En.Citatepedia^®.ro

At Noey's House

At Noey's house--when they arrived with him--
How snug seemed everything, and neat and trim:
The little picket-fence, and little gate--
It's little pulley, and its little weight,--
All glib as clock-work, as it clicked behind
Them, on the little red brick pathway, lined
With little paint-keg-vases and teapots
Of wee moss-blossoms and forgetmenots:
And in the windows, either side the door,
Were ranged as many little boxes more
Of like old-fashioned larkspurs, pinks and moss
And fern and phlox; while up and down across
Them rioted the morning-glory-vines
On taut-set cotton-strings, whose snowy lines
Whipt in and out and under the bright green
Like basting-threads; and, here and there between,
A showy, shiny hollyhock would flare
Its pink among the white and purple there.--
And still behind the vines, the children saw
A strange, bleached, wistful face that seemed to draw
A vague, indefinite sympathy. A face
It was of some newcomer to the place.--
In explanation, Noey, briefly, said
That it was 'Jason,' as he turned and led
The little fellows 'round the house to show
Them his menagerie of pets. And so
For quite a time the face of the strange guest
Was partially forgotten, as they pressed
About the squirrel-cage and rousted both
The lazy inmates out, though wholly loath
To whirl the wheel for them.--And then with awe
They walked 'round Noey's big pet owl, and saw
Him film his great, clear, liquid eyes and stare
And turn and turn and turn his head 'round there
The same way they kept circling--as though he
Could turn it one way thus eternally.

Behind the kitchen, then, with special pride
Noey stirred up a terrapin inside
The rain-barrel where he lived, with three or four
Little mud-turtles of a size not more
In neat circumference than the tiny toy
Dumb-watches worn by every little boy.

Then, back of the old shop, beneath the tree
Of 'rusty-coats,' as Noey called them, he
Next took the boys, to show his favorite new
Pet 'coon--pulled rather coyly into view
Up through a square hole in the bottom of
An old inverted tub he bent above,
Yanking a little chain, with 'Hey! you, sir!
Here's _comp'ny_ come to see you, Bolivur!'
Explanatory, he went on to say,
'I named him '_Bolivur_' jes thisaway,--
He looks so _round_ and _ovalish_ and _fat_,
'Peared like no other name 'ud fit but that.'

Here Noey's father called and sent him on
Some errand. 'Wait,' he said--'I won't be gone
A half a' hour.--Take Bud, and go on in
Where Jason is, tel I git back agin.'

Whoever _Jason_ was, they found him there
Still at the front-room window.--By his chair
Leaned a new pair of crutches; and from one
Knee down, a leg was bandaged.--'Jason done
That-air with one o' these-'ere tools _we_ call
A '_shin-hoe_'--but a _foot-adz_ mostly all
_Hardware_-store-keepers calls 'em.'--(_Noey_ made
This explanation later.)

Jason paid
But little notice to the boys as they
Came in the room:--An idle volume lay
Upon his lap--the only book in sight--
And Johnty read the title,--'Light, More Light,
There's Danger in the Dark,'--though _first_ and best--
In fact, the _whole_ of Jason's interest
Seemed centered on a little _dog_--one pet
Of Noey's all uncelebrated yet--
Though _Jason_, certainly, avowed his worth,
And niched him over all the pets on earth--
As the observant Johnty would relate
The _Jason_-episode, and imitate
The all-enthusiastic speech and air
Of Noey's kinsman and his tribute there:--

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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A Prospective Visit

While _any_ day was notable and dear
That gave the children Noey, history here
Records his advent emphasized indeed
With sharp italics, as he came to feed
The stock one special morning, fair and bright,
When Johnty and Bud met him, with delight
Unusual even as their extra dress--
Garbed as for holiday, with much excess
Of proud self-consciousness and vain conceit
In their new finery.--Far up the street
They called to Noey, as he came, that they,
As promised, both were going back that day
To _his_ house with him!

And by time that each
Had one of Noey's hands--ceasing their speech
And coyly anxious, in their new attire,
To wake the comment of their mute desire,--
Noey seemed rendered voiceless. Quite a while
They watched him furtively.--He seemed to smile
As though he would conceal it; and they saw
Him look away, and his lips purse and draw
In curious, twitching spasms, as though he might
Be whispering,--while in his eye the white
Predominated strangely.--Then the spell
Gave way, and his pent speech burst audible:
'They wuz two stylish little boys,
and they wuz mighty bold ones,
Had two new pairs o' britches made
out o' their daddy's old ones!'
And at the inspirational outbreak,
Both joker and his victims seemed to take
An equal share of laughter,--and all through
Their morning visit kept recurring to
The funny words and jingle of the rhyme
That just kept getting funnier all the time.

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Uncle Mart's Poem

THE OLD SNOW-MAN

Ho! the old Snow-Man
That Noey Bixler made!
He looked as fierce and sassy
As a soldier on parade!--
'Cause Noey, when he made him,
While we all wuz gone, you see,
He made him, jist a-purpose,
Jist as fierce as he could be!--
But when we all got _ust_ to him,
Nobody wuz afraid
Of the old Snow-Man
That Noey Bixler made!

