Town Eclogues: Tuesday; St. James's Coffee-House
SILLIANDER and PATCH.
THOU so many favours hast receiv'd,
Wondrous to tell, and hard to be believ'd,
Oh ! H---- D, to my lays attention lend,
Hear how two lovers boastingly contend ;
Like thee successful, such their bloomy youth,
Renown'd alike for gallantry and truth.
St. JAMES's bell had toll'd some wretches in,
(As tatter'd riding-hoods alone could sin)
The happier sinners now their charms put out,
And to their manteaus their complexions suit :
The opera queens had finish'd half their faces,
And city-dames allready taken places ;
Fops of all kinds to see the Lion, run ;
The beauties stay till the first act's begun,
And beaux step home to put fresh linen on.
No well-dress'd youth in coffee-house remain'd,
But pensive PATCH, who on the window lean'd ;
And SILLIANDER, that alert and gay,
First pick'd his teeth, and then began to say.
SILLIANDER.
Why all these sighs ? ah ! why so pensive grown ?
Some cause there is that thus you sit alone.
Does hapless passion all this sorrow move ?
Or dost thou envy where the ladies love ?
PATCH.
If, whom they love, my envy must pursue,
'Tis sure, at least, I never envy You.
SILLIANDER.
No, I'm unhappy, You are in the right,
'Tis You they favour, and 'tis Me they slight.
Yet I could tell, but that I hate to boast,
A club of ladies where 'tis Me they toast.
PATCH.
Toasting does seldom any favour prove ;
Like us, they never toast the thing they love.
A certain Duke one night my health begun ;
With chearful pledges round the room it run,
Till the young SILVIA press'd to drink it too,
Started, and vow'd she knew not what to do :
What, drink a fellow's health ! she dy'd with shame :
Yet blush'd whenever she pronounc'd my name.
SILLIANDER.
Ill fates pursue me, may I never find
The dice propitious, or the ladies kind,
If fair Miss FLIPPY's fan I did not tear,
And one from me she condescends to wear.
PATCH.
Women are always ready to receive ;
'Tis then a favour when the sex will give.
A lady (but she is too great to name)
Beauteous in person, spotless is her fame,
With gentle strugglings let me force this ring ;
Another day may give another thing.
SILLIANDER.
I cou'd say something -- see this billet-doux --
And as for presents -- look upon my shoe --
These buckles were not forc'd, nor half a theft,
But a young Countess fondly made the gift.
PATCH.
My Countess is more nice, more artful too,
Affects to fly that I may fierce pursue :
This snuff-box which I begg'd, she still deny'd,
And when I strove to snatch it, seem'd to hide ;
She laugh'd and fled, and as I sought to seize,
With affectation cramm'd it down her stays :
Yet hop'd she did not place it there unseen,
I press'd her breasts, and pull'd it from between.
SILLIANDER.
Last night, as I stood ogling of her Grace,
Drinking delicious poison from her face,
The soft enchantress did that face decline,
Nor ever rais'd her eyes to meet with mine ;
With sudden art some secret did pretend,
Lean'd cross two chairs to whisper to a friend,
While the stiff whalebone with the motion rose,
And thousand beauties to my sight expose.
PATCH.
Early this morn -- (but I was ask'd to come)
I drank bohea in CÆLIA's dressing-room :
Warm from her bed, to me alone within,
Her night-gown fasten'd with a single pin ;
Her night-cloaths tumbled with resistless grace,
And her bright hair play'd careless round her face ;
Reaching the kettle, made her gown unpin,
She wore no waistcoat, and her shift was thin.
SILLIANDER.
See TITIANA driving to the park,
Hark ! let us follow, 'tis not yet too dark ;
In her all beauties of the spring are seen,
Her cheeks are rosy, and her mantle green.
PATCH.
See, TINTORETTA to the opera goes !
Haste, or the crowd will not permit our bows ;
In her the glory of the heav'ns we view,
Her eyes are star-like, and her mantle blue.
SILLIANDER.
What colour does in CÆLIA's stockings shine ?
Reveal that secret, and the prize is thine.
PATCH.
