Who Bides His Time
Who bides his time, and day by day
Faces defeat full patiently,
And lifts a mirthful roundelay,
However poor his fortunes be,--
He will not fail in any qualm
Of poverty -- the paltry dime
It will grow golden in his palm,
Who bides his time.
Who bides his time -- he tastes the sweet
Of honey in the saltest tear;
And though he fares with slowest feet,
Joy runs to meet him, drawing near;
The birds are hearalds of his cause;
And, like a never-ending rhyme,
The roadsides bloom in his applause,
Who bides his time.
Who bides his time, and fevers not
In the hot race that none achieves,
Shall wear cool-wreathen laurel, wrought
With crimson berries in the leaves;
And he shall reign a goodly king,
And sway his hand o'er every clime
With peace writ on his signet-ring,
Who bides his time.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Ready To Pounce
When every single second counts,
The cougar bides his time...
Above the rock, ready to pounce,
His skills are quite sublime...
He has no choice, it's Nature's way...
He starves or eats again...
This solemn truth he must obey
And has since God knows when...
His father did as he does now,
His son will do the same...
The hunt goes on and must, somehow,
In search of life to claim...
He can't escape what must be done,
For him, there's no way out...
The hunter waits, hid by the sun,
With hungry eyes that scout.
Is that his next meal over there?
Or must he starve some more?
The pain inside is hard to bear,
Yet soon he'll know the score...
Above the rock, ready to pounce,
His skills are quite sublime...
When every single second counts,
The cougar bides his time...
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Ready To Pounce'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
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He should wear iron shone, that bides his neighbours deed.
Poetry and Prose
What is the true difference ’twixt Prose and Rhyme,
Since both may be beautiful, both be sublime?
Nor in subject, nor treatment, nor passion it ’bides—
But breathes through a certain rich something besides.
poem by Charles Harpur
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A Hymn Of The Many
God's people sorely were oppressed,
I heard their lamentations long;
I hear their singing, clear and strong,
I see their banners in the West!
The captains shout the battle-cry,
The legions muster in their might;
They turn their faces to the light,
They lift their arms, they testify:
'We sank beneath the Master's thong,
Our chafing chains were ne'er undone;
Now clash your lances in the sun
And bless your banners with a song!
'God bides his time with patient eyes
While tyrants build upon the land;
He lifts his face, he lifts his hand,
And from the stones his temples rise.
'Now Freedom waves her joyous wing
Beyond the foemen's shields of gold.
March forward, singing, for, behold,
The right shall rule while God is king!'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Sonnet LV: Stillborn Love
The hour which might have been yet might not be,
Which man's and woman's heart conceived and bore
Yet whereof life was barren,—on what shore
Bides it the breaking of Time's weary sea?
Bondchild of all consummate joys set free,
It somewhere sighs and serves, and mute before
The house of Love, hears through the echoing door
His hours elect in choral consonancy.
But lo! what wedded souls now hand in hand
Together tread at last the immortal strand
With eyes where burning memory lights love home?
Lo! how the little outcast hour has turned
And leaped to them and in their faces yearned:—
“I am your child: O parents, ye have come!”
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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A ghazal (Many a secret it hides...)
Many a secret it hides, life's like that
In nobody it confides, life's like that
Often it makes mortals cry, sometimes laugh,
Like the ebb and flow of tides, life's like that
It arrives in joy along with newborns,
It leaves with death at bedsides, life's like that
It lets us chose our path even when wrong
But later, it badly chides, life's like that
Throwing all caution to the winds often
The steed of desire rides, life's like that
Mortals live from birth to death on this earth
How, when and where, it decides, life's like that
Stories it tells in episodes ‘Mona"
Its sweet time it always bides, life's like that
poem by Elizabeth Kurian 'Mona'
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Keep A-Pluggin' Away
I'VE a humble little motto
That is homely, though it's true, —
Keep a-pluggin' away.
It's a thing when I've an object
That I always try to do, —
Keep a-pluggin' away.
When you've rising storms to quell,
When opposing waters swell,
It will never fail to tell, —
Keep a-pluggin' away.
If the hills are high before
And the paths are hard to climb,
Keep a-pluggin' away.
And remember that successes
Come to him who bides his time, —
Keep a-pluggin' away.
From the greatest to the least,
None are from the rule released.
Be thou toiler, poet, priest,
Keep a-pluggin' away.
Delve away beneath the surface,
There is treasure farther down, —
Keep a-pluggin' away.