'Cause Noey told us 'bout him
And what he made him fer:--
He'd come to feed, that morning
He found we wuzn't here;
And so the notion struck him,
When we all come taggin' home
'Tud _s'prise_ us ef a' old Snow-Man
'Ud meet us when we come!
So, when he'd fed the stock, and milked,
And ben back home, and chopped
His wood, and et his breakfast, he
Jist grabbed his mitts and hopped
Right in on that-air old Snow-Man
That he laid out he'd make
Er bust a trace _a-tryin_'--jist
Fer old-acquaintance sake!--
But work like that wuz lots more fun.
He said, than when he played!
Ho! the old Snow-Man
That Noey Bixler made!

He started with a big snow-ball,
And rolled it all around;
And as he rolled, more snow 'ud stick
And pull up off the ground.--
He rolled and rolled all round the yard--
'Cause we could see the _track_,
All wher' the snow come off, you know,
And left it wet and black.
He got the Snow-Man's _legs-part_ rolled--
In front the kitchen-door,--
And then he hat to turn in then
And roll and roll some more!--
He rolled the yard all round agin,
And round the house, at that--
Clean round the house and back to wher'
The blame legs-half wuz at!
He said he missed his dinner, too--
Jist clean fergot and stayed
There workin'. Ho! the old Snow-Man
That Noey Bixler made!

And Noey said he hat to _hump_
To git the _top-half_ on
The _legs-half!_--When he _did_, he said,
His wind wuz purt'-nigh gone.--
He said, I jucks! he jist drapped down
There on the old porch-floor
And panted like a dog!--And then
He up! and rolled some more!--
The _last_ batch--that wuz fer his head,--
And--time he'd got it right
And clumb and fixed it on, he said--
He hat to quit fer night!--
And _then_, he said, he'd kep' right on
Ef they'd ben any _moon_
To work by! So he crawled in bed--
And _could_ a-slep' tel _noon_,
He wuz so plum wore out! he said,--
But it wuz washin'-day,
And hat to cut a cord o' wood
'Fore he could git away!

But, last, he got to work agin,--
With spade, and gouge, and hoe,
And trowel, too--(All tools 'ud do
What _Noey_ said, you know!)
He cut his eyebrows out like cliffs--
And his cheekbones and chin
Stuck _furder_ out--and his old _nose_
Stuck out as fur-agin!
He made his eyes o' walnuts,
And his whiskers out o' this
Here buggy-cushion stuffin'--_moss_,
The teacher says it is.
And then he made a' old wood'-gun,
Set keerless-like, you know,
Acrost one shoulder--kindo' like
Big Foot, er Adam Poe--
Er, mayby, Simon Girty,
The dinged old Renegade!
_Wooh!_ the old Snow-Man
That Noey Bixler made!

And there he stood, all fierce and grim,
A stern, heroic form:
What was the winter blast to him,
And what the driving storm?--
What wonder that the children pressed
Their faces at the pane
And scratched away the frost, in pride
To look on him again?--
What wonder that, with yearning bold,
Their all of love and care
Went warmest through the keenest cold
To that Snow-Man out there!

But the old Snow-Man--
What a dubious delight
He grew at last when Spring came on
And days waxed warm and bright.--
Alone he stood--all kith and kin
Of snow and ice were gone;--
Alone, with constant teardrops in
His eyes and glittering on
His thin, pathetic beard of black--
Grief in a hopeless cause!--
Hope--hope is for the man that _dies_--
What for the man that _thaws!_
O Hero of a hero's make!--
Let _marble_ melt and fade,
But never _you_--you old Snow-Man
That Noey Bixler made!

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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A Delicious Interruption

All were quite gracious in their plaudits of
Bud's Fairy; but another stir above
That murmur was occasioned by a sweet
Young lady-caller, from a neighboring street,
Who rose reluctantly to say good-night
To all the pleasant friends and the delight
Experienced,--as she had promised sure
To be back home by nine. Then paused, demure,
And wondered was it _very_ dark.--Oh, _no!_--
She had _come_ by herself and she could go
Without an _escort_. Ah, you sweet girls all!
What young gallant but comes at such a call,
Your most abject of slaves! Why, there were three
Young men, and several men of family,
Contesting for the honor--which at last
Was given to Cousin Rufus; and he cast
A kingly look behind him, as the pair
Vanished with laughter in the darkness there.

As order was restored, with everything
Suggestive, in its way, of 'romancing,'
Some one observed that _now_ would be the chance
For _Noey_ to relate a circumstance
That _he_--the very specious rumor went--
Had been eye-witness of, by accident.
Noey turned pippin-crimson; then turned pale
As death; then turned to flee, without avail.--
'_There!_ head him off! _Now!_ hold him in his chair!--
Tell us the Serenade-tale, now, Noey.--_There!_'

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Pet Coon

Noey Bixler ketched him, and fetched him in to me
When he's ist a little teenty-weenty baby-coon
'Bout as big as little pups, an' tied him to a tree;
An' Pa gived Noey fifty cents, when he come home at noon.
Nen he buyed a chain fer him, an' little collar, too,
An' sawed a hole in a' old tub an' turnt it upside-down;
An' little feller'd stay in there and won't come out fer you--
'Tendin' like he's kindo' skeered o' boys 'at lives in town.