What are her garters ! tell me if you can ;
I'll freely own thee for the happier man.
Thus PATCH continued his heroic strain,
While SILLIANDER but contends in vain.
After a conquest so important gain'd,
Unrival'd PATCH in ev'ry ruelle reign'd.
poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Tuesday, St. James's Coffee-House
SILLIANDER and PATCH.
THOU so many favours hast receiv'd,
Wondrous to tell, and hard to be believ'd,
Oh ! H---- D, to my lays attention lend,
Hear how two lovers boastingly contend ;
Like thee successful, such their bloomy youth,
Renown'd alike for gallantry and truth.
St. JAMES's bell had toll'd some wretches in,
(As tatter'd riding-hoods alone could sin)
The happier sinners now their charms put out,
And to their manteaus their complexions suit:
The opera queens had finish'd half their faces,
And city-dames allready taken places;
Fops of all kinds to see the Lion, run;
The beauties stay till the first act's begun,
And beaux step home to put fresh linen on.
No well-dress'd youth in coffee-house remain'd,
But pensive PATCH, who on the window lean'd;
And SILLIANDER, that alert and gay,
First pick'd his teeth, and then began to say.
SILLIANDER.
Why all these sighs? ah! why so pensive grown?
Some cause there is that thus you sit alone.
Does is her fame,
With gentle strugglings let me force this ring ;
Another day may give another thing.
SILLIANDER.
I cou'd say something -- see this billet-doux --
And as for presents -- look upon my shoe --
These buckles were not forc'd, nor half a theft,
But a young Countess fondly made the gift.
PATCH.
My Countess is more nice, more artful too,
Affects to fly that I may fierce pursue :
This snuff-box which I begg'd, she still deny'd,
And when I strove to snatch it, seem'd to hide ;
She laugh'd and fled, and as I sought to seize,
With affectation cramm'd it down her stays :
Yet hop'd she did not place it there unseen,
I press'd her breasts, and pull'd it from between.
SILLIANDER.
Last night, as I stood ogling of her Grace,
Drinking delicious poison from her face,
The soft enchantress did that face decline,
Nor ever rais'd her eyes to meet with mine ;
With sudden art some secret did pretend,
Lean'd cross two chairs to whisper to a friend,
While the stiff whalebone with the motion rose,
And thousand beauties to my sight expose.
PATCH.
Early this morn -- (but I was ask'd to come)
I drank bohea in CÆLIA's dressing-room :
Warm from her bed, to me alone within,
Her night-gown fasten'd with a single pin ;
Her night-cloaths tumbled with resistless grace,
And her bright hair play'd careless round her face ;
Reaching the kettle, made her gown unpin,
She wore no waistcoat, and her shift was thin.
SILLIANDER.
See TITIANA driving to the park,
Hark ! let us follow, 'tis not yet too dark ;
In her all beauties of the spring are seen,
Her cheeks are rosy, and her mantle green.
PATCH.
See, TINTORETTA to the opera goes!
Haste, or the crowd will not permit our bows ;
In her the glory of the heav'ns we view,
Her eyes are star-like, and her mantle blue.
SILLIANDER.
What colour does in CÆLIA's stockings shine?
Reveal that secret, and the prize is thine.
PATCH.
What are her garters ! tell me if you can;
I'll freely own thee for the happier man.
Thus PATCH continued his heroic strain,
While SILLIANDER but contends in vain.
After a conquest so important gain'd,
Unrival'd PATCH in ev'ry ruelle reign'd.
poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Where Did You Sleep Last Night? (live)
My girl, my girl
Don't lie to me
Tell me where did you sleep last night
In a patch, in a patch
Where the sun never shines
And my body shivered all night
My girl, my girl
Don't lie to me
Tell me where did you sleep last night
In a patch, in a patch
Where the sun never shines
And my body shivered all night
Her husband was a hard working man
Killed a mile and a half from here
His head was found on a driving wheel
And his body never was found
My girl, my girl
Don't lie to me
Tell me where did you sleep last night
In a patch, in a patch
Where the sun never shines
My body shivered all night
My girl, my girl
Where will you go
To a place where the cold wind blows
To a patch, to a patch
Where the sun never shines
And my body shivers all night
My girl, my girl
Don't lie to me
Tell me where did you sleep last night
In a patch, in a patch
Where the sun never shines
And my body shivered all night
song performed by by Hole
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Patch It Up
(words & music by eddie rabbit - rory bourke)
Weve got to patch it up baby
Before we fall apart at the seams
Weve got to patch it up baby
In the time we travel in our dreams
Lets go back and test it again
One more ride is all I ask
Get that feelin, that old feelin, it is here
We can patch it up baby,
We can patch it up baby,
We can patch it up baby,
Patch it up with all our dreams
We can patch it up baby,
Sweep out all the trouble of our heart
Weve got to patch it up baby,
Before our difference pulls us apart
Lets go where the good luck lies
Let us give it one more try
Do you feel it? that old feelin?
Do you feel it?
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Patch Of Blue
Clouds and fog in my sight,
Waiting for the sun.
Hope to see a patch of blue
Making the scene all right.
The troublesome thing that bothers me
is knowing the sun is there.
It’s behind the clouds and fog I see
And a glimpse beyond compare
is a tiny patch of blue
suspended in mid air.
Let that patch of blue become
larger in its size.
Allow it to soothe my eyes.
I need its color to intensify
on every brand new day.
I need it to burn the grayness
and send it on its way.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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After 60, it's just patch, patch, patch.
quote by Mary Martin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wattlebirds Kept Busy All The Day
The wattlebirds kept busy all the day
From flowering gum trees chasing them away
But wattlebirds though big are not so fleet
And they can't catch purple crowned lorikeet.
Green neck and back and shoulder patch green brown
And reddish face and purple patch on crown
And orange patch on neck and undersides light blue
They live in small flocks as most small lories do.
These lorikeets in many places rare
But in You Yangs park one sees them everywhere
They feed in groups and fly from tree to tree
And make much noise and prove quite hard to see.
Gregarious birds they spend their daylight hours
Taking nectar from the eucalyptus flowers
And wattlebirds kept busy all the day
From flowering gum trees chasing them away.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Bathroom Barber
I'm not a bathroom barber I've learned
gave myself a hair cut with my own two hands.
When all of a sudden I heard a loud noise
which took my mind off what hair to cut I had.
Then SNIP, it went off my head!
a large patch bald of hair is missing.
The dog looked at me puzzled and barked
and the cat raised her back and was hissing!
I must admit I looked a fright
with that large patch of missing hair.
When I got up nerve to look in the mirror
I even gave myself a scare!
I was only trying to save a buck
and give myself what looked to be so easy.
But with this patch of hair now missing
my head feels a bit more breezy.
I guess I'll have to spend the money
go to someone, where to them it isn't harder.
And never again will I pretend, to be a Bathroom Barber!
poem by Linda Winchell
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An Inky Octopus Gripping Evil
evil never sleeps
evil owns the night
evil owns the day
evil walks day proud
owning many properties
wall street stock options
evil owns the night
owns secrets in the night
owns secrets sold by night
in many purchased places
evil has its patch
evil has many patches
an evil patch for every trade
evil buries innocence with a spade
an evil patch may be but
a few fought over city blocks
syndicated global patches
are octopus evil tentacles
some evil patches
are bigger spread
than many countries
evil marries drugs
makes mega money
addicts inject honey
drug withdrawal cold turkey
evil error terminates abruptly
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Sometimes you slept
Sometimes you slept with your head
right on my chest,
with your soft hairs
spread like a patch of grass
or auburn flowers
and I could see
your tender nostrils shivering
and felt your heart beating
while you clasped
my right hand
on your breast
against a big
half aroused nipple
and the whiteness of your skin,
the soft perplexity of it
the warm patch of your womanhood,
the frailty of you against me
made me feel
as if I could shelter you
against the thundering
waves of life
that was knocking against us.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Ch 03 On The Excellence Of Contentment Story 03
I heard that a dervish, burning in the fire of poverty and sewing patch upon patch, said to comfort his mind:
‘We are contented with dry bread and a patched robe
For it is easier to bear the load of one’s own trouble
than that of thanks to others.’
