A Rather Smelly Sonnet
I once knew a fellow of popular fame,
Clarence Carruthers was the good man's name,
Intelligent, wealthy, a patron of arts
And producer, at times, of the smelliest farts.
Whether most virtuous or someone who'd sinned
It was best to be absent when Clarence broke wind, -
There was nothing quite like it in heaven or earth
Nor was it, dear jester, a subject of mirth..
Imagine the odour of old rotting fish
That one time had garnished a sumptuos dish
Or the reek of a sewer too foul for a rat,
When Clarence let rip it was far worse than that!
Be thankful, at least, the poor fellow has died.
(Though the stench in the graveyard canNOT be denied!)
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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When The Duke of Clarence Died
Let us sing in tear-choked numbers how the Duke of Clarence went,
Just to make a royal sorrow rather more pre-eminent.
Ladies sighed and sobbed and drivelled—toadies spoke with bated breath,
And the banners floating half-mast made a mockery of death,
And they said Australia sorrowed for the Prince’s death—they lied!
She had done with kings and princes ere the Duke of Clarence died.
What’s a death in lofty places? What’s a noble birth?—say I—
To the poor who die in hundreds, as a man should never die?
Can they shed a tear, or sorrow for a royal dunce’s fate?
No! for royalty has taught them how to sing the songs of hate;
O’er the sounds of grief in Europe, and the lands across the tide
Rose the growl of revolution, when the Duke of Clarence died.
We—it matters not how lonely our o’er-burdened lives are spent—
Claim in common with a Clarence, straight from Adam our descent!
Even the man they call a “bastard” has a lineage to himself,
Though he traces not his fathers through the sordid line of Guelph,
And, perhaps in some foul garret in his misery and pride,
One of Nature’s Kings was dying when the Duke of Clarence died.
Ah! the workgirl’s bloodless fingers, in the plundered human hive,
Sew the banners of rebellion, while the kings and princes thrive;
In the cold of northern winter—in the south in dust and heat—
Weary workmen preach sedition at the corners of the street.
They pre-eminent in sorrow! ’tis pre-eminence in cheek;
We shall hear what care and pain is when the slums begin to speak;
Hundreds starved to pay the shadow of a crown upon his head!
Yellow gold (at last impotent) fought with death beside his bed.
And, perhaps, a Prince of Nature sat despairing by the side
Of a noble mother STARVING when the Duke of Clarence died.
Ignoble living—splendid dead! behold the pomp of royal woe!
Lo, the funeral! battle-hero never yet was buried so.
Who and what was he? What has he done to benefit mankind?
Has he nought to show Saint Peter save a royal race behind?
Who is worthy? Who is noble? God! shall gold alone decide?
Better men like dogs were buried ere the Duke of Clarence died.
Thrones of earth and earthly rulers soon shall all be swept aside,
And ’twere better for his comfort that the Duke of Clarence died.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Three Feet to Heaven
We are only three feet from Heaven
Three feet above in another dimension
All your deceased pets, family and friends
are awaiting your arrival
There will be a party for you upon your
arrival
If you recall Jesus saying about Earth
'This is not My Home'
What He meant to say was Heaven is His Home
It will be a great joy to be with Jesus in Heaven
Because Heaven is your home, too
February 16,2006, Clarence A. Graham, Jr.
poem by Jr. Clarence A. Graham
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Anger
Anger
(I'm my own worse enemy)
It
Became
My drug
And I allowed
It to control
My every move
Loved it's power
When I allow it to take me from
Feeling happy to being put in a position to being in an angry mood.
Its power rains red and birth mark on the ones in my mind who I think wrong me, and usually the people who got my back the ones I know that loves me.
When I wake up I try not to see my self as bully! ! ! but some where deep inside there's a beautiful person in me, and I'm over situation quickly, so I don't have to face my issue that's with in me and that is I'm my own worse enemy.
Sir Clarence of greater
poem by Clarence Williams
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To the Memory of Claude Marquet
Because to him the wise gods gave
Rare gifts, to lesser folk denied,
He might have thriven, Mammon's slave,
Rich in the goods that small men crave,
But poor in all beside.
And yet, because his was the pride
Possessed by earnest men and brave,
He stayed by his weak brothers' side
And there he fought, loved, laughed and died,
And went, loved, to his grave.
Because his was the simple heart
That found small lure in pelf or praise,
For greater ends he plied his art,
And, asking little, played his part
A rich man all his days.