_Now_ he aint afeard a bit! he's ist so fat an' tame,
We on'y chain him up at night, to save the little chicks.
Holler 'Greedy! Greedy!' to him, an' he knows his name,
An' here he'll come a-waddle-un, up fer any tricks!
He'll climb up my leg, he will, an' waller in my lap,
An' poke his little black paws 'way in my pockets where
They's beechnuts, er chinkypins, er any little scrap
Of anything, 'at's good to eat--an' _he_ don't care!

An' he's as spunky as you please, an' don't like dogs at all.--
Billy Miller's black-an'-tan tackled him one day,
An' 'Greedy' he ist kindo' doubled all up like a ball,
An' Billy's dog he gived a yelp er two an' runned away!
An' nen when Billy fighted me, an' hit me with a bone,
An' Ma she purt'nigh ketched him as he dodged an' skooted thro'
The fence, she says, 'You better let my little boy alone,
Er 'Greedy,' next he whips yer dog, shall whip you, too!'

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Noey Bixler

Another hero of those youthful years
Returns, as Noey Bixler's name appears.
And Noey--if in any special way--
Was notably good-natured.--Work or play
He entered into with selfsame delight--
A wholesome interest that made him quite
As many friends among the old as young,--
So everywhere were Noey's praises sung.

And he was awkward, fat and overgrown,
With a round full-moon face, that fairly shone
As though to meet the simile's demand.
And, cumbrous though he seemed, both eye and hand
Were dowered with the discernment and deft skill
Of the true artisan: He shaped at will,
In his old father's shop, on rainy days,
Little toy-wagons, and curved-runner sleighs;
The trimmest bows and arrows--fashioned, too.
Of 'seasoned timber,' such as Noey knew
How to select, prepare, and then complete,
And call his little friends in from the street.
'The very _best_ bow,' Noey used to say,
'Haint made o' ash ner hick'ry thataway!--
But you git _mulberry_--the _bearin_'-tree,
Now mind ye! and you fetch the piece to me,
And lem me git it _seasoned_; then, i gum!
I'll make a bow 'at you kin brag on some!
Er--ef you can't git _mulberry_,--you bring
Me a' old _locus_' hitch-post, and i jing!
I'll make a bow o' _that_ 'at _common_ bows
Won't dast to pick on ner turn up their nose!'
And Noey knew the woods, and all the trees,
And thickets, plants and myriad mysteries
Of swamp and bottom-land. And he knew where
The ground-hog hid, and why located there.--
He knew all animals that burrowed, swam,
Or lived in tree-tops: And, by race and dam,
He knew the choicest, safest deeps wherein
Fish-traps might flourish nor provoke the sin
Of theft in some chance peeking, prying sneak,
Or town-boy, prowling up and down the creek.
All four-pawed creatures tamable--he knew
Their outer and their inner natures too;
While they, in turn, were drawn to him as by
Some subtle recognition of a tie
Of love, as true as truth from end to end,
Between themselves and this strange human friend.
The same with birds--he knew them every one,
And he could 'name them, too, without a gun.'
No wonder _Johnty_ loved him, even to
The verge of worship.--Noey led him through
The art of trapping redbirds--yes, and taught
Him how to keep them when he had them caught--
What food they needed, and just where to swing
The cage, if he expected them to _sing_.

And _Bud_ loved Noey, for the little pair
Of stilts he made him; or the stout old hair
Trunk Noey put on wheels, and laid a track
Of scantling-railroad for it in the back
Part of the barn-lot; or the cross-bow, made
Just like a gun, which deadly weapon laid
Against his shoulder as he aimed, and--'_Sping!_'
He'd hear the rusty old nail zoon and sing--
And _zip!_ your Mr. Bluejay's wing would drop
A farewell-feather from the old tree-top!
And _Maymie_ loved him, for the very small
But perfect carriage for her favorite doll--
A _lady's_ carriage--not a _baby_-cab,--
But oilcloth top, and two seats, lined with drab
And trimmed with white lace-paper from a case
Of shaving-soap his uncle bought some place
At auction once.

And _Alex_ loved him yet
The best, when Noey brought him, for a pet,
A little flying-squirrel, with great eyes--
Big as a child's: And, childlike otherwise,
It was at first a timid, tremulous, coy,
Retiring little thing that dodged the boy
And tried to keep in Noey's pocket;--till,
In time, responsive to his patient will,
It became wholly docile, and content
With its new master, as he came and went,--
The squirrel clinging flatly to his breast,
Or sometimes scampering its craziest
Around his body spirally, and then
Down to his very heels and up again.