Someone said to him: ‘Why sittest thou? A certain man in this town possesses a benevolent nature, is liberal to all, has girded his loins to serve the pious and is ready to comfort every heart. If he becomes aware of thy case, he will consider it an obligation to comfort the mind of a worthy person.’ He replied: ‘Hush! It is better to die of inanition than to plead for one’s necessities before any man.’
It is better to patch clothes and sit in the corner of patience
Than to write petitions for robes to gentlemen.
Verily it is equal to the punishment of hell
To go to paradise as a flunkey to one’s neighbour.
Saturday, the Small-Pox
FLAVIA.
The wretched FLAVIA on her couch reclin'd,
Thus breath'd the anguish of a wounded mind ;
A glass revers'd in her right hand she bore,
For now she shun'd the face she sought before.
'How am I chang'd ! alas ! how am I grown
'A frightful spectre, to myself unknown !
'Where's my Complexion ? where the radiant Bloom,
'That promis'd happiness for Years to come ?
'Then with what pleasure I this face survey'd !
'To look once more, my visits oft delay'd !
'Charm'd with the view, a fresher red would rise,
'And a new life shot sparkling from my eyes !
'Ah ! faithless glass, my wonted bloom restore;
'Alas ! I rave, that bloom is now no more !
'The greatest good the GODS on men bestow,
'Ev'n youth itself, to me is useless now.
'There was a time, (oh ! that I could forget !)
'When opera-tickets pour'd before my feet ;
'And at the ring, where brightest beauties shine,
'The earliest cherries of the spring were mine.
'Witness, O Lilly ; and thou, Motteux, tell
'How much Japan these eyes have made ye sell.
'With what contempt ye you saw me oft despise
'The humble offer of the raffled prize ;
'For at the raffle still the prize I bore,
'With scorn rejected, or with triumph wore !
' Now beauty's fled, and presents are no more !
'For me the Patriot has the house forsook,
'And left debates to catch a passing look :
'For me the Soldier has soft verses writ ;
'For me the Beau has aim'd to be a Wit.
'For me the Wit to nonsense was betray'd ;
'The Gamester has for me his dun delay'd,
'And overseen the card, I would have play'd.
'The bold and haughty by success made vain,
'Aw'd by my eyes has trembled to complain:
'The bashful 'squire touch'd by a wish unknown,
'Has dar'd to speak with spirit not his own ;
'Fir'd by one wish, all did alike adore ;
'Now beauty's fled, and lovers are no more!
'As round the room I turn my weeping eyes,
'New unaffected scenes of sorrow rise !
'Far from my sight that killing picture bear,
'The face disfigure, and the canvas tear !
'That picture which with pride I us'd to show,
'The lost resemblance but upbraids me now.
'And thou, my toilette! where I oft have sat,
'While hours unheeded pass'd in deep debate,
'How curls should fall, or where a patch to place :
'If blue or scarlet best became my face;
'Now on some happier nymph thy aid bestow ;
'On fairer heads, ye useless jewels glow !
'No borrow'd lustre can my charms restore ;
'Beauty is fled, and dress is now no more !
'Ye meaner beauties, I permit ye shine ;
'Go, triumph in the hearts that once were mine ;
'But midst your triumphs with confusion know,
''Tis to my ruin all your arms ye owe.
'Would pitying Heav'n restore my wonted mien,
'Ye still might move unthought-of and unseen.
'But oh ! how vain, how wretched is the boast
'Of beauty faded, and of empire lost !
'What now is left but weeping, to deplore
'My beauty fled, and empire now no more !
'Ye, cruel Chymists, what with-held your aid !
'Could no pomatums save a trembling maid ?
'How false and trifling is that art you boast ;
'No art can give me back my beauty lost.
'In tears, surrounded by my friends I lay,
'Mask'd o'er and trembled at the sight of day;
'MIRMILLO came my fortune to deplore,
'(A golden headed cane, well carv'd he bore)
'Cordials, he cried, my spirits must restore :
'Beauty is fled, and spirit is no more !
