Terse Verse
Terse little verse, gold from beauties purse
In my soul thou so give
And on its worth my life I live
Terse little verse, gold from beauties purse
Love is a morsel of thine treasure
In one ounce is my immense pleasure
Terse little verse, gold from beauties purse
Sing like a muse
and in poetry fuse
my soul into verse from beauties purse
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Related quotes
You Can Contribute A Verse
Contribute a verse, contribute a verse,
Who can contribute a verse?
Contribute a verse, contribute a verse,
You can contribute a verse.
You may be an underpaid lab’rer,
Streetsweeper or overworked nurse,
A migrant without any papers,
But you can contribute a verse.
You left school at sixteen with no GCSEs?
Did you graduate from Oxford with a First?
Makes no diff’rence, not one bit, for you both are fully fit,
Well-equipped to lay before the world a verse.
You may have no notes in your wallet,
You may have no coins in your purse,
No shoes on your feet, no breakfast to eat,
But you can contribute a verse.
Are you feeling sad and lonely,
In the depths of misery?
Do you feel this Life we’re living
Is not worth the entrance fee?
Are you sure that things will not get any better?
Quite persuaded they will go from bad to worse?
No great problem, drama, crisis, doesn’t matter,
As long as you can come up with a verse.
And it’s possible you’ve heard that our days upon this earth
Are not many, are not many, precious few.
We have hardly enough time to take in all of the sights,
Or do the things that we would like to do.
For we’ve barely crawled out of the cradle,
Then they cart us away in a hearse.
So, in the meantime don’t be idle:
Be sure to contribute a verse!
27/9/06
poem by Denys E. W. Jones
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Of unknown beauties
Known beauties enthrall, no doubt.
Unknown beauties can still more.
Beauties accessible are cheap.
Beauties beyond access are high.
29.01.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Pauper Poet's Song
Sun, moon, and stars, the ample air,
The birds shrill whistling everywhere,
Fields white with lambs and daisies;
The pearls of eve, the jewelled morn,
The rose rich blowing on the thorn,
The glow of blush-rose faces;
The silver glint of sun-smit rain,
The shattered sun-gold of the main,
And heaven's sweet breath that moves it;
The earth, our myriad-bosomed nurse,
This whole miraculous universe
Belongs to him who loves it!
Why fret then for the gold of this,
The fame of that man, or the bliss,
Or such another's graces?
Oh heart that chim'st with golden verse,
My heart, thou art the magic purse
Which all dull trouble chases;
Thine too fruition of all fame
When the live soul, as flame with flame,
Weds the dead soul that moves it;
Then sing for aye, and aye rehearse,
This whole miraculous universe
Belongs to him who loves it!
poem by Mathilde Blind
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When You Wake Up Feeling Old
When you wake up
Feelin old
At this piano filled with souls
Some strange purse
Stuffed nervous with gold
Can you be where you want to be?
Walk down any street
You can find
Look at any clock telling time
Sing some strange verse
From some strange song of vines
And youll be where you want to be
I know I can't sing
Until she brings the song to life
And I blend with kings
Id never change a thing
Who knows anything
I don't know
There are so many things
I must leave alone
Some strange person is calling you their home
Can you be where you want to be?
Can you be
Where you want to be?
Can you be
Where you want to be?
Can you be
Where you want to be
song performed by by Wilco
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Epitaphs in Verse - Reflections in the Eyes of a Poet
The eyes behind a head inclined reflect a universe
Of shanty towns and kings in crowns and parties in a hearse,
Of heaping mounds of coffee grounds and pennies in a purse,
Of heart attacks in shoddy shacks, of motion in reverse,
Of reasons why pale kids must die, quite trite and curtly terse,
Of puppet people at the steeple, kneeling down averse,
Of tinkle tones and megaphones with empty words and worse,
Of life's begin' in utter sin and other things perverse,
Of lewd taboos and residues contained within the Curse,
While poets blind, in gallows' rind, carve epitaphs in verse.
poem by Terry O'Leary
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What Beauties?
Though I lament the passing years, what treasures have I left?
What vivid verse to soothe the fears of those who feel bereft?
For life's not sweet to all Mankind! Some feast while others starve!
And there are those whose souls are blind who seek no higher path!
What beauties and what dainty treats have I been privy to?
And what was told of noble feats that only angels knew?
What has God granted to these ears that others should be told?
Though I lament the passing years, at least God gave me gold!
I do not mean the kind that shines and sparkles like the sun!
I speak of wisdom that refines the soul in everyone...
I speak of light beyond this Earth, beyond the sun and stars!
I speak of truth that shows its worth, that cannot fade or pass!
This treasure fills the empty heart with faith that overflows!
This measure given can impart true beauty, like the rose!
This blessing surges like a storm to help you rise on high!
It cannot harm, deface, deform, disgrace or make you sigh!
It's like God's Spirit floated down from Heaven's Throne of Grace!
It's like He put a holy crown upon a human face!
It's like He said, 'I love you, child! Forgiveness, now, is yours! '
It's like all sin is reconciled and peace has stopped all wars!
