Donn Piatt Of Mac-O-Chee
Donn Piatt--of Mac-o-chee,--
Not the one of History,
Who, with flaming tongue and pen,
Scathes the vanities of men;
Not the one whose biting wit
Cuts pretense and etches it
On the brazen brow that dares
Filch the laurel that it wears:
Not the Donn Piatt whose praise
Echoes in the noisy ways
Of the faction, onward led
By the statesman!--But, instead,
Give the simple man to me,--
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
II.
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
Branches of the old oak tree,
Drape him royally in fine
Purple shade and golden shine!
Emerald plush of sloping lawn
Be the throne he sits upon!
And, O Summer sunset, thou
Be his crown, and gild a brow
Softly smoothed and soothed and calmed
By the breezes, mellow-palmed
As Erata's white hand agleam
On the forehead of a dream.--
So forever rule o'er me,
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
III.
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee:
Through a lilied memory
Plays the wayward little creek
Round thy home at hide-and-seek--
As I see and hear it, still
Romping round the wooded hill,
Till its laugh-and-babble blends
With the silence while it sends
Glances back to kiss the sight,
In its babyish delight,
Ere it strays amid the gloom
Of the glens that burst in bloom
Of the rarest rhyme for thee,
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
IV.
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
What a darling destiny
Has been mine--to meet him there--
Lolling in an easy chair
On the terrace, while he told
Reminiscences of old--
Letting my cigar die out,
Hearing poems talked about;
And entranced to hear him say
Gentle things of Thackeray,
Dickens, Hawthorne, and the rest,
Known to him as host and guest--
Known to him as he to me--
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Dermott Donn MacMorna
ONE day you'll come to my husband's door,
Dermoit Donn MacMorna,
One day you'll come to Hugh's dark door,
And the pain at my heart will be no more,
Dermott Donn MacMorna!
From his bed, from his fire I'll rise,
Dermott Donn MacMorna,
From the bed of Hugh, from his fire I'll rise,
With my laugh for the pious, the quiet, the wise,
Dermott Donn MacMorna!
Lonesome, lonesome, the house of Hugh,
Dermott Donn MacMorna,
No cradle rocks in the house of Hugh;
The list'ning fire has thought of you,
Dermott Donn MacMorna!
Out of this loneliness we'll go,
Dermott Donn MacMorna,
Together at last we two will go
Down a darkening road with a gleam below,
Ah, but the winds do bitter blow,
Dermott Donn MacMorna!
poem by Padraic Colum
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Robert of Lincoln
Merrily swinging on brier and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name.
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Snug and safe is this nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,
Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat;
White are his shoulders, and white his crest,
Hear him call in his merry note,
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Look what a nice, new coat is mine;
Sure there was never a bird so fine.
Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,
Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,
Passing at home a patient life,
Broods in the grass while her husband sings,
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Brood, kind creature, you need not fear
Thieves and robbers while I am here.
Chee, chee, chee.
Modest and shy as a nun is she;
One weak chirp is her only note;
Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he,
Pouring boasts from his little throat,
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Never was I afraid of man,
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can.
Chee, chee, chee.
Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight:
There as the mother sits all day,
Robert is singing with all his might,
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Nice good wife that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee.
Soon as the little ones chip the shell,
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seeds for the hungry brood:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
This new life is likely to be
Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln at length is made
Sober with work, and silent with care,
Off is his holiday garment laid,
Half forgotten that merry air,
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Nobody knows but my mate and I,
Where our nest and our nestlings lie.
Chee, chee, chee.
Summer wanes; the children are grown;
Fun and frolic no more he knows;
Robert of Lincoln's a hum-drum drone;
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes,
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
When you can pipe that merry old strain,
Robert of Lincoln, come back again.
Chee, chee, chee.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Cul De Sac
In the cul de sac, so smooth
I look down
Be less sure, sir
And take your rest
Its been much too long
Since we drifted in song
Lay it down wet
In this hide-away
Oh I travelled far
To the nearest star
And met palomar, ...mar..., mar...
And we dont care just who you know
Its who you are
And when they all go home
Down the cobblestones
You can double back (spoken this is it)
To a cul de sac
Mmm
Oh, I travelled far
The nearest star
And mount palomar, palomar, palomar, palomar
And we dont care just who dyou know who dyou know
And who you really are, really are
And when they all,
All go home
Down the cobblestones
You will double back
To a cul de sac
You know, you know you will
You will, oh, will double back
And not very far
To a cul de sac
You, you, you... will double back
To a cul de sac
You know, you know its not very far away
No, no
Its just a cul de sac
And you know, and you know, and you know... its not very very far away,
No
Its just a cul de sac
Donn, donn, donn...
Youre not very far away, no ohhh
Its not, its not very far away
Its not as far as a country mile
(you got it)
Its just a cul de sac
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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May You Always Be
May you always be in every way
a part of me, a sister, friend I pray
May you find your dreams beyond the sunset
And sing a song and hear the softest heart beat
May I be your wings that you can fly,
be with me in rough sailing, low and high.
To touch, to listen, to love, to laugh, to cry
and on your shoulder, be your strength and hear you sigh.
