son and didn’t want to know.
They gave him a nickname in private
so no one else would know.
In private, they always called him Dopey.
My sister and I were told
our grandparents had adopted him
and he was nothing to do with us.
When my dad’s parents died in 1958 and 59
plans were made to come back to England
where my mother’s parents were still alive
and leave Bill far behind.
Then as his mother had done eighteen years before
his father abandoned him as well.
For a while, he had to live on the streets
taking handout from where ever he could.
He was arrested for vagrancy and sent to jail.
Getting out he got himself a job and began to build a life.
He got married and started a family,
until one night he came home
and found his wife in bed with another man,
and a divorce followed and he was alone again.
Then after 25 years, his job vanished
and he had to find another.
One day in 2000, he got a telephone call
and did not know whether to believe it or not.
It was a call he never thought he would ever get,
a call from his younger brother - me.
As we talked on the phone, some truths came to pass
his brother and his sister did not know about him.
They were told he had been adopted
and were nothing to do with them.
However, I had found the truth,
which incensed my mother enough to disown me.
We met one another for the first time
after forty-two years in 2001 and again in 2002.
In 2003, this sad story ends,
in the March of that year
Bill succumbed to a heart attack.
His final words were a testament to his life.
No one loved me enough to care.
The sad truth is someone did
and that someone was me.
We never had enough time together,
circumstances kept us apart,
but he was my brother
and will remain in my heart.

2 November 2009

Authors Note:

The facts are as Bill told them to me. A sad refrain to a wonderful guy who was tainted by my parents as being bad and no good. If the truth were known he was probably better than the both of them. He was a guy who would give you the shirt of his back if you needed it. My brother Bill, may he now rest in peace.

DVH - 2009

poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Good Girl

I'll be a good girl
You will not have to worry about me
I will sing a sweet lullaby in your sleep
Even though the nightmare is
Creeping on the back of my mind

Because they always whisper to me

Good girls don't laugh hard
Good girls don't play heart
Good girls don't cry bad
Good girls don't show dark

Good girls don't taste devil
Good girls don't ring the bell
Good girls don't touch the hell
Good girls don't break the shell

I'll be your perfect girl
I will do as your loving little angel
I'll walk the path that you choose me to follow
Even though I want to run
I want to run beyond the sea

Because they always pushing me

Good girls don't make a mess
Good girls always do the best
Good girls don't kick hornet's nest
Good girls always take less rest

Good girls always tell the right
Good girls never need to hide
Good girls always shine and bright
Good girls never want anyone sad

I'll be your sweet girl
So you couldn't find a fault on me
You won't see a flaw from my dead body
Even though oh,
I'm twisted and rotten inside

Because they always preaching me

Good girls always keep promise
Good girls always loved to be kissed
Good girls always glow in breeze
Good girls always easy to be missed

Good girls always create a great ballad
Good girls always leave the jealous mad
Good girls always have a clear path
Good girls always be a strong impact

I'll be your only precious girl
There will be century ahead
Before you could throw me heartlessly
There will be ageless of wait
Before you could accuse me guilty

But they never satisfied and say

Good girls is merely an act
Good girls is only beautiful facade
Good girls save cruelty inside
Good girls could manipulate the fact

Good girls just looked innocence
Good girls never defeated in reason
Good girls secretly use their presence
Good girls always own the last person

poem by Maria Sudibyo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!