And _Little Lizzie_ loved him, as a bee
Loves a great ripe red apple--utterly.
For Noey's ruddy morning-face she drew
The window-blind, and tapped the window, too;
Afar she hailed his coming, as she heard
His tuneless whistling--sweet as any bird
It seemed to her, the one lame bar or so
Of old 'Wait for the Wagon'--hoarse and low
The sound was,--so that, all about the place,
Folks joked and said that Noey 'whistled bass'--
The light remark originally made
By Cousin Rufus, who knew notes, and played
The flute with nimble skill, and taste as wall,
And, critical as he was musical,
Regarded Noey's constant whistling thus
'Phenominally unmelodious.'
Likewise when Uncle Mart, who shared the love
Of jest with Cousin Rufus hand-in-glove,
Said 'Noey couldn't whistle '_Bonny Doon_'
Even! and, _he'd_ bet, couldn't carry a tune
If it had handles to it!'

--But forgive
The deviations here so fugitive,
And turn again to Little Lizzie, whose
High estimate of Noey we shall choose
Above all others.--And to her he was
Particularly lovable because
He laid the woodland's harvest at her feet.--
He brought her wild strawberries, honey-sweet
And dewy-cool, in mats of greenest moss
And leaves, all woven over and across
With tender, biting 'tongue-grass,' and 'sheep-sour,'
And twin-leaved beach-mast, prankt with bud and flower
Of every gypsy-blossom of the wild,
Dark, tangled forest, dear to any child.--
All these in season. Nor could barren, drear,
White and stark-featured Winter interfere
With Noey's rare resources: Still the same
He blithely whistled through the snow and came
Beneath the window with a Fairy sled;
And Little Lizzie, bundled heels-and-head,
He took on such excursions of delight
As even 'Old Santy' with his reindeer might
Have envied her! And, later, when the snow
Was softening toward Springtime and the glow
Of steady sunshine smote upon it,--then
Came the magician Noey yet again--
While all the children were away a day
Or two at Grandma's!--and behold when they
Got home once more;--there, towering taller than
The doorway--stood a mighty, old Snow-Man!

A thing of peerless art--a masterpiece
Doubtless unmatched by even classic Greece
In heyday of Praxiteles.--Alone
It loomed in lordly grandeur all its own.
And steadfast, too, for weeks and weeks it stood,
The admiration of the neighborhood
As well as of the children Noey sought
Only to honor in the work he wrought.
The traveler paid it tribute, as he passed
Along the highway--paused and, turning, cast
A lingering, last look--as though to take
A vivid print of it, for memory's sake,
To lighten all the empty, aching miles
Beyond with brighter fancies, hopes and smiles.
The cynic put aside his biting wit
And tacitly declared in praise of it;
And even the apprentice-poet of the town
Rose to impassioned heights, and then sat down
And penned a panegyric scroll of rhyme
That made the Snow-Man famous for all time.

And though, as now, the ever warmer sun
Of summer had so melted and undone
The perishable figure that--alas!--
Not even in dwindled white against the grass--
Was left its latest and minutest ghost,
The children yet--_materially_, almost--
Beheld it--circled 'round it hand-in-hand--
(Or rather 'round the place it used to stand)--
With 'Ring-a-round-a-rosy! Bottle full
O' posey!' and, with shriek and laugh, would pull
From seeming contact with it--just as when
It was the _real-est_ of old Snow-Men.

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Noey's Night-Piece

'They ain't much 'tale' about it!' Noey said.--
'K'tawby grapes wuz gittin' good-n-red
I rickollect; and Tubb Kingry and me
'Ud kindo' browse round town, daytime, to see
What neighbers 'peared to have the most to spare
'At wuz git-at-able and no dog there
When we come round to git 'em, say 'bout ten
O'clock at night when mostly old folks then
Wuz snorin' at each other like they yit
Helt some old grudge 'at never slep' a bit.
Well, at the _Pars'nige_--ef ye'll call to mind,--
They's 'bout the biggest grape-arber you'll find
'Most anywheres.--And mostly there, we knowed
They wuz _k'tawbies_ thick as ever growed--
And more'n they'd _p'serve_.--Besides I've heerd
Ma say k'tawby-grape-p'serves jes 'peared
A waste o' sugar, anyhow!--And so
My conscience stayed outside and lem me go
With Tubb, one night, the back-way, clean up through
That long black arber to the end next to
The house, where the k'tawbies, don't you know,
Wuz thickest. And t'uz lucky we went _slow_,--
Fer jest as we wuz cropin' tords the gray-
End, like, of the old arber--heerd Tubb say
In a skeered whisper, 'Hold up! They's some one
Jes slippin' in here!--and _looks like a gun_
He's carryin'!' I _golly!_ we both spread
Out flat aginst the ground!

''What's that?' Tubb said.--
And jest then--'_plink! plunk! plink!_' we heerd something
Under the back-porch-winder.--Then, i jing!
Of course we rickollected 'bout the young
School-mam 'at wuz a-boardin' there, and sung,
And played on the melodium in the choir.--
And she 'uz 'bout as purty to admire
As any girl in town!--the fac's is, she
Jest _wuz_, them times, to a dead certainty,
The belle o' this-here bailywick!--But--Well,--
I'd best git back to what I'm tryin' to tell:--
It wuz some feller come to serenade
Miss Wetherell: And there he plunked and played
His old guitar, and sung, and kep' his eye
Set on her winder, blacker'n the sky!--
And black it _stayed_.--But mayby she wuz 'way
From home, er wore out--bein' _Saturday!_

'It _seemed_ a good-'eal _longer_, but I _know_
He sung and plunked there half a' hour er so
Afore, it 'peared like, he could ever git
His own free qualified consents to quit
And go off 'bout his business. When he went
I bet you could a-bought him fer a cent!

