Transformation Scene
A plain building was removed to a pleasant grove, and in a
few weeks it was transformed into the neatest frame
building in town.
As westward we of late did rove
We beheld in the maple grove
An old church now owned by Peter ;
In town there is no house looks neater,
For those bay windows do look sweeter
Than anything in prose or meter.
poem by James McIntyre
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Related quotes
China Groove
When the sun comes up on a sleepy little town
Down around San Antone
And the folks are risin' for another day
'Round about their homes
The people of the town are strange
And they're proud of where they came
Well, you're talkin' 'bout China Grove
Oh, China Grove
Well, the preacher and the teacher
Lord, they're a caution
They are the talk of the town
When the gossip gets to flyin'
And they ain't lyin'
When the sun goes fallin' down
They say that the father's insane
And dear Missus Perkin's a game
We're talkin' 'bout the China Grove
Oh, China Grove
But every day there's a new thing comin'
The ways of an oriental view
The sheriff and his buddies
With their samurai swords
You can even hear the music at night
And though it's a part of the Lone Star State
People don't seem to care
They just keep on lookin' to the East
Talkin' 'bout the China Grove
Oh, China Grove
song performed by by Doobie Brothers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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China Grove
Tom johnston
When the sun comes up on a sleepy little town
Down around san antone
And the folks are risin for another day
round about their homes
The people of the town are strange
And theyre proud of where they came
Well, youre talkin bout china grove
Oh, china grove
Well, the preacher and the teacher
Lord, theyre a caution
They are the talk of the town
When the gossip gets to flyin
And they aint lyin
When the sun goes fallin down
They say that the fathers insane
And dear missus perkins a game
Were talkin bout the china grove
Oh, china grove
But every day theres a new thing comin
The ways of an oriental view
The sheriff and his buddies
With their samurai swords
You can even hear the music at night
And though its a part of the lone star state
People dont seem to care
They just keep on lookin to the east
Talkin bout the china grove
Oh, china grove
song performed by by Doobie Brothers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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House of fire (Lyrics)
House of fire
House of fire, yeah
Let's build a house of fire, baby
Not one of wood or stone
Walk thru my door of desire, baby
Come on in and make it your home
Don't need a window to watch you, baby
Don't need no roof overhead
Don't need no key to unlock ya, baby
I'll use my lovin'instead
I won't tire
Take me higher
Building a house of fire, baby
Buildin'it with our love
We are buildin'a house of fire every time we touch
House of fire
House of fire
We ain't gotta pay rent now, baby
No landlord to throw us out
I want to play in your garden, baby
When you want it give me a shout
I won't tire
Take me higher
Building a house of fire, baby
Buildin'it with our love
We are building a house of fire every time we touch
We are building this house together, baby
Standing on solid ground
We are building a house of fire
That you can't tear down
Brick by brick the flames get higher
Build it strong with our desire
Building a house of fire, baby
Building it with our love
We are building a house of fire every time we touch
We are building this house together, baby
Standing on solid ground
We are building a house of fire
That you can't tear down
Building a house of fire, baby
Building it with our love
We are building a house of fire every time we touch
poem by Satan's Sibling
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A House called Lonely (A Trilogy in three parts)
There is a street in every town that owns a house
called lonely. Then when your just passing by you might
just say, 'if only.
If only could mean a life time of thoughts but it does'nt cure
a lonely house and all its faults.
Boarded up windows and tiles gone from the roof, graffiti
painted by a rebelious youth.
Such a lonely house and an oh such a tired one,
one that has lost all it's fun.
Stairs and rafters all gone to pot all that is left
is wood worm and dry rot.
No children playing in the garden, it's just a house condemend
by the council without no pardon. Poor lonely house someones
forgotton dream, now describing lifes social scene.
This lonely house stands in the way because their building
a By Pass or a new motorway.
The house called lonely could be any where, in the town, the
country or city square.