Let the rain come down in torrents,
Let the threat'ning heavens frown,
Keep a-pluggin' away.
When the clouds have rolled away,
There will come a brighter day
All your labor to repay, —
Keep a-pluggin' away.
There 'll be lots of sneers to swallow.
There'll be lots of pain to bear, —
Keep a-pluggin' away.
If you've got your eye on heaven,
Some bright day you'll wake up there,
Keep a-pluggin' away.
Perseverance still is king;
Time its sure reward will bring;
Work and wait unwearying,—
Keep a-pluggin' away.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Tiger Stare
Intimidation is the game, as any tiger knows.
Infuriation is the aim, before it comes to blows.
The tiger stare, with ears erect, the lowered jaw in tune,
The teeth to bear, for bold effect! All say, 'I'll fight you soon! '
If not, the tiger stare is used to focus on the prey...
Before all energy's enfused and it gets clean away...
Or else a future mate is seen, with him truly smitten...
Wide-eyed, the alpha male is keen to meet the little kitten...
If not, some new scent's in the air... his basic instincts rise.
He breathes in deep... his nostrils flare... as danger he defies.
He bides his time before he acts, while time is on his side,
But come the time he finds the facts, no conscience comes to guide.
Sometimes a tiger stands alone! It's him against the rest!
Gone are the brothers he has known, now he must do his best!
No more the tiger cub of old, no more the little one...
He's seen the seasons which unfold beneath the golden sun!
The tiger stare is what he does... portraying who he is...
Who knows what it will mean for us? A quick death or a kiss?
And yet we stare, breathtaken, too, till fear has been increased...
At just how big this big cat grew.... at beauty and the beast...
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Tiger Stare'.
poem by Denis Martindale
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A World Too Wide for His Shrunk Shank after William Shakespeare Jacques Seven Ages of Man
Alas! What hope remains? The Welfare State,
Wrought through the years of blood, sweat, toil and tears,
Of suffering and strife, to some appears
Refuted by ‘f[r]ee' enterprise whose weight
Leaves little budget elbow room. We wait.
Death bides its time an extra span. Each nears
The century where ‘threescore' once brought fears
Of death. Yet western world's extended date,
Or lease on life means at a triple rate
We claim or pay for benefits. Few cheers
In underemployment's rise. One hears
Demands for health-care, pensions, but, too late
Empty promises most hollow find,
too few for bluff fall, most fear future blind.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Manticor In Arabia
(The manticors of the montaines
Mighte feed them on thy braines.--Skelton.)
Thick and scented daisies spread
Where with surface dull like lead
Arabian pools of slime invite
Manticors down from neighbouring height
To dip heads, to cool fiery blood
In oozy depths of sucking mud.
Sing then of ringstraked manticor,
Man-visaged tiger who of yore
Held whole Arabian waste in fee
With raging pride from sea to sea,
That every lesser tribe would fly
Those armed feet, that hooded eye;
Till preying on himself at last
Manticor dwindled, sank, was passed
By gryphon flocks he did disdain.
Ay, wyverns and rude dragons reign
In ancient keep of manticor
Agreed old foe can rise no more.
Only here from lakes of slime
Drinks manticor and bides due time:
Six times Fowl Phoenix in yon tree
Must mount his pyre and burn and be
Renewed again, till in such hour
As seventh Phoenix flames to power
And lifts young feathers, overnice
From scented pool of steamy spice
Shall manticor his sway restore
And rule Arabian plains once more.
poem by Robert Graves
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Sand Baggies
Sand, the great barrier we depend
trucked and scooped, our baggies placed.
While Mother Nature flows along
and bides her time testing lines.
We who claim the intelligence,
build our homes at the river's edge
for the beauty of water does allure
and beauty beats down sanity.
And farmers bent on riches more
drain their fields with ditches new
to force the water to flee faster still
so seeds can be planted everywhere.
Now when nature says enough, enough
and sends her waters to reclaim all
we bond together- little ants in kind
and wage our epic war with sand.
Now the only question still to be:
When did evolutionary smarts devolve?
Who Rises to Greatness?
Since time immemorial, since life flourished,
People have craved for pride and freedom,
They fought powerful tyrants and triumphed,
They made sacrifices and rose to stardom.
Unjust has been the cause of cruel dictators,
Whose hands are stained with innocent blood,
Their courts are infested with countless traitors.
They treat their fellow subjects like filthy mud.
They refuse to see them as their human fellows.
They see them as pliable objects with no minds,
They stop to see their problems or their sorrows.