'And now, behold ye all!--as Tubb and me
Wuz 'bout to raise up,--right in front we see
A feller slippin' out the arber, square
Smack under that-air little winder where
The _other_ feller had been standin'.--And
The thing he wuz a-carryin' in his hand
Wuzn't no _gun_ at all!--It wuz a _flute_,--
And _whoop-ee!_ how it did git up and toot
And chirp and warble, tel a mockin'-bird
'Ud dast to never let hisse'f be heerd
Ferever, after sich miracalous, high
Jim-cracks and grand skyrootics played there by
Yer Cousin Rufus!--Yes-sir; it wuz him!--
And what's more,--all a-suddent that-air dim
Dark winder o' Miss Wetherell's wuz lit
Up like a' oyshture-sign, and under it
We see him sort o' wet his lips and smile
Down 'long his row o' dancin' fingers, while
He kindo' stiffened up and kinked his breath
And everlastin'ly jest blowed the peth
Out o' that-air old one-keyed flute o' his.
And, bless their hearts, that's all the 'tale' they is!'

And even as Noey closed, all radiantly
The unconscious hero of the history,
Returning, met a perfect driving storm
Of welcome--a reception strangely warm
And _unaccountable_, to _him_, although
Most _gratifying_,--and he told them so.
'I only urge,' he said, 'my right to be
Enlightened.' And a voice said: '_Certainly:_--
During your absence we agreed that you
Should tell us all a story, old or new,
Just in the immediate happy frame of mind
We knew you would return in.'

So, resigned,
The ready flutist tossed his hat aside--
Glanced at the children, smiled, and thus complied.

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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A Noted Traveler

Even in such a scene of senseless play
The children were surprised one summer-day
By a strange man who called across the fence,
Inquiring for their father's residence;
And, being answered that this was the place,
Opened the gate, and with a radiant face,
Came in and sat down with them in the shade
And waited--till the absent father made
His noon appearance, with a warmth and zest
That told he had no ordinary guest
In this man whose low-spoken name he knew
At once, demurring as the stranger drew
A stuffy notebook out and turned and set
A big fat finger on a page and let
The writing thereon testify instead
Of further speech. And as the father read
All silently, the curious children took
Exacting inventory both of book
And man:--He wore a long-napped white fur-hat
Pulled firmly on his head, and under that
Rather long silvery hair, or iron-gray--
For he was not an old man,--anyway,
Not beyond sixty. And he wore a pair
Of square-framed spectacles--or rather there
Were two more than a pair,--the extra two
Flared at the corners, at the eyes' side-view,
In as redundant vision as the eyes
Of grasshoppers or bees or dragonflies.
Later the children heard the father say
He was 'A Noted Traveler,' and would stay
Some days with them--In which time host and guest
Discussed, alone, in deepest interest,
Some vague, mysterious matter that defied
The wistful children, loitering outside
The spare-room door. There Bud acquired a quite
New list of big words--such as 'Disunite,'
And 'Shibboleth,' and 'Aristocracy,'
And 'Juggernaut,' and 'Squatter Sovereignty,'
And 'Anti-slavery,' 'Emancipate,'
'Irrepressible conflict,' and 'The Great
Battle of Armageddon'--obviously
A pamphlet brought from Washington, D. C.,
And spread among such friends as might occur
Of like views with 'The Noted Traveler.'

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Turn Around

I was working all night in my office
When a man I had recently killed
Called me up from a phone near my building
So I looked out the window at him
He had the same obsequious manner
That was the reason I had him killed
So to calm my nerves I sang this song
To him, over the phone
Turn around, turn around
Theres a thing there that can be found
Turn around, turn around
Its a human skull on the ground
Human skull on the ground
Turn around
I was out by myself in the graveyard
I was doing an interpretive dance
When I felt something heavy and pointed
Strike me in the back of the neck
And then the ghost of my dance instructor
Pushed me down into an open grave
And as dirt rained down she played a xylophone
And sang me this song
Turn around, turn around
Theres a thing there that can be found
Turn around, turn around
Its a human skull on the ground
Human skull on the ground
Turn around
We were waving our arms out the window
Of a fast moving passenger train
Acting in an irresponsible fashion
Until the engineer whose back had been turned
And who we thought would find us highly amusing
Quickly swiveled his head around
And his face which was a paper-white mask of evil
Sang us this song
Turn around, (round) turn around (round)
Theres a thing there that can be found (theres a thing there that can be)
Turn around, (found) turn around (round)
Its a human skull on the ground (its a human skull on the)
Human skull (ground) on the ground (round)
Turn around (turn around, turn around)
Turn around, (round) turn around (round)
Theres a thing there that can be found (theres a thing there that can be)
Turn around, (found) turn around (round)
Its a human skull on the ground (its a human skull on the)
Human skull (ground) on the ground (round)
Turn around (turn around, turn around)

song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ottoman

At the foot of my parents bed was an ottoman,
it was old fashioned, but solid and sound.
My father said it had been locked for a reason,
to stop children from nosing around.