Even in your street there's a house called lonely just waiting
for you to say 'if only'
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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Lucky Town
House got too crowded clothes got too tight
And I dont know just where Im going tonight
Out where the skys been cleared by a good hard rain
Theres somebody callin my secret name
Im going down to lucky town
Going down to lucky town
I wanna lose these blues Ive found
Down in lucky town
Down in lucky town
Had a coat of fine leather and snakeskin boots
But that coat always had a tread hangin loose
Well I pulled it one night and to my surprise
It led me right past your house and on over the rise
Im going down to lucky town
Down to lucky town
Im gonna lose these blues Ive found
Down in lucky town
Down in lucky town
I had some victory that was just failure in deceit
Now the jokes comin up through the soles of my feet
I been a long time walking on fortunes cane
Tonight Im steppin lightly and feelin no pain
Well heres to your good looks baby now heres to my health
Heres to the loaded places that we take ourselves
When it comes to luck you make your own
Tonight I got dirt on my hands but Im building me a new home
Down in lucky town
Down in lucky town
Im gonna lose these blues Ive found
Down in lucky town
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Kind Of Town
My kind of town, Chicago is
My kind of town, Chicago is
My kind of people too
People who,smile at you
And each time I leave, Chicago is
Tugging my sleave, Chicago is
One town that won't let you down
It's my kind of town
My kind of town, Chicago is
My kind of town, Chicago is
My kind of razzmatazz
And it has, all that jazz
And each time I rome, Chicago is
Calling me home, Chicago is
One town that won't let you down
It's my kind of town
Chicago is
The Wrigley Building, Chicago is
The Union stock yard, Chicago is
One town that won't let you down
It's my
My kind of town
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Who stands with me?
True poets write in meter.
Not because they think it’s neater
but because the flow is sweeter
When their words are read aloud
as they perform before the crowd.
Their poems pass the acid test.
Prose writers do not choose to rhyme.
They see it as a waste of time.
Although their word choice is sublime.
Without meter it is prose,
not poetry as they suppose.
Their definition I contest.
Poetic prose it’s plain to see.
Can not be classed as poetry.
I can accept you disagree.
I know I have a biased view
I think I am entitled to
Decide which one I like the best.
I choose meter every time
Preferably with lines that rhyme.
I find such poetry sublime.
Though I enjoy well written prose.
Each to his own I must suppose
So write the way that suits you best.
I am old fashioned I admit
and not one whit ashamed of it.
I do not find rules inhibit.
Free expression of my views
They merely mean I have to choose
the words that will express them best
Free form, free verse, poetic prose.
Are methods other writers chose
as being fit for their purpose.
To rebel against fixed form.
Which was regarded as the norm.
Just to be different from the rest.
But fashions change and now free form
Must be regarded as the norm.
I see no reason to conform.
I choose to write my poetry
In the old way that pleases me.
A lonely voice raised in protest.
The wheel of fate will slowly turn
Metered poetry will return
and well deserved plaudits earn.
I hope I live to see the day.
when classic poets can display.
That fixed forms can outshine the rest.
Monday,06 December 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A Visit To The Asylum
Once from a big, big building,
When I was small, small,
The queer folk in the windows
Would smile at me and call.
And in the hard wee gardens
Such pleasant men would hoe:
"Sir, may we touch the little girl's hair!"—
It was so red, you know.
They cut me coloured asters
With shears so sharp and neat,
They brought me grapes and plums and pears
And pretty cakes to eat.
And out of all the windows,
No matter where we went,
The merriest eyes would follow me
And make me compliment.
There were a thousand windows,
All latticed up and down.
And up to all the windows,
When we went back to town,
The queer folk put their faces,
As gentle as could be;
"Come again, little girl!" they called, and I
Called back, "You come see me!"
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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How I Became Known As Dodgy Dave
From time to time people ask me
how I got the name Dodgy Dave
and why I take no offence at it.
The story starts about six or seven years ago
when I joined a Western Re-Enactment Society.
I went to help build a western town
that eventually became know as Deadwood.
As the date for near completion came
the only building left to be finished was the Church.
The original builders had left it only half built.
The owner of the farm
on which the town is built
wanted it finished for our grand opening day.
Someone suggested that because of all the help,
I had given, why I don’t take it on
and they would help me finish it,
but I needed a town name
that would go along with the building,
I thought for a moment and then said
what about Reverend Mr Black
after the old Kingston Trio song.
So for a couple of years
I became known as Rev. Mr Black.
Two of my friends Buck and Caroline
(better know to one and all as Caz)
were planning their wedding.
They were going to have an official ceremony
on the Friday and on the Saturday;
they were to have another wedding in the town.
They asked if I would marry them in the town ceremony.
I told them I would be honoured.