'GALEN, the grave ; officious SQUIRT was there,
'With fruitless grief and unavailing care :
'MACHAON too, the great MACHAON, known
'By his red cloak and his superior frown ;
'And why, he cry'd, this grief and this despair ?
'You shall again be well, again be fair ;
'Believe my oath; (with that an oath he swore)
'False was his oath; my beauty is no more!
'Cease, hapless maid, no more thy tale pursue,
'Forsake mankind, and bid the world adieu !
'Monarchs and beauties rule with equal sway ;
'All strive to serve, and glory to obey :
'Alike unpitied when depos'd they grow ;
'Men mock the idol of their former vow.
'Adieu ! ye parks ! -- in some obscure recess,
'Where gentle streams will weep at my distress,
'Where no false friend will in my grief take part,
'And mourn my ruin with a joyful heart ;
'There let me live in some deserted place,
'There hide in shades this lost inglorious face.
'Ye, operas, circles, I no more must view !
'My toilette, patches, all the world adieu!
poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Town Eclogues: Saturday; The Small-Pox
FLAVIA.
THE wretched FLAVIA on her couch reclin'd,
Thus breath'd the anguish of a wounded mind ;
A glass revers'd in her right hand she bore,
For now she shun'd the face she sought before.
' How am I chang'd ! alas ! how am I grown
' A frightful spectre, to myself unknown !
' Where's my Complexion ? where the radiant Bloom,
' That promis'd happiness for Years to come ?
' Then with what pleasure I this face survey'd !
' To look once more, my visits oft delay'd !
' Charm'd with the view, a fresher red would rise,
' And a new life shot sparkling from my eyes !
' Ah ! faithless glass, my wonted bloom restore;
' Alas ! I rave, that bloom is now no more !
' The greatest good the GODS on men bestow,
' Ev'n youth itself, to me is useless now.
' There was a time, (oh ! that I could forget !)
' When opera-tickets pour'd before my feet ;
' And at the ring, where brightest beauties shine,
' The earliest cherries of the spring were mine.
' Witness, O Lilly ; and thou, Motteux, tell
' How much Japan these eyes have made ye sell.
' With what contempt ye you saw me oft despise
' The humble offer of the raffled prize ;
' For at the raffle still the prize I bore,
' With scorn rejected, or with triumph wore !
' Now beauty's fled, and presents are no more !
' For me the Patriot has the house forsook,
' And left debates to catch a passing look :
' For me the Soldier has soft verses writ ;
' For me the Beau has aim'd to be a Wit.
' For me the Wit to nonsense was betray'd ;
' The Gamester has for me his dun delay'd,
' And overseen the card, I would have play'd.
' The bold and haughty by success made vain,
' Aw'd by my eyes has trembled to complain:
' The bashful 'squire touch'd by a wish unknown,
' Has dar'd to speak with spirit not his own ;
' Fir'd by one wish, all did alike adore ;
' Now beauty's fled, and lovers are no more!
' As round the room I turn my weeping eyes,
' New unaffected scenes of sorrow rise !
' Far from my sight that killing picture bear,
' The face disfigure, and the canvas tear !
' That picture which with pride I us'd to show,
' The lost resemblance but upbraids me now.
' And thou, my toilette! where I oft have sat,
' While hours unheeded pass'd in deep debate,
' How curls should fall, or where a patch to place :
' If blue or scarlet best became my face;
' Now on some happier nymph thy aid bestow ;
' On fairer heads, ye useless jewels glow !
' No borrow'd lustre can my charms restore ;
' Beauty is fled, and dress is now no more !
' Ye meaner beauties, I permit ye shine ;
' Go, triumph in the hearts that once were mine ;
' But midst your triumphs with confusion know,
' 'Tis to my ruin all your arms ye owe.
' Would pitying Heav'n restore my wonted mien,
' Ye still might move unthought-of and unseen.
' But oh ! how vain, how wretched is the boast
' Of beauty faded, and of empire lost !
' What now is left but weeping, to deplore
' My beauty fled, and empire now no more !