May you shine and sparkle like a diamond
A petal, a flower that blooms too soon
A flicker in a lighted candle
the tiny curve of the crescent moon.
And…may you always be a blessing to others..
And my friend forever
***Inspired by Chee Chee Martin ***
a poem dedicated to my friend, SANDRA MARTYRS
poem by Meggie Gultiano
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tee Nine Chee Bit
Maurice white, charles stepney & philip bailey
I been tusslin in my bed, not with
Her, but the pillow instead. do I got to
Beg and plead for no woman to make
Love to me. just a wee bit of her time
Said, I need somebody I can call all mine.
We aint got to push a shove
Give me just a tee nine chee bit of your love.
(repeat)
She got me walkin, in my stocking feet-
To watch her dress up, is my only treat
Spend all my money, and it goes to her
What more woman, youre gonna get me rough.
My head is itchin needs a rub
Even scratched my back on the side of the tub-
Give me just a tee nine chee bit of your love.
(repeat: out)
song performed by by Earth Wind And Fire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Dream Goal
I once was playing soccer and scored a goal
it went through the net after hitting the pole
all of the fans were yelling and screaming
for a second there I thought I was dreaming
then went off the cheerleaders and the band
I went in front of the camera and said, ' I'm going to Disneyland.'
poem by Austin Piatt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Merry Sportsmen
'Arry an' me is bits of sports;
When the summer comes around
We gits our sweaters an' guns an' shorts
An' we seeks out 'untin' ground.
Tennis an' 'ikin' we reckons tame;
So we shuns the cissy push
An' goes in more for a 'e-man sport
Shootin', out in the bush.
Week-end 'fore last we 'ad some fun
Close up to a record day;
For a real good bag fell to each gun
Pea-rific, that's to say.
But the gem of it all was that darn fool bird
I got while 'e's 'avin' a barf
At the edge of a pool. 'E looked absurd.
Chee! 'Arry an' me did larf!
By lunch I'd potted a decent bag:
Three parrots, a thrush an' a jack,
An' 'Arry, two wrens an' a lark an' a mag.
Then we camps at a creek near the track;
When up comes a coot in a rig absurd
Wot talks like some bug-'untin' fool.
But 'Arry sez, ''Ist!' An' 'e points to a bird
Wot is 'avin' a barf at a pool.
'Wot a charmin' pitcher!' this strange bloke said,
But I ups with me gun in a jiff
An', jist as the dicky-bird's duckin' 'is 'ead,
I skittles the beggar stiff.
Well, you should 'a' seen 'ow this strange bloke gapes:
Lip like a motherless colt.
An' eyes stickin' out like a couple o' grapes.
Chee! 'Arry an' me did larf!
'E goggles a bit, then 'e goes orf pop,
But we're two to 'is one, so we smiles.
Then he threatens to give us in charge to a cop.
Fat chance! There ain't one in miles!
Red robin it was. If you only 'ad seen!
Real trustful-like, 'avin' 'is barf,
When - Plunk! An' 'is blood spurts over the green.
Chee! Arry an' me did larf!
I can't stop larfin' whenever I think
Of that comedy there by the creek.
Singin' robin 'e was with a breast all pink.
(We are goin' again nex' week.)
There 'e was, splashin' all over the place,
When I darn near blows 'im in 'arf.
An' if you'd saw the look on that strange cove's face!
Chee! 'Arry an' me did larf!
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What we've got here is a failure to communicate.
quote by Donn Pearce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I am who I am, You are who you are, So, be who you are, not what you are.
quote by Teo Chee Huen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Casino Jack and the United States of Money
Jack Abramoff, William Branner, Tom DeLay, Donn Dunlop, Kevin Henderson
from Casino Jack and the United States of Money (2010)
Submitted by Orban
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Twice Times
There were Two Little Bears who lived in a Wood,
And one of them was Bad and the other was Good.
Good Bear learnt his Twice Times One -
But Bad Bear left all his buttons undone.
They lived in a Tree when the weather was hot,
And one of them was Good, and the other was Not.
Good Bear learnt his Twice Times Two -
But Bad Bear's thingummies were worn right through.
They lived in a Cave when the weather was cold,
And they Did, and they Didn't Do, what they were told.
Good Bear learnt his Twice Times Three -
But Bad Bear never had his hand-ker-chee.
They lived in the Wood with a Kind Old Aunt,
And one said 'Yes'm,' and the other said 'Shan't!'
Good Bear learnt his Twice Times Four -
But Bad Bear's knicketies were terrible tore.
And then quite suddenly (just like Us)
One got Better and the other got Wuss.
Good Bear muddled his Twice Times Three -
But Bad Bear coughed in his hand-ker-chee!
Good Bear muddled his Twice Times Two -
But Bad Bear's thingummies looked like new.
Good Bear muddled his Twice Times One -
But Bad Bear never left his buttons undone.
There may be a Moral, though some say not;
I think there's a moral, though I don't know what.
But if one gets better, as the other gets wuss,
These Two Little Bears are just like Us.
For Christopher remembers up to Twice Times Ten ...