This vision I extend today... and each new tomorrow...
By faith, what beauties come your way, overcome life's sorrow!
Yet not just yours, but others, too! Let God unfold His plan!
Each has a duty left to do: to help one's fellow man!
I once sought beauty just like wealth and only thought of me...
Then came the vision: Christ Himself was crowned... for Calvary!
If God's own Son must face His Fate, then we must claim our own...
Else none of us can celebrate what beauties can be known...
What angel hates the wings he bears? What angel hates to fly?
Yet wings help him ascend with prayers, for even poets cry...
Would that I could depart this realm, transported by Christ's love!
Though I am rooted like the elm, what beauties wait above!
poem by Denis Martindale
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Ernie Pyle
I wish I had a simple style
In writing verse,
As in his prose had Ernie Pyle,
So true and terse;
Springing so forthright from the heart
With guileless art.
I wish I could put back a dram
As Ernie could;
I wish that I could cuss and damn
As soldier should;
And fain with every verse would I
Ernie outvie.
Alas! I cannot claim his high
Humanity;
Nor emulate his pungent, dry
Profanity;
Nor share his love of common folk
Who bear life's yolk.
Oh Ernie, who on earth I knew
In war and wine,
Though frail of fame, in soul how you
Were pure and fine!
I'm proud that once when we were plastered
You called me 'bastard.'
poem by Robert William Service
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A Better Answer
Dear Cloe, how blubber'd is that pretty Face?
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd:
Pr'ythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaf says)
Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.
How can'st thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy
The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping?
Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy:
More ord'nary eyes may serve people for weeping.
To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ,
Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong:
You take that for fact, which will scarce be found Wit:
Od's Life! must one swear to the truth of a song?
What I speak, my fair Cloe, and what I write, shews
The diff'rence there is betwixt Nature and Art:
I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose:
And they have my whimsies; but thou hast my heart.
The god of us verse-men (you know child) the sun,
How after his journeys he sets up his rest:
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run;
At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast.
So when I am weary'd with wand'ring all day,
To thee my delight in the evening I come:
No matter what beauties I saw in my way:
They were but my visits; but thou art my home.
Then finish, dear Cloe, this pastoral war;
And let us like Horace and Lydia agree:
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her
As he was a poet sublimer than me.
poem by Matthew Prior
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To Chloe Jealous
Dear Chloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face;
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd:
Prythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says)
Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.
How canst thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy
The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping?
Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy:
More ord'nary eyes may serve people for weeping.
To be vext at a trifle or two that I writ,
Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong:
You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit:
Odds life! must one swear to the truth of a song?
What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows
The diff'rence there is betwixt nature and art:
I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose:
And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.
The god of us verse-men (you know, child) the Sun,
How after his journeys he sets up his rest:
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run;
At night he declines on his Thetis's breast.
So when I am wearied with wand'ring all day,
To thee my delight in the evening I come:
No matter what beauties I saw in my way;
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.
Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war;
And let us like Horace and Lydia agree:
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her,
As he was a poet sublimer than me.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Beauties You Have Given
LORD you hold my heart in your hand
of my life you're in command.
you've been with me from my birth
teaching and guiding me so that i can see
all the beauties that you have given me.
i turn and look all around
of beauties lost and beauties found.
the beauty of the sunrise in the early hours
the openings of all the flowers.
the smells of the grass ever so green
and everything else in between.
the oceans, the rivers, the mountaintops too
all of this was made by you.
the animals, the plants, and crops galore
is everything that we've been searching for.
we have food to eat and water to drink.
we even have a bathroom sink.
we have roofs over our heads to keep us dry
if off our butts we get up to try.
we see new life spring up every day
in every form and every way.
watching the reflections of the sun upon the waters
and the sands upon the beach
and boys and girls jumping into it
finding a bit of relief
these are just a few of the beauties that i see
and i'm sure that you have seen
just as much as me.
enjoy all the beauties that surround our lives
and if your with the one you love
then it's twice as nice.
poem by Louis Rams
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Preparatory Meditations - First Series: 6.
(Canticles 2:1. The Lily of the Valleys)
Am I Thy gold? Or purse, Lord, for Thy wealth;
Whether in mine or mint refined for Thee?
I'm counted so, but count me o'er Thyself,
Lest gold-washed face, and brass in heart I be.
I fear my touchstone touches when I try
Me, and my counted gold too overly.
Am I new-minted by Thy stamp indeed?
Mine eyes are dim; I cannot clearly see.
Be Thou my spectacles that I may read
Thine image do upon me stand,
I am a golden angel in Thy hand.
Lord, make my soul Thy plate: Thine image bright
Within the circle of the same enfoil.
And on its brims in golden letters write
Thy superscription in an holy style.
Then I shall be Thy money, Thou my hoard:
Let me Thy angel be, be Thou my Lord.
poem by Edward Taylor
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Ladies First
Pamela Purse yelled, 'Ladies first,'
Pushing in front of the ice cream line.
Pamela Purse yelled, 'Ladies first,'
Grabbing the ketchup at dinnertime.