This unusual ottoman kind of haunted me
and I was curious to look inside.
One morning I found a key in the green house
and it looked like the ottoman’s size

Within minutes I was face to face with the ottoman,
the key turned the lock, so I took a peek.
A burning light shone at the bottom of a stairway;
so this was the secret my father wished to keep.

My burning curiosity had got the better of me,
so I lifted the lid wider and got inside.
Down the steps I ventured with caution,
my ears twitching, and eyes open wide.

The steps led down a narrow spiral staircase,
which met a corridor, with a door at the end.
Behind the creaky door was another corridor
and a wooden stairway which I did ascend.

This led me back up to the ottoman,
which was strange, but had to accept.
I decided to mull this over in my bedroom,
but someone was sleeping, so out there I crept.

I couldn’t believe it when I saw myself sleeping,
but then my father called me down for tea.
He and mum smiled, and dad ruffled my hair,
it was then that I came face to face with me.

I ran from the kitchen, up to my parent’s bedroom;
into the ottoman, and returned the way I came.
Everyone was sitting down for tea when I joined them
and dad knew, that I wouldn’t be disobeying him again.

poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Morning

Nothing left to feel
Nothing more to do
Nothing left to give
Nothing more in you
Nothing else to have or hold
Nothing left, but time to go
Time to go
Years go by
Didn't really say that much at all
And moments just fly
Didn't ever really touch at all
Weeks always run down
Didn't really get that close at all
And days, days fall out
Didn't ever really know at all
And then we're here in a room too clean and too bright
She stares at you for an hour
You stare into the light
For one last hour in the room
So mean and so white
I stare at her in this room as she stares into the night
Nothing left to feel
Nothing more to do
Nothing left to ask
Nothing more of you
Nothing else to share or show
Nothing left but time to go
In his eyes as we turn no eternity of life
In his eyes as we turn no infinity of why
In his eyes as we turn no beautiful goodbye
In his eyes as we turn...nothing but tears
In his eyes as we turn...nothing but tears
(spoken:) I couldn't understand too much of what was being said
In a matter of minutes
Peacefully so slow
I had to think to breathe
My heart burst
We moved in silence really slowly away from the world
As we drove a strange silence
That moment
Nothing will ever be the same
Nothing will ever be the same
Nothing will ever be the same
Days fall out
Weeks always run down
Moments just fly
Weeks go by
And then we're here
And then we're here in a room too clean and too bright
I stare at you for an hour
You stare into the light
For one last hour in the room so mean and so white
You stare at me in this room as I stare into the night
Nothing left to feel
Nothing more to do
Nothing more to take
Nothing more from you
Nothing else to need or know
There's nothing left at all...but time to go

song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Round Room

My room is round when I lay down, when I wake up it's square
When I go outside it's on a spiral set of stairs
The people that surround me are waiting out there
In a round room they can't find me anywhere
Right angle rooms drive me crazier each day
Put me in a box I know I'm never going to play
Put me in a square room and I won't know what to say
I want a round room at the end of the day
I had an apartment, four corners on the walls
Couldn't eat, couldn't sleep there at all
I want a curve to the place where I stay
I want a round room at the end of the day
If I pass out take me to the round church
Where echoes resound
And my spirit is found
And when I float high
Take my arm and I'll fly you by
The outskirts of town, to a garden that's round
I went to the lighthouse and I liked the view
I looked out the window and I could see you
Put me in a square house and I won't have a clue
I want a round room just to be with you

song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At Crown Hill

Leave him here in the fresh
greening grasses and trees
And the symbols of love, and the solace of these-
The saintly white lilies and blossoms he keeps
In endless caress as
he breathlessly sleeps.
The tears of our eyes wrong the scene of his rest,
For the sky's at its clearest-the sun's at its best-
The earth at its greenest- its wild bud and bloom
At its sweetest-and sweetest its honey'd perfume.
Home! Home!-Leave him here in his lordly estate,
And with never a tear as we turn from the gate!
Turn back to the home that will know him no more,-
The vines at the window-the sun through the door,-
Nor sound of his voice, nor the light of his face!...
But the birds will sing on, and the rose, in his place,
Will tenderly smile til we daringly feign
He is home with us still, though the tremulous rain
Of our tears reappear, and again all is bloom,
And all prayerless we sob in the long-darkened room.
Heaven portions it thus-the old mystery dim,-
It is midnight to us-it is morning to him

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When I Turn Off The Living Room Light