Caz then went around telling everyone,
family and friends
that Dodgy Dave the vicar was going to marry them,
but he isn’t dodgy,
it’s just my pet name for him.
Soon everybody started calling me Dodgy Dave.
However, with every nice story
somehow sadness always intervenes.
Six weeks before their wedding,
this pretty woman who had renamed me Dodgy Dave
died at the tender age of thirty.
We held a wake for her in the town
on the day she and Buck were to marry.
It was a sad affair,
but her memory remains with me
every time someone calls me Dodgy Dave.
There are so many memories attached to that name.
It was never given out of malice,
but out of friendship sincere.
Now the name Dodgy Dave
has become very dear to me.
I use it all the time,
because when I do it reminds me
of the young woman with fair hair
whose friendship I treasured so
and I never want to let the memory of her go.
So there you have it
the story behind the christening
of me to Dodgy Dave
11 March 2008
poem by David Harris
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Nostalgia
The heat is unusual even the olive grove
looks tired, old trees gasping waiting for
sundown. Yet the evening is still hot and
no breeze soothes tired leaves.
Every august I tell myself that next year
I´ll go to Norway to cool down. But what
I´m going to do there, it will be raining and
I never had an umbrella.
In my old home town I will be walking up
and down streets trying to catch the old
magic, that perhaps wasn´t there in
the first place, there were moments when
on Sunday forenoon, I used to walk to my
aunt´s house, we smoked cigarettes, drank
coffee and ate coco macrons.
On my walks I will only see young faces of
a new generation who has not in common
with me, and it will sadden me to see old
building torn down and replaced with new
shining office edifices ….And I will take
the first plane back to Portugal where my
elderliness is not a handicap.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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I Want To Live On An Abstract Plain
Ive had it with this town
I never saw those shifting skies
I never saw the ground
Or the sunset rise
I want to live on an abstract plane
Im building a frame
A place to put my ten-yard stare
Thinking of that paint
Painted in plein-air
I want to live on an abstract plane
I need a new adress
I want some new terrain
Is it north or south?
I want to live on an abstract plain
I could sit on the roof
On top of that abstract house
See my abstract view
An abstract mouse
I want to live on an abstract plane
I need a new adress
Tell me Im not insane
Is it up or down?
I want to live on an abstract plane
song performed by by Frank Black
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song XXX. The Lovely Brown Maid
When May--scented zephyrs breathe gladness around,
Enliv'ning the meadow and grove,
And in each mossy cottage Contentment is found,
Crown'd with health, peace, retirement, and love;
Then far from the village the swains they retire,
At noon to the lonely sweet shade;
Grant me Health, rosy Health, all I ask and desire,
With a smile from my lovely brown maid.
When my flocks bleat around me upon the wide plain,
Contented I lie at my ease;
And at eve I retire, free from sorrow and pain,
To enjoy the soft fragrant breeze:
When music and gladness are heard thro' the grove,
By moonlight I steal from the shade,
And o'er hills and deep valleys unheeded I rove,
For a smile from my lovely brown maid.
Each morn I rise happy, each night I lie down
With a heart free from envy and care;
In my plain humble cottage, far from the gay town
With my neighbours each comfort I share:
I envy no monarch, I boast not of wealth,
No troubles my cot e'er invade:
All the blessings I ask is the blessing of health,
And a smile from my lovely brown maid.
poem by Robert Anderson
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Neater meter for Mr Earley
Neater meter?
I have to write a sonnet in free verse.
I must stick to Iambic pentameter.
A meter that I do not often use.
Pentameter is my more usual style.
A Sapphic meter would be so much worse.
I am more comfortable with the latter.
I find that some odd metres can confuse
a simple rhymester like me for a while.
I’m quite convinced that pentameter
makes my presentations appear neater.
It may be that you think I am obtuse
and that my simple verses make you smile.
You are entitled to your point of view.
Naturally I won’t agree with you!
11-Apr-08
Free verse sonnet
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Ash Grove
Half of the grove stood dead, and those that yet lived made
Little more than the dead ones made of shade.
If they led to a house, long before they had seen its fall:
But they welcomed me; I was glad without cause and delayed.
Scarce a hundred paces under the trees was the interval -
Paces each sweeter than the sweetest miles - but nothing at all,
Not even the spirits of memory and fear with restless wing,
Could climb down in to molest me over the wall
That I passed through at either end without noticing.
