The Lark ON the Clerk
Blushingly blotches the mark
over the spot.
Itchingly wrestles the clerk,
scratching a lot.
What a lark
is it not
in the dark
in his cot?
But the mark
on the clerk
all remark
comforts not...
Cheerfully carols the lark
Over the cot.
Merrily whistles the clerk
scratching a blot.
But the lark
And the clerk
I remark,
Comfort me not!
poem by Jonathan Robin
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A Dog of Few Words
A clerk said, 'Next in line - this way.'
A dog spoke up, 'I guess I am.'
'What can we do for you today? '
'I want to send a telegram.'
The clerk handed the dog a note.
'You'll have to write it out somehow.'
The dog took pen in teeth and wrote,
'Bow wow wow, bow wow wow, bow wow.'
The clerk read what the dog had penned.
'One to ten words have the same fees.'
'There's eight words now, so you can send'
'Another 'bow wow' if you please.'
'No, ' the dog said, 'Just between us, '
'One more would sound ridiculous.'
Reply to the Above, by F.W.F.
"Te quoque vatem dicunt pastores."—VIRGIL.
O Maxwell, if by reason’s strength
And studying of Babbage,
You have transformed yourself at length
Into a mental cabbage;
And if I've proved myself a lark
At morn and blushing even,
By soaring like a music-spark
Thro’ sapphire fields of Heaven,
Our diverse fates are now reversed
By strange metempsychosis,
Into a cabbage I have burst
And scorn poetic posies;
But you a lark with twinkling wings
O’er violet-banks are soaring;
Your voice the dewy rose-cloud rings
While Statics me are boring.
Yet cabbage as I will—on earth
My roots I cannot anchor,
For at my mathematic birth
Was also born a canker!
It soon will gnaw my roots away-—
But when I weigh a chœnix
I’ll freely soar to realms of day
An emerald cabbage-Phœnix.
Then talk not of the Poll to me,
I hate, detest, and scorn it;
I am as earnest as a bee,
But savage as a hornet.
And if they pluck me I will drown
Each pedant in a sonnet,
And of their pluckings make a crown
With golden plumes upon it.
So if my cabbage growth be slow
I'll try to be a carrot,
Or still remain a lark—but know
I'll not be Poll, or Parrot.
Then if I fall beneath the mark,
I’ll shout with accent savage,
"It is a lark to be a lark,
’Tis green to be a cabbage"
poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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Chaucer
An old man in a lodge within a park;
The chamber walls depicted all around
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound,
And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark,
Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark
Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound;
He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound,
Then writeth in a book like any clerk.
He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote
The Canterbury Tales, and his old age
Made beautiful with song; and as I read
I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note
Of lark and linnet, and from every page
Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery mead.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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David Ap Gwillam At The Mass Of The Birds
THE Thrush, the Lark, and, chief, the Nightingale,
With one small bird whose name I do not ken,
Offered a Mass; the little bird was clerk,
At intervals he struck his silver bell.
The stars above that were but whitened then
The candles were; the altar was a stone;
Myself was there, with meet observances
Hearing the Mass the birds said in the dell.
It was the Lark who sang in dark's decrease
Kyrie Eleison; then the Nightingale
The Consecration chanted solemnly.
(The silver bell was rung for him in chief.)
And then the Thrush, the dweller in the vale,
Orate Fratres sang how near, how clear!
The Thrush it was who, as the sun appeared,
Held up the Monstrance, a dew-circled leaf!
poem by Padraic Colum
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You can't be what you don't see. I didn't think about being a doctor. I didn't even think about being a clerk in a store, I'd never seen a black clerk in a clothing store.
quote by Joycelyn Elders
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Viola Lee Blues
The judge decreed it, the clerk he wrote it.
Clerk he wrote it down indeed-e
Judge decreed it, clerk he wrote it down
Give you this jail sentence youll be nashville bound
Some got six month some got one solid.
Some got one solid year indeed-e
Some got six month some got one solid.
But me and my buddies all got lifetime here
I wrote a letter I mailed in the air, mailed it on the air indeed-e
I wrote a letter I mailed in the air.
You may know by that Ive got a friend somewhere
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death of the 25$ HEB Coffee Cup Experiment
I have not investigated with Holmes like certainty
Why it is gone but it is no more.
The honor system box to recive my quarter has disappeared
and with it the supply of small styrofoam cups.
'You can purchase a medium or large coffee, ' the nice clerk
informs me.
I have refill privileges and take the medium.
Will the annonymous woman with the travel mug ever return
to discover her retribution?
Will the nice lady with the travel mug inquire of the nice clerk
which size is this - medium or large?
I do not know.
This is why I do not sell poetry but it is not free.
poem by Bill Grace
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A Doe In The City
Little KITTY LORIMER,
Fair, and young, and witty,
What has brought your ladyship
Rambling to the City?
All the Stags in Capel Court
Saw her lightly trip it;
All the lads of Stock Exchange
Twigg'd her muff and tippet.
With a sweet perplexity,
And a mystery pretty,
Threading through Threadneedle Street,
Trots the little KITTY.
What was my astonishment—
What was my compunction,
When she reached the Offices
Of the Didland Junction!