Climbing on the morning bus
She'd shove right by all of us
And there'd be a tiff or a fight or a fuss
When Pamela Purse yelled, 'Ladies first.'
Pamela Purse screamed, 'Ladies first,'
When we went off on our jungle trip.
Pamela Purse said her thirst was worse
And guzzled our water, every sip.
And when we got grabbed by that wild savage band,
Who tied us together and made us all stand
In a long line in front of the King of the land-
A cannibal known as Fry-'Em-Up Dan,
Who sat on his throne in a bib so grand
With a lick of his lips and a fork in his hand,
As he tried to decide who'd be first in the pan-
From back of the line, in that shrill voice of hers,
Pamela Purse yelled, 'Ladies first.'
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Free Style
It was in ninth grade English class
And my teacher was Miss Joan Frank
It was because of her love of poetry,
That I now have her to blame or thank.
Poems came alive in her classroom
As we absorbed Lewis Caroll's whimsy
And many years later I still wonder what
And why, Borogoves are mimsey
We read of an ancient mariner and
The price of what omen's cost.
And stopped to ponder a snowy woods
While his little horse shook off the frost.
I have always preferred poems that rhyme
And although this might sound terse
I never have really understood the style
That is known as 'free verse'.
I and others will use that form
So I don't intend to create a gaffe
But, in the end is not 'Free Verse'
Just a well written paragraph?
poem by Edward Iacona
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Grabby Gabby
Grabby Gabby was a little boy who was talking all the time
One day as he was walking, he saw on the sidewalk a dime
This started him to be grabby
Whenever he saw something shining, he would be grabby
One3 dayas he was walking, he saw a black shining lady's purse
He grabbed it and looked inside and found a lot of money in the purse
Also, he found a driver's license so he knew who the person was who owned the purse
So, he hurried to the ladie's house to return the purse
She was so happy that Grabby Gabby returned to her the purse and money
She gave him a reward of a large amount of money
June 29,2006, Clarence A. Graham, Jr.
poem by Jr. Clarence A. Graham
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A poet who always wrote limericks
Was known as a terrible cleverdick.
They said that her verse
Was sarcastic and terse
Or silly and smart-arsed - you take your pick!
quote by by Janice Windle
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Perverse Poem
................................................. ...........The
diversity in imagination, while fully awake, is but a fractional
inverse of the degree of freedom available to the dreamer. Sadly this
adversely impinges on aspects of creativity. Reason is our
reimbursement for the loss. An ideal state, is to hover magically
immersed in semi-dream, directing the show, yet still believing. But
transverse strictures of habit cast a net by day and bind me to
nursery rhyme simplicity in poetry. Of course, far
worse than dullness would be madness. Yet, there exists between
obverse and reverse maybe, a place where wild plots spring
unrehearsed. Dallying here, my goal would be to
traverse strange terrains with brevity, since the
converse of pedantry is pith. But I'm
submersed in wishful thinking. Time to
purse petulant lips then, and spit
subversive wit knit grit- stop!
Curse this rhyme-riddled mind.
Coerce fixed neurons
averse to change.
Disperse with
terse, taut
verse.
poem by Diane Hine
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Sonnet 74: I Never Drank
I never drank of Aganippe well,
Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit,
And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to swell;
Poor layman I, for sacred rites unfit.
Some do I hear of poets' fury tell,
But (God wot) wot not what they mean by it:
And this I swear by blackest brook of hell,
I am no pick-purse of another's wit.
How fall it then, that with so smooth an ease
My thoughts I speak, and what I speak doth flow
In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please?
Guess we the cause. 'What, it it thus?' Fie, no.
'Or so?' Much less. 'How then?' Sure, thus it is:
My lips are sweet, inspir'd with Stella's kiss.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Ballade of Ultimate Necessity, An Encore - Parody Author Unknown
You ask again, I'm feeling even worse,
again the morning mail has brought more bills,
their influence on mind I find perverse
while work falls kind of outside all my skills.
The sinews stiffen, blood once warm soon chills,
with checkbook cancelled, debts the soul submerse,
one cannot bless these monetary ills,
and therefore compensate with this poor verse.
The times are bleak, I cannot reimburse,
the bank foreclosure cries, with fear instills.
The world’s a stage but aptly who’d rehearse,
though roles are many, all the bitter pills
to swallow when one’s pale about the gills
and grievance nurse from cradle to the hearse
as what is given, - Time takes back and kills –
which we anticipate in further verse.
In days of old when bard could gold disburse,
and magic casements oped on sunny rills,
the happy mind could roam with ample purse,
and feathered nest. ... The flight of fancy fills
a further page for sharpening Life’s quills
before to earth it tumbles with a curse
ere butter melts in mouth, before milk spills.
ENVOI
Time smiles, the sickle rises, then it kills.
The scene, once acted out, none may reverse.
The world spins onwards, careless of Man’s wills, -
I cannot find the will to write more verse!
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Diamond
This diamond, Juliet, will adorn
Ephemeral beauties yet unborn.
While my strong verse, for ever new,
Shall still adorn immortal you.
poem by Hilaire Belloc
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