' Ye, cruel Chymists, what with-held your aid !
' Could no pomatums save a trembling maid ?
' How false and trifling is that art you boast ;
' No art can give me back my beauty lost.
' In tears, surrounded by my friends I lay,
' Mask'd o'er and trembled at the sight of day;
' MIRMILLO came my fortune to deplore,
' (A golden headed cane, well carv'd he bore)
' Cordials, he cried, my spirits must restore :
' Beauty is fled, and spirit is no more !
' GALEN, the grave ; officious SQUIRT was there,
' With fruitless grief and unavailing care :
' MACHAON too, the great MACHAON, known
' By his red cloak and his superior frown ;
' And why, he cry'd, this grief and this despair ?
' You shall again be well, again be fair ;
' Believe my oath ; (with that an oath he swore)
' False was his oath ; my beauty is no more !
' Cease, hapless maid, no more thy tale pursue,
' Forsake mankind, and bid the world adieu !
' Monarchs and beauties rule with equal sway ;
' All strive to serve, and glory to obey :
' Alike unpitied when depos'd they grow ;
' Men mock the idol of their former vow.
' Adieu ! ye parks ! -- in some obscure recess,
' Where gentle streams will weep at my distress,
' Where no false friend will in my grief take part,
' And mourn my ruin with a joyful heart ;
' There let me live in some deserted place,
' There hide in shades this lost inglorious face.
' Ye, operas, circles, I no more must view !
' My toilette, patches, all the world adieu!
poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Your Simple Dream
you have traveled far
and studied in different
universities and these
did not really make you
happy,
your dream is so simple
as having to caress
a shoulder
brown and wide
enough to fill
your emptiness,
and tonight you fulfill
said dream
your palms land
on the patch of your
simplest dream
to love and
simply be loved in return
and your eyes look
with such a lovely blink
like a dim light
of the bulb teasing
the walls and the ceiling
and the window
and doors now all
shut because of you
they must die in
envy with you
and you let love
swim in your swamps
fly in your clouds
and walk on your
mountains
you let all the birds
sing and the earthworms
burrow
there is no patch in
you that is lacking
each is full and filled
with scent and color
and texture
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Multitrack Suggestion
Years passing by
Vco
Vca
And again
And again
Years passing by
Let her go
Let her stay
In the memorys place
Gets a machine
Vco
Vca
Get the tape
Get the bass
100 + one
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Patch bay, patch bay
Eq low cut
Free post
Frequency 1000
La da, da, da
Vco
Vca
In the memorys place
We let them pay
Vco
Vca
I am no techno-guy
The live ...
100 + one
Multitrack
Patch bay, patch bay
Eq low cut
Free post
Multitrack suggestion
Multitrack suggestion
Multitrack suggestion
Multitrack suggestion
Multitrack suggestion
Multitrack suggestion
Multitrack suggestion
Multitrack suggestion
Multitrack suggestion
Multitrack suggestion
Multitrack suggestion
Suggestion
Suggestion
Suggestion
Suggestion
Suggestion
Suggestion
Suggestion
Suggestion
Suggestion
song performed by by Vangelis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sell Me A Coat
La la la la la la la la la la la la la
A winters day, a bitter snowflake on my face
My summer girl takes little backward steps away
Jack frost took her hand and left me, jack frost aint so cool
Sell me a coat with buttons of silver
Sell me a coat thats red or gold
Sell me a coat with little patch pockets
Sell me a coat cause I feel cold
And when she smiles, the ice forgets to melt away
Not like before, her smile was warming yesterday
See the trees like silver candy, feel my icy hand
Sell me a coat with buttons of silver
Sell me a coat thats red or gold
Sell me a coat with little patch pockets
Sell me a coat cause I feel cold
See my eyes, my window pane
See my tears like gentle rain
Thats the memory of a summer day
Sell me a coat with buttons of silver
Sell me a coat thats red or gold
Sell me a coat with little patch pockets
Sell me a coat cause I feel cold
Sell me a coat with buttons of silver
Sell me a coat thats red or gold
Sell me a coat with little patch pockets
Sell me a coat cause I feel cold
La la la la la la
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Autumn Changes
This love of ours is gradually fading
Something is wrong, or somebodys faking
Autumn changes
Shifting phases
Autumn changes
Turning stages
Surely something can help to patch it up
Too many nights sitting here waiting
Too many days hoping and praying
Something inside seems to be dying
Most of the time I just feel like crying
Autumn changes
Shifting phases
Autumn changes
Turning stages
Surely something can help to patch it up
Oh yes we can, sure we can
Sure we can, sure we can
Autumn changes
Shifting phases
Autumn changes
Turning stages
Surely something can help to patch it up
Oh, yes we can, sure we can
Sure we can, sure we can
song performed by by Donna Summer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fengshui
there are some places
that inspire forlorness
a coldness that reminds
me of a patch of old snow
nobody has stepped on
but has turned yellow,
collecting grime
from polluted wind
there are some places
that has dirty fengshui
the land of which luck
spreads out like a man's body
the land that rests on a luck head
collects all the fortune
the part that rests on the bottom
that expels filth
collects all the grime, muck,
you go into the pit of misfortune
inspired by
A Patch of Old Snow
There's a patch of old snow in a corner
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.