Who cares if youre jewish,
And your breath smells of garlic,
And your nose is a shiny red light.
To me you are gorgeous,
And everythings right,
When I turn off the living room light.
Your clothes are old-fashioned,
Your knuckles are bony,
Your hair looks a terrible sight.
But I dont have to see you,
The way that you are,
When I turn off the living room light.
When I turn off the living room light.
I dont have to see you,
The way that you are,
When I turn off the living room light.
Well its not that you are ugly,
And Im not being cruel,
It helps me to relax, dear,
It helps to keep me cool.
Now I am not intending,
To make you feel ashamed,
Whats wrong in me pretending?
cause you cant help being plain.
Your nose may be bulbous,
Your face may be spotty,
Your skin may be wrinkled and tight.
But I dont want to see you,
The way that you are,
So I turn off the living room light.
We dont feel so ugly,
We dont feel so draggy,
We dont feel so twisted up tight.
And we dont feel as ugly as we really are,
When we turn off the living room light.
When we turn off the living room light.
We dont feel as ugly as we really are,
When we turn off the living room light.

song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sucker For Mystery

And Ive always been a sucker for mystery
And Ive always been a sucker for mystery
And Ive always been a sucker for mystery
And Ive always been a sucker for mystery
So I turn to the left and I turn to the right
But none of the answers are in sight
So I made a mistake maybe once or twice
And I cant even get to paradise
And a priest came up to me and touched my face
He said terrible things happen round this place
Such terrible things happen round this place
Such terrible things happen round this place
No demon, no man has got a clue
But surely son, the end will turn out right for you
cause Ive always been a sucker for mystery
And Ive always been a sucker for mystery
Theres a little boy walking up the stairs
Through a dark hallway that leads nowhere
He comes to a door but hes afraid to knock
And he bends down low and peers throught the lock
And theres a tall man standing with a glistening knife
And hes stooping over something that has no life
With stifled tears he starts to turn away
But a strange little voice seems to whisper
Stay!
Hes always been a sucker for mystery
And hes always been...
(chorus)
I dont want to say good bye
I want to give it one more try
I dont want to say good bye
I want to give it one more try
Wont somebody help
Wont somebody help
Im all alone now with nothing to do
And Im all dressed up with nowhere to go
And Im stuck with two tickets to an awful show
And my mouths full of words but Ive got nothing to say
And Ive been sitting in front of the tv set all day
And my heads in a vice and it wont let up
And my feet wont move and if that aint enough
The telephone rings... hello!
Ive seen children with such angry faces
When you look in their eyes, it makes you want to cry
Theres a time and a place for everything
Theres a time and a place for everything
Now it doesnt seem fair
But who cares theyre someone elses
As long as they dont come close to mine
Theres a time and a place for everything
Theres a time and a place for everything
So we packed our bags and went back to the hotel
In back of the squalor and the living hell
And they sell you this and they sell you that
They sell you their sister for a buck and a half
Such terrible things happen round this place
Such terrible things happen round this place
Such terrible things happen round this place
And people disappear without a trace
And Ive always been a sucker for mystery
And Ive always been...
Well the mystery that intrigues me the most
Is the one that makes men give up hope
The pride and the search for even little things
That might give a meaning, or even a hint
Cause how can a free man not have hope
When he hasnt even reached the end of his rope
I dont want to say good bye
I want to give it one more try
I dont want to close the gate
I still think that its not too late
I know when I reach the end
I want to start all over again
And Ive always been a sucker for mystery...

song performed by by Oingo Boingo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Runaround

Bill: so you need to kick up your heels;
Baby, I can understand.
Dont you know how its making me feel?
I wanna be your only man.
Jason: when it comes right down to the wire,
I just need a touch of your fire.
But youre livin it up,
Youre givin it up.
Bill: seems Im always waiting for you
To find your yesterday.
I think I know what youre tryin to do;
I got a better way.
Jason: baby, soon enough it will end;
Youll be reachin out for a friend.
But now youre livin it up,
Youre givin it up all the time.
Please be mine.
So good at the runaround;
Youre still making me wait outside,
Holding on to broken promises.
So good at the runaround;
I dont want to stand in line.
Its my turn, baby,
Please just let me in.
Bill: though youre always out on the town,
I feel your lonliness.
While your life is leading you round,
Its just like an empty kiss.
Jason: when it comes right down to the truth,
Well, it comes right down to you.
Youve been givin it up,
And losin in love every time.
Please be mine.
So good at the runaround;
Youre still making me wait outside,
Holding on to broken promises.
So good at the runaround;
I dont want to stand in line.
Its my turn, baby, please...
So good at the runaround;
I still fall for the same old lies,
Holding on to broken promises.
So good at the runaround;
I dont want to lose this time.
Its my turn, baby, let me in,
Just let me in.
Baby, please just let me in.

song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Feel Possessed

She said I could never do that
But I know you can, you are in my dream
We are one person not two of a kind
And what was mine is now in your posession
I could feel you underneath my skin
As the wind rushed in
Sent the kitchen table crashing
She said nobody move
Or Ill bring the house down
I hardly know which way is up
Or which way down
People are strange God only knows
I feel possessed when you come around
It was one of those times
Wished I had a camera on me
Six foot off the ground
Well I know how that sounds
Look above you and beyond me too
That kind of view dont need an explanation
Im not lying, not asking for anything
I just want to be there when it happens again
I hardly know which way is up
Or which way down
People are strange God only knows
I feel possessed when you come round
Whenever you invade my home
Everything I know flies out the window
Its above you and beyond me too
I dont want an explanation
But Ill be there when you bring the house down
I hardly know which way is up
Or which way down
People are strange God only knows
I feel possessed when you come round
People are strange
I feel possessed when you come round

song performed by by Crowded House
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Golden Exits