They aim to drive 'No' out of their minds.
'No' sinks deep, though not too low,
It bides its time to sprout and glow.
When pressure piles up beyond measure,
Even a worm may turn against its oppressor.
When this prevails, who is a freedom fan?
Is it the mighty tyrant or the common man?
Who rises to fame and carries the day?
Who loses their lives to have their say?
Only free men DO without fear or favor,
Only free men get wiser, and braver.
poem by Omar Jabak
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Son And Heir
A cute-faced cheetah cub rests there,
Oblivious and frail,
He's now a precious son and heir,
A firstborn fragile male...
Just skin and bones and not much more,
Yet as each year goes by,
He'll run so fast upon each paw
You'll think that he can fly!
He'll pick his moments just like those
That race across this land
And sometimes rest as if to pose,
As if to make a stand...
As if to say, he's learnt enough,
He needs no teacher now,
For he's been taught by hate and love
And all the fates allow...
So watch out, world! He bides his time,
One day, he'll rule supreme,
One day, the tallest trees he'll climb,
Though now that's just a dream...
This son and heir will do his best
And not just to survive,
He'll do it just because he's blessed,
To prosper and to thrive...
Denis Martindale, copyright, November 2012.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Son And Heir'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
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An Actor
Some one ('tis hardly new) has oddly said
The color of a trumpet's blare is red;
And Joseph Emmett thinks the crimson shame
On woman's cheek a trumpet-note of fame.
The more the red storm rises round her nose
The more her eyes averted seek her toes,
He fancies all the louder he can hear
The tube resounding in his spacious ear,
And, all his varied talents to exert,
Darkens his dullness to display his dirt.
And when the gallery's indecent crowd,
And gentlemen below, with hisses loud,
In hot contention (these his art to crown,
And those his naked nastiness to drown)
Make such a din that cheeks erewhile aflame
Grow white and in their fear forget their shame,
With impudence imperial, sublime,
Unmoved, the patient actor bides his time,
Till storm and counter-storm are both allayed,
Like donkeys, each by t'other one outbrayed.
When all the place is silent as a mouse
One slow, suggestive gesture clears the house!
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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The Soldier
Yes. Why do we áll, seeing of a soldier, bless him? bless
Our redcoats, our tars? Both these being, the greater part,
But frail clay, nay but foul clay. Here it is: the heart,
Since, proud, it calls the calling manly, gives a guess
That, hopes that, makesbelieve, the men must be no less;
It fancies, feigns, deems, dears the artist after his art;
And fain will find as sterling all as all is smart,
And scarlet wear the spirit of wár thére express.
Mark Christ our King. He knows war, served this soldiering through;
He of all can handle a rope best. There he bides in bliss
Now, and séeing somewhére some mán do all that man can do,
For love he leans forth, needs his neck must fall on, kiss,
And cry ‘O Christ-done deed! So God-made-flesh does too:
Were I come o’er again’ cries Christ ‘it should be this’.
poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
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A Man's a Sliding Mood
Ardent in love and cold in charity,
Loud in the market, timid in debate:
Scornful of foe unbuckled in the dust
At whimper of a child compassionate,
A man's a sliding mood from hour to hour,
Rage, and a singing forest of bright birds,
Laughter with lovely friends,and loneliness,
Woe with her heavy horn of unspoke words.
What is he then this heir of heart and mind?
Is this the man with his conflicting moods,
Or is there in a deeper dwelling place
Some silly shaping thing that bides and broods?
poem by Mary E Fullerton
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The Captain2
He stands at the tiller
of a age old ship
that drifts upon
stormy waters
and the wind rips past
with a sharp chill
and the ship sail
like she forever will.
Caught between reality
and a place
that few ever see
the ghostly form
still steer that ship
to where destiny
bides her to go.
Some people think of it
as a trick of light
and others swear
of it to be there,
but no science
or chart can track
the way that she goes
and know why
her Captain lives forever more.
poem by Gert Strydom
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To A Dead Friend
It is as if a silver chord
Were suddenly grown mute,
And life's song with its rhythm warred
Against a silver lute.
It is as if a silence fell
Where bides the garnered sheaf,
And voices murmuring, 'It is well,'
Are stifled by our grief.
It is as if the gloom of night
Had hid a summer's day,
And willows, sighing at their plight,
Bent low beside the way.
For he was part of all the best
That Nature loves and gives,
And ever more on Memory's breast
He lies and laughs and lives.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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