The simple heart, the single aim
That guided e'er his ready pen,
The gay indifference to Fame
Things such as these shall leave a name
Cherished 'mid fellow men.
And we who knew that steady gaze,
The open hand, the ready laugh,
The fighting face and kindly ways,
Know, too, his smiling scorn of praise.
Yet this for epitaph:
A fighter all his days was he,
Yet, dying, left no enemy.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Happy Anniversary of your Birth
The first moment of your birth is your birthday
You have only one-All the rest are only anniversaries
It is more correct to greet one with 'Happy Anniversary of your Birth'
As time passes, one lives longer
This gives one more time to become an Ascended MasterIf you become an Ascended Master on Earth, you are known as an Unascended Master
An Unascended Master does not have to return to Earth
His mission is completed and he has learned all of his lessons
June 27,2006, Clarence A. Graham, Jr.
poem by Jr. Clarence A. Graham
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It's Almost Sunday Morning
In the summer of 1956,
any Saturday at midnight
when the moon was full
and the stars were bright,
you would see Grandma Groth
on her front-porch swing
waiting for her son, Clarence,
still a bachelor at 53,
to make it home
from the Blind Man's Pub
after another evening quaffing
steins of Heineken's.
Many times when I was young,
I'd be coming home at midnight
from another pub just steps behind
staggering Clarence.
I'd always let him walk ahead
and listen to him hum
'The Yellow Rose of Texas.'
But the last Saturday night
that Clarence and I came down the street,
I didn't see Grandma on her swing.
She wasn't waiting to berate him.
So far so good, I thought,
until, not far from his house,
Clarence fell into Mrs. Murphy's hedge.
When I finally got him up,
I moved him like a fridge on a dolly
down the walk and into his house
only to see Grandma, a wraith
in a hazy nightgown, swoop
into the hallway, screaming
and thrashing Clarence with her broom,
pausing only to tell me,
'Go home to your mother now
so you won't be late for Mass.
It's almost Sunday morning! '
After that sad night in 1956,
I never saw Clarence again,
either marching to work in the morning,
his lunch pail gallantly swinging,
or staggering home at midnight
from the Blind Man's Pub.
But many a midnight after that,
I'd be coming home
from the other pub,
lunch pail in hand,
and I'd see Grandma
reigning on her swing,
broom in hand,
waiting.
Tonight, however, many decades later,
as I stroll home at midnight,
I realize I'm older now than Clarence was
the night he disappeared
and even though Grandma's dead,
I can still see her regal on that swing,
broom in hand, waiting,
and so I give her a big wave,
hoping to hear one more time,
'Go home to your mother now
so you won't be late for Mass.
It's almost Sunday morning! '
poem by Donal Mahoney
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I am looking for the Little Boy
I am looking for the Little Boy
Who liked to visit his grandparents at age 5
I am looking for the Little Boy
Who liked to go fishing with his father at age 15
I am looking for the Little Boy
Who became a Mortician at age 21
I am looking for the Little Boy
Who had 54 years of a happy marriage
I am looking for the Little Boy
Who is happily living at the Edgewood Vista
Who is the Little Boy
The Little Boy is me
January 12,2007, Clarence A. Graham, Jr.
poem by Jr. Clarence A. Graham
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There Once Was A Fellow Called Croll
There once was a fellow called Croll,
Who loved to hear periods roll
On his musical tongue.
It is he who has sung,
'Ev'n sev'n heav'ns giv'n buy not my soul'.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The best that we can do is to be kindly and helpful toward our friends and fellow passengers who are clinging to the same speck of dirt while we are drifting side by side to our common doom.
quote by Clarence Darrow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The man who fights for his fellow-man is a better man than the one who fights for himself.
quote by Clarence Darrow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's worth it
It's not easy but it can be worth it
Hear I stand, refusing to lie but I stand as a man who is guilty. I am guilty of loving YOU, see you have no Idea what's in the Blu print of my heart, but I take the time each and everyday to make you a priority thur the good times and thee opposite, the breaks downs, and the building back up with a decision to make it work, by the power of both parties agreement to stay. My love is action, that's dis played I can tell cause its written all over your face, with a smile that cant be hidden or erase, I choose to love you, a I will not compromise nothing less but 100% of your Love for me. it's not easy BUT IT CAN BE WORTH IT, Clarence.....