And now an ash grove far from those hills can bring
The same tranquillity in which I wander a ghost
With a ghostly gladness, as if I heard a girl sing
The song of the Ash Grove soft as love uncrossed,
And then in a crowd or in distance it were lost,
But the moment unveiled something unwilling to die
And I had what I most desired, without search or desert or cost.
poem by Edward Thomas
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Strange But True 1 - The Burning House
There were four of us in the garden,
which overlooked a valley below.
The sunset was moving across the sky,
as the songs of twilight could be heard,
then a siren made us look around.
There below us within a grove of trees,
a spiral of smoke rose to meet the sky.
The house within the grove was burning fiercely;
its glow could be seen by us on higher ground,
but not by those on the lower ground.
We sat and watch in fascination
as there was little we could do.
Because the house was well hidden from the road,
the fire department missed it too.
Eventually when they reached the house, t
he occupants had perished in the flames.
Therefore, begins the story
I have never been able to explain.
A year went by and the charred ruins remained.
Nothing was ever built on the spot
nor the ground ever reclaimed.
The only monument that was left there
was the charred black timber on the ground.
My friends and I were playing
as we usually did in the garden,
overlooking the valley below
when a silence seem to engulf us.
In the distance, the mournful wail of a siren
broke the stillness there.
Looking down into the valley
we were amazed at what we saw,
a spiral of smoke reaching to the sky
within the grove of trees where the house used to be
from a burning building that was no longer there,
exactly how we had witnessed it a year before.
For an hour, we watched fascinated,
until the images we saw began to fade.
Did it all play back for some Anniversary,
or were our minds jut playing tricks on us all?
The question still bothers me
over fifty years from that day.
I will never know the truth,
and the mystery will always stay a mystery.
poem by David Harris
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I've never looked at a suburban building as being a minor building and an urban building as being a major building.
quote by Helmut Jahn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Town Marshal
The Prohibitionists made me Town Marshal
When the saloons were voted out,
Because when I was a drinking man,
Before I joined the church, I killed a Swede
At the saw-mill near Maple Grove.
And they wanted a terrible man,
Grim, righteous, strong, courageous,
And a hater of saloons and drinkers,
To keep law and order in the village.
And they presented me with a loaded cane
With which I struck Jack McGuire
Before he drew the gun with which he killed me.
The Prohibitionists spent their money in vain
To hang him, for in a dream
I appeared to one of the twelve jurymen
And told him the whole secret story.
Fourteen years were enough for killing me.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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(Love Poem) Building It All Up
Building it all up. Here I come.
With the antidote to what you need.
So sure of myself.
Absolute certainty.
Building it all up.
This is concrete.
No more dragging my feet.
You make me feel whole and complete.
Building it all up.
Time to lay the foundation to the everlasting.
Forever as a word means nothing,
but in my heart it means everything.
Building it all up.
Even when its hard.
Even whens it far.
I still can see my star.
Even in the dark.
It shines so bright.
Building it all up.
I feel so strong.
The weight of whole world on my shoulders.
It will never get old.
It will never get cold.
You are building my fire,
my warmth, everything that means so much.
So build it all up.
Here I come.
Were gonna have so much fun.
But yet the work shall never be done.
I will always love you hun. Always.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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It's nice to be concise
I think it’s nice
To be concise
In everything you write
To be slightly terse
With all your verse
Is usually to write right
One should take their time
When composing rhyme
And try to keep it light
Maintain their meter
Try to make it neater
And never ever lose sight
Try not to doze
Whilst deep in prose
don’t write too late at night
Try not to swell your sonnet
Nor Try to dwell upon it
Because it could end up quite a fright
You don’t want to try to
End up with a haiku
Lord knows that wouldn’t be right…but
I just think it’s nice
To be concise…
In everything you write
poem by David Whalen
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Monastery
A distant building has contained my pleasure,
Having a rich fight with the stress I am an abuser,
The one who fought a dying battle with an assembly
Of brethren, the monks of a building behaving absentmindedly.
This building is distant, the one I want offered on my plate,
It steals the threat of another monk, and how do I accelerate?
This building is a basic block of bricks I call God,
Itself the godly look is a facade much too broad.
I see fit to end my life,
The building is still a monastery, now an afterlife.
poem by Naveed Akram
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