But I keep forgetting where I put my pen.*
* So I have had to write this one in pencil.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Get Up!
Get up!" the caller calls, "Get up!"
And in the dead of night,
To win the bairns their bite and sup,
I rise a weary wight.
My flannel dudden donn'd, thrice o'er
My birds are kiss'd, and then
I with a whistle shut the door,
I may not ope again.
poem by Joseph Skipsey
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Cabbages And Beans
Like the dunny door it
simply bangs incessantly
until your patience thins
You can refuse to hear
it if you fry your brains
in oil with vapid apathy
A fear is that it might be
right and sadly true but
then again it might be wind
You’ve clearly had enough
if you accede too meekly
to its patent bullying
This cringing metaphor is
brazenness acclaimed
as an incipient authority
While all I see’s a pannier
of cabbage leaves and
salty beans
© 2 February 2010, I. D. Carswell
poem by Ivan Donn Carswell
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Lofty Afterlife
Lo! Death resides atop that lofty hill.
Expanse of Donn, the ruling god of death.
With eponymic marble monoliths-
Desideratum prodigality.
Extravagance! A lifeless lavishness
Which doesn’t make a damn difference
To the conquering worm. Your loftiness
In life, that once encompassing delight,
Is pallid, ghostly in your present stead.
Your measured qualifications decreased
In spite of your chiseled artifices.
Alas! Piteous mortuus somes
Your heighten tombs on top that highest mound
May be as close to heaven you may get.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Sacred Space
even sacred space has room that's
not invasion proof - there's liberal
confirmation raids incurring greater
anguish now occur most every day;
from where I stand the pathway's
trampled smooth by errant feet
competing in unseemly haste to
dump their woes and beat retreat
they ask of me a counsel I abide in
wisdom of the ages scribed in gothic
script declaiming options lost by
overcrowding private life; yet to
tell them where to go is not the
kind advice they'd want to hear
© 29 August 2011, I. D. Carswell
poem by Ivan Donn Carswell
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Festive Irony
you might say I am
the Spirit of Christmas
driven by a steady hand
on the neck of a bottle
of Cerveza complete
with lime wedge
this year I gave my friend
three flyswats opining he’ll
find superior utility in that
than a six-pack of said beer
– which he’s never been
fond of anyway
it’s a crazy time when
flies breed faster than Tahitian
limes can grow now Christmas
is a day away – he’ll see
irony in plastic swats to
control global warming
© 23 December 2009, I. D. Carswell
poem by Ivan Donn Carswell
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Scenes
isn’t scenes of beastly screaming
voices drown a stasis bleeding
forcing choices vilely reeking
where I cling to my own debris
caught within I hear the chaos
chorused in a choral singing
bartered hubris numbs my senses
stripping me of all true feeling
solitary innovation
calmed by complex contemplation
choosing where it will be standing
how to save itself oblivion
no-one knows her more than she does
cheating them of goals outreaching
bringing me to where I’m ceded
alone inside a crowded room
entombed within a baleful vault
no-one leaves and doors are bolted
intellect has trialled and faltered
grieves it wouldn’t have succeeded
© 28 August 2009, I. D. Carswell
poem by Ivan Donn Carswell
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Curator
My life’s a museum of memories buried
in a mausoleum to matrimony kept
scrupulously clean – there is no distinction
between exhibits and things living
I am Curator as well as main exhibit in the
open-all-hours public gallery that nobody
views though entrance is freely exchanged
for tea and sympathy
I expect it stay this way until ‘The Company’
gets made an offer it can’t refuse whereon
I will merge with the grateful trees afforesting –
acknowledging arboreal dreams
© 9 October 2009, I. D. Carswell
poem by Ivan Donn Carswell
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June Thirteenth
If I didn’t mark this day in passing
if I didn’t make this date a part of
solid History I’d fail – a day to fix in
memory and memory will prevail
June thirteenth, Gemini of Mercury
an element of Air – where hunger
for awareness rests, your love
therein is seen a proper reckoning
Measure of your length and breadth
despairs dimensions of your ardent
heart – cathedral blessed, especially
in loving – sets your warmth apart
I know and love your being as a
comforting, liberty from loneliness
of empty rooms, a candle light of
passage gleam safely leading home
Blessed I am to know you well for all
these humble years, your inspiration
wills me write of you – and I shall ‘til
Lethe waters still my trembling hand
© 8 June 2009, I. D. Carswell
poem by Ivan Donn Carswell
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Peace Enough
it is impossible to discern
real ties between unwritten
shopping lists, injured shoulder
and mild depression –
so I rest easy
I know, I know, the
tamarillos need picking
they glare from unmown
grass beneath the trees
with angst restrained
been a hard week, grass
growing out-of-control
social calendar stealing
what little poise remains
I could be excused
which I won't be, there’s
always that self-righteous
bloody-mindedness playing
devil’s advocate – defence
against deference, so I’ll fail
but you will never know;
now if this shoulder would
relent maybe I’ll find peace
enough and contentment
in your epic victory
© 16 January 2010, I. D. Carswell
poem by Ivan Donn Carswell
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