poem by Clarence Williams
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Mangan
Arguably the greatest poet old Ireland has seen
'Twas he penned the poem known as 'Dark Rosaleen'
In eighteen forty nine in his mid forties in poverty he died
Though true genius of him never can be denied
The great James Clarence Mangan Ireland's National bard
His journey through life was to say the least hard
He lived as he died in abject poverty
Yet one could not name many poets as great as he
From consumption and poor diet and neglect he died very young
For him no State funeral and he was unsung
Despite his hard life it seems a remarkable feat
That so many great poems the great poet did bequeath
To Ireland and it's people though he died just past his prime
As one of the poor souls of the Dublin of his time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Crys 2
Crys are various and of many kinds
For examples, here are a few
The cry of frustration when a housewife's dinner is a flop
The cry of sadness of a little girl when her pet kitten died
The cry of happiness when a little boy's father gives him a dog
The cry of happiness when a little girl's mother gives her a new do; ;
The cry of anger when someone has done you a wrong
the cry of happiness when you have forgiven someone
The cry of happiness when you have been released from debt
The cry of sadness when your best friend has passed on
Of all the crys in the world
These are just a few
April 27,2006, Clarence A. Graham, Jr.
poem by Jr. Clarence A. Graham
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Not Guilty
Inspite of the weights thats on top of me, Inspite my addiction that's in front of me, Inspite of my family turning there backs towards me, I can testify today and say that Jesuse never left me. When it was all said and said and done I have to admite that Clarence did it, and now I can apologies and try my best to fix it. I'm coming from high, and I can't see eye to eye and I stand hear I'm on trail, And I'm talking to the whole crowed, and that is I admit that use to be me, but I like thank God for grace and mercy that's part of my legal team. So Inspite of me God said that he come that I mite have life that I mite have more abundily, because he is victory, and I fall face forward insurding my all to thee, and be told me about a place called calvery that he sent his son to be a living scirfice, now for every strip, every strip, was everything I was going to put my self thur, and his blood cleared my name! ! ! ! ! ! so what's the virdic I'm not guilty. sir Clarence of greater
poem by Clarence Williams
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Life and love is beautiful
Life and Love is beautiful
I feel your presents still in my heart,
Your smile never dies, your sprit became a beacon of light for me in which I move towards the priceless memories of yesterday.
When I think of you, I now understand to enjoy the moments and not take life for granted and treat the moments like it's your last. Your boy Clarence
poem by Clarence Williams
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Our Cow
Down by the slipralls stands our cow
Chewing, chewing, chewing,
She does not care what folks out there
In the great, big world are doing.
She sees the small cloud-shadows pass
And green grass shining under.
If she does think, what does she think
About it all, I wonder?
She sees the swallows skimming by
Above the sweet young clover,
The light reeds swaying in the wind
And tall trees bending over.
Far down the track she hears the crack
of bullock-whips, and raving
Of angry men where, in the sun,
Her fellow-beasts are slaving.
Girls, we are told, can scratch and scold,
And boys will fight and wrangle,
And big, grown men, just now and then,
Fret o'er some fingle-fangle,
Vexing the earth with grief or mirth,
Longing, rejoicing, rueing -
But by the slipralls stands our cow,
Chewing.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Haw!
'Haw! Good fellow I'm not doubting
Your intentions are all right,
And your general appearance
Is intelligent and bright;
But the question you're discussing
Rather flicks me on the raw,
And it really doesn't matter;
So we'll close the subject. Haw!'
Since the every first reformer
Made suggestions in the trees
All the old earth's agitators
Meet with phrases such as these.
And it acts as brake and hobble
On the progress of mankind,
This superior aloofness
Of the static type of mind.
'Haw!' It rings throughout the ages
Since dim neolithic years,
Striving to discount the credit
Of philosophers and seers;
And the richest, fattest molluse
Spat it out in savage hate
When he marked his fellow's yearning
Towards a structure vertebrate.
'My good chap, enthusiasm's
Right enough just now and then;
But your pose is idiotic
In the sight of sober men.
Calm yourself, my worthy fellow,
Stay that wildly wagging jaw.
The-ah mattah you're debating
Isn't on the tapis. Haw!'
Spoken in a haughty fashion,
With an apathetic glance,
Then that simple interjection
Clothes a mass of ignorance.
'Haw! The fellow is a boundah!