Up the Didland stairs she went,
To the Didland door, Sir;
Porters lost in wonderment,
Let her pass before, Sir.
'Madam,' says the old chief Clerk,
'Sure we can't admit ye.'
'Where's the Didland Junction deed?'
Dauntlessly says KITTY.
'If you doubt my honesty,
Look at my receipt, Sir.'
Up then jumps the old chief Clerk,
Smiling as he meets her.
KITTY at the table sits
(Whither the old Clerk leads her),
'I deliver this,' she says,
'As my act and deed, Sir.'
When I heard these funny words
Come from lips so pretty;
This, I thought, should surely be
Subject for a ditty.
What! are ladies stagging it?
Sure, the more's the pity;
But I've lost my heart to her,—
Naughty little KITTY.
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Stanzas Subjoined To The Yearly Bill Of Mortality Of The Parish Of All-Saints, Northampton. Anno Domini 1790
He who sits from day to day
Where the prisoned lark is hung,
Heedless of his loudest lay,
Hardly knows that he has sung.
Where the watchman in his round
Nightly lifts his voice on high,
None accustomed to the sound,
Wakes the sooner for his cry.
So your verse man I, and clerk,
Yearly in my song proclaim
Death at hand -- yourselves his mark--
And the foe's unerring aim.
Duly at my time I come,
Publishing to all aloud,--
Soon the grave must be your home,
And your only suit a shroud.
But the monitory strain,
Oft repeated in your ears,
Seems to sound too much in vain,
Wins no notice, wakes no fears.
Can a truth, by all confessed
Of such magnitude and weight,
Grow, by being oft impressed,
Trivial as a parrot's prate?
Pleasure's call attention wins,
Hear it often as we may;
New as ever seem our sins,
Though committed every day.
Death and judgement, heaven and hell--
These alone, so often heard,
No more move us than the bell
When some stranger is interred.
Oh then, ere the turf or tomb
Cover us from every eye,
Spirit of instruction! come,
Make us learn that we must die.
poem by William Cowper
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Flowers In The Dark
Can you see flowers in the dark
While walking in the park
Accompanied by the sky lark
Can you hear the sky lark
While walking in the park
Looking for flowers in the dark
Can you walk in the park
Listening to the sky lark
Look for flowers in the dark
Can the sky lark
Listening to flowers in the dark
Walk in the park
Can the flowers in the park
Listening to the sky lark
Notice you in the dark
poem by Jamie Collins
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Divine Detachment
One day the Great Designer sought
His Clerk of Birth and Death.
Said he: "Two souls are in my thought,
to whom I gave life-breath.
I deemed my work was fitly done,
But yester-eve I saw
That in the finished brain of one
There was a tiny flaw.
"It worried me, and I would know,
Since I am all to blame,
What happened to them down below,
Of honour or of shame;
For if the later did befall,
My sorrow will be grave . . ."
Then numbers astronomical
unto the Clerk he gave.
The Keeper of the Rolls replied:
"Of them I've little trace;
But one he was a Prince of pride
And one of lowly race.
One was a Holy Saint proclaimed;
For one no hell sufficed . . . .
Let's see - the last was Nero named,
The other . . . Jesus Christ."
poem by Robert William Service
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The Knight's Return
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
The were wolves mutter, the night hawks moan,
The raven croaks from the Raven-stone;
What care I for his boding groan,
Riding the moorland to come to mine own?
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
Long have I wander'd by land and by sea,
Long have I ridden by moorland and lea;
Yonder she sits with my babe on her knee,
Sits at the window and watches for me!
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
Written for music, 1857.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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Glimpse Of Beauty
Humphrey sees the dame going
by the door as he's booking in at
the hotel, for the moment she
seems frozen there as if the gods
had wanted him to get a glimpse
of beauty before she moved on
and back into her life far from his.
He stands there gazing, his eyes
taking in each aspect of her shine:
the hat the shoes, the two piece suit,
the plenty of leg and best of all her
face and the way she was looking
at him. A posh car is waiting outside
the lobby, she stands there her eyes
drinking him in, he ignores the booking
clerk who is talking to him, what is
the jerk on about when he has beauty
just outside standing and staring, maybe
waiting for him, waiting for him to go
to her and converse. It's New York City
1920 and there she is, his Helen of Troy,
she who no doubt could sink a few ships
or break a heart or two, but what to do?
He stands and stares, his mind in a haze,
she moving off and into the car, no time
to think or wave, she's gone, the car away
along the street, lost in the sea of traffic,
he senses a tear in his heart, an opening
up, a lost chance, beauty fled. The booking
clerk talks, his words like rainfall on a tin
roof, his gormless gaze. Humphrey looks
at the face of the clerk, his dark eyes like
small black pits, Yes, that room will do,
Humphrey says, taking the key, wanting it
over, his day kind of blessed and spoiled,
beauty come and gone, a chance not taken,
a mind messed up, a heart near broken.
poem by Terry Collett
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In the Dark
In the dark
All thoughts lie stark
In the dark
There is a spark
In the dark
He hits his mark
In the dark
Down falls the lark
poem by Gwenevere Cornwell
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It is not the surplice that makes parson or clerk.
A salesman minus enthusiasm is just a clerk.
quote by Harry F. Banks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When it pours upon the parson, it drops upon the clerk.