Emily Browning, Craig Butta, Jason Giampietro, Jason Grisell, Adam Horovitz, Mary-Louise Parker, Jake Perlin, Keith Poulson, Lily Rabe, Jason Schwartzman, Chloe Sevigny

by Alex Ross Perry from Golden Exits (2017)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Her Face

The day i saw your face
My heart started to race
I wasn't sure
My mind was in blurr
What was I going to find?
A girl lost in her mind?
A girl with great taste?
A girl with no time to waste?
Wasn't sure what to expect
Only just to respect
That beautiful girl
With the blue eyes like pearls
What I found
A girl with a sound
That filled my heart
Which made it start
That one race
When I stared at your face

© 2009 Jason Pilege

poem by Jason Pilege
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Face Up

Words by neil peart, music by geddy lee and alex lifeson
You turn my head
I spin my wheels
Running on empty --
You know how that feels
Im on a roll now --
Or is it a slide?
Cant be too careful
With that dangerous pride
If I could only reach that dial inside
And turn it up
Face up -- or you can only back down
Face up -- hit the target, or you better hit the ground
Face up -- theres still time to turn the game around
Face up -- turn it up -- or turn that wild card down
Turn it up
Dont complain
Dont explain
I dont think my new resolve
Can stand the strain
Im in a groove now --
Or is it a rut?
I need some feedback
But all the lines are cut
I get so angry, but I keep my mouth shut
And turn it up
You get all squeezed up inside
Like the days were carved in stone
You get all wired up inside
And its bad to be alone
You can go out, you can take a ride
And when you get out on your own
You get all smoothed out inside
And its good to be alone
Turn it up

song performed by by Rush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Early Works - The Spirit Of Christmas

The December wind howled outside
rattling the windows,
the children played on the floor
as the crimson glow of the fire
warmed the heart of the room.
In the corner stood a Christmas tree
sparingly decorated with tinsel and lights
but beneath were no presents in sight.
Jason watched his children
with sadness tinting his eyes
he knew how important
Christmas was to young lives.
He had tried to save through the year,
but there was always something needed
from the money he tried to save
clothes, food and shoes to wear.
Oh how he would have loved to see
them smile from ear to ear
instead of sadness in their eyes
for toys that wouldn’t be there.
He wished he hadn’t spent so much on petrol
when he was looking for a job
that he had walked the lonely miles
from refusal to rejection
and used the money to buy
his children a Christmas present collection.
The smiling face of his wife
cheered him little from his frown.
His thoughts were of his childhood
and the presents crowded around
the bottom of the tree,
of stockings filled with sweets, toys and fruit,
and creeping down the stairs at the first light of dawn
to see what Santa Claus had left.
Those were happy Christmases
not like this one so bare.

The children went to bed early
excitement filled the air
with the expectancy of presents under the tree,
which sadly would not be there.
Jason and his wife waited
until they were asleep
and then filled each stocking
with all that they could afford.
Then set about arranging
the few presents that they had
before they themselves retired to their bed.

The silence of the night
was disturbed by a rustling sound
of old iron chains
being dragged across the ground.
No one in the house heard it
as in sleep they lie
as in crept the spirit of a slave
from centuries gone by.
The ghost climbed the stairs
dragging his chains behind,
flitted from room to room
as if by some design.
Downstairs he hurled himself
in a sliding fashion
his moans were but a whisper
that could be mistaken as the wind.
He then flew around again
over everywhere he’d been.
He flew around the Christmas tree
causing a few pine needles to fall
and as each needle hit the floor
a present appeared
until beneath the tree was no longer bare.
He rattled his chains again
this time they sounded like bells,
and then flew up the chimney
with muffled sooty yells.

The streaks of dawn broke the sky
the children woke with wonder
at the stocking on the end of the bed.
Stealing through the shadows
from the break of day,
they moved silently down the stairs
to the living room and the tree.
Unlike the night before
beneath the tree, you couldn’t see the floor
presents covered in multi-coloured paper
decorated the bottom of the tree.
Their faces lit up and they said
a lot of oohs and mees.
Jason woke to their joyful tones;
he looked at his wife in question
just as there came a sound
of laughter and running feet.
“Oh Mummy, Daddy
come see what Santa has brought.”
Said the little girl with golden curls
as she jumped up on their bed.
“Come and see, come and see.”
two other voices yelled.
Jason smiled and nodded
as the children returned downstairs.
With sighs, they threw back the covers
and followed the children down.
They stood in the living room doorway
with faces masked in question.
They looked at each other for answers,
neither had any to give,
just that their prayer had been heard
and that the spirit of Christmas
they now understood.

6 December 1983

poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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