It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I've forgotten -
If I ever read it.
Robert Frost
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Hazy Shade Of Winter
Time, time, time
See what's become of me...
Time, time, time
See what's become of me
While I looked around
For my possibilities
I was so hard to please
Look around
Leaves are brown
And the sky
Is a Hazy Shade of Winter
Hear the Salvation Army Band
Down by the riverside
It's bound to be a better ride
Than what you've got planned
Carry a cup in your hand
Look around
Leaves are brown
And the sky
Is a Hazy Shade of Winter
Hang onto your hopes my friend
That's an easy thing to say
But if your hopes should pass away
Simply pretend
That you can build them again
Look around
Grass is high
Fields are ripe
It's the springtime of my life
Seasons change with their scenery
Weaving time in a tapestry
Won't you stop and remember me
Look around
Leaves are brown
And the sky
Is a Hazy Shade of Winter
Look around
Leaves are brown
There's a patch of snow on the ground
Look around
Leaves are brown
There's a patch of snow on the ground
Look around
Leaves are brown
There's a patch of snow on the ground
song performed by by Bangles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Patches
Mother focused with a frown
The part of me where I sit down.
Said she: "Your pants are wearing through;
Let me sew on a patch for you."
And so she did,--of azure blue.
My britches were of sober grey,
And when I went to school next day,
The fellows said: "Excuse our smile:
We saw your patch 'way off a mile."
Said I: "Sure, it's the latest style."
So each boy asked his Ma to match
With bluer blue my super-patch,
And when to school they came en masse,
It was the emblem of our class,
Admired by every bonnie lass.
Now when I'm old and in my dotage,
I hope I'll have a humble cottage,
And sit me by a hive of bees,
A patchwork quilt accross my knees,
Warming my worn hands in the sun,
All ropey with the work they've done.
The work they've done to give me this
Brief bit of comfort, ease and bliss;
My pathway edged with cockle shells,
And bright with Canterbury bells,
That leads to where my humble thatch is,
It, too, adorned with straw-bright patches.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Depression and Black dog
She rises from bed and stares
out the window. Another day.
No new horizons. Why do
people talk such crap, she muses,
senses the hangover bite in.
He said it was just a sex thing,
no strings, see what a new
tomorrow brings. Her mother
had this thing about what the
neighbours said, how things
looked from another's perspective.
There is a damp patch where
her hand has touched, blood,
bright red. She sees him or rather
his outline in the dark of the night
before. All ten minutes of excitement,
a two-bit joy. Her hand runs over
the patch, feels the stickiness.
Depression digs in its feet, plunges
in its dark claws, rips through her
sense of being, sees the outside
city, no real care, no pity, just what
is she seeing? Shadows and outlines,
people, cars, streets, sun, clouds,
business out there. She wants her
mother back, the loss of all those
years ago, lingering in the back of
her mind and center of her heart.
Depression and the black dog tear
All things and love and life apart.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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