Do not heed his fuss and fret,
And the subject he alludes to
Isn't mentioned in our set.'
Friend, if you have privileges
Fairly come by - more or less
And the claims of poorer brothers
Cause you most acute distress
When all argument has failed oyu
'Gainst their Socialistic law
Cultivate the distant manner
And the haughty Tory 'Haw!'
Cultivate the cool aloofness
When they seek with howlings rude
To assault your proud position.
Cultivate the platitude:
And, when they bring forth suggestions
Of a democratic type;
Tell then, friend, it is 'un-British,'
And, 'the time is not yet ripe.'
When with calm, unswerving reason,
And with logic merciless,
They convince your better nature
That abuses need redress,
Do not weakly yield to measures
That your prejudices hate.
But remark, 'It's not at issue,'
And that closes the debate.
Still, my friend, despite your coldness,
'Spite reactionary, 'Haws.'
These reformers somehow get there
When they have a worthy cause,
And the fat and foolish molluse
Who the vertebrates ignored,
Did not block all evolution,
So the scientists record.
As the world goes bravely onward
Leaving molluses far behind,
Progress ever has to reckon
With the static type of mind.
And the fighters in the vanguard
Recognise this simple law,
'Social evolution mainly
Is the overthrow of 'Haw!'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Song of Snobs
When Leonardo was a lad there was a certain set
Who snubbed him most outrageously - in fact, they snub him yet
He wasn't in the fashion, so he wasn't in the fold;
Before his death he was too new, and now he grows too old.
Because his art was new to them the snobs of Florence laughed;
And now, because he isn't new, the moderns scorn his craft.
'Da Vinci? Don't be crude, my dear! Call him an artist? Pshaw!
Why that old anachronism, so they say, knew how to draw!'
They have wandered thro' the ages, mouthing cliches as they go.
At first nights, and private views, 'mid the people 'one should know.'
But the artist goes on laughing as thro' every age he's laughed
At snobs who patronise the 'Arts,' but boggle at the craft.
When Shakespeare sought draw the crowds and please the taste of town
And watched box office takings with a worn and worried frown,
Kit Marlowe knew, Ben Jonson knew what stuff was in the lad;
But the dilettanti voted him quite definitely bad.
The fellow simply stole his plots, they said with lofty sneers,
And served them up most vulgarly to tickle groundling's ears.
'Will Shakespeare? That cheap showman!
Why the man's quite gauche, my dear!
I prefer them cultivated like dear Bacon and de Vere. '
So reputations surge and sink as lifts and ebbs the tide,
Now wallowing within the trough, now on the crest they ride.
But the snobs are ever with us, snobs of art, of place, of pelf.
And reading this, I rather think I might be one myself.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Missing Pieces
Something went wrong, and you find yourself over analyzing what happen, trying to connect and understand pieces of a puzzle that just don't fit. Thats not making logical sense to you at all. And your left with missing pieces to solve a dysfunctional start. But at thee end of the day, when you done all you can this part will hurt LET IT GO, it's out of your hands give it to GOD AND LIVE, LIVE, LiVE, LiVE love is the key that opens hearts Clarence
poem by Clarence Williams
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One Has To Wonder Why
John Clare was the English language greatest poet of Nature
So much of Nature's ways the man did know
But he died in a mental institution
In Northampton asylum near to fifteen decades ago
Just like Vincent Van Gogh the Dutchman a World renowned artist
His paintings are sold for millions today
Yet he died poor and mentally unstable
At his own hands in quite a tragic way
William Cowper was a literary genius
A man who too was mentally unwell
He never did enjoy the fame he earned
And life for him it was an Earthly hell
James Clarence Mangan is the National Bard of Ireland
He died in mid life at forty six years old
A poor Dubliner in Ireland's years of famine
His death was of consumption we are told
Janet Frame was a great New Zealand writer
But she was seldom happy in her mind
Her life story is not a happy story
Though her equal would be very hard to find
Stephen Foster was America's greatest songwriter
Of him true greatness cannot be denied
But fame in his lifetime failed to make him happy
And 'twas of alcoholic poisoning that he died
Paul Robeson one of the World's greatest singers
He died a very disappointed man
A victim of politics and racism
Yet his fame on it does not have a time span.
Poverty, madness and racism not a barrier to greatness
As the lives of many greats does testify
But in their lives some for their genius not rewarded
And why this should be one has to wonder why?
poem by Francis Duggan
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