Tony Hoagland
and yes even the photo
on the back cover
as if he’d gone to the studio,
said, I’ve written this book
of seriously funnily serious verse so
make me into a randy curate
in a dropped-trouser farce
or OK like a real cleric then
looking sideways over his spectacles
as he drops a wicked line in his sermon
and the packed front pews of ladies
of a certain uncertain age
quiver with a well-dressed lust,
and yes, highlight my bald dome,
I liked the Dr Doolittle stories didn’t you,
and that hair like a classroom demo
of iron filings standing to attention on
a ball magnet, or if we’re trying
to match his humour, you noticed then,
since this is a covert fan-letter disguised
as a don’t miss - his hair peeping over the dome
like that moment in a film when
a double-page spread of Indians suddenly
appear over the brow of the wide-screen hill
while inside the book, just as you laugh at the wit
he’s moved on to serious, and the tears of things
and you think this is how to be
American and triumph over being
me I’d just like to go up after a reading
and sincere sincere and straightfaced fan-style
say to him, when I read you hear you
I wonder if poets aren’t the how shall I
put it, unacknowledged legislators of
mankind if you see what I mean...?
and we’d do as many double-takes
as it takes because
to him, I’d mean it.
How close laughter can be to tears.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Double Wide Paradise
(paul thorn/billy maddox)
I dont want to cry
I dont want to walk the floor
This mobile home
Dont feel like home no more
Since you left tell me what else can I do
Just come back home
Forgive me and forget it
This bed I made
Im tired of sleepin in it
Its freezin cold, and baby that aint cool
Im waitin on you
Here at the ponderosa trailer park
There wasnt nothin that could keep us apart
Then I broke your heart, in our
Double wide, double wide, double wide paradise
Come on back to our double wide paradise
Double wide, double wide paradise
I bought a swimmin pool
From the man at sears
He put it together
I filled it up with tears
Cant find no happiness no matter what I do
Just cause I got
The treasures of the world
It dont mean nothin
If I aint got you girl
Inside my castle
I got the king size blues
Im waitin on you
So baby when you get to feelin alone
You know I always leave my porch light on
So you can come back home, to our
Double wide, double wide, double wide paradise
Come on back to our double wide paradise
Double wide, double wide paradise
We can have a second honeymoon
Well throw some ribs on the barbecue
Just like we used to do
Double wide, double wide, double wide paradise
Come on back to our double wide paradise
Double wide, double wide paradise
song performed by by Toby Keith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Ode to Baldness
Heads that shine are “oh so fine”
And mostly trouble free
No hair to fly when wind is high
They’re always slick and neat
No hairspray or Brylcreem to buy
No brushes or pocket combs
And many ladies, I’ve heard it said,
Are fond of the old chrome dome
That must be why so many these days
Full heads of hair will shave
But, you can’t shave hair that isn’t there
I got mine the natural way
Now, you men of poetic métier
Whose hair has taken leave
Just write a verse if you’d care to link
With the bald headed poets’ league
Copyright C R Clark-3/2/2008
poem by C.R. Clark
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Middle Class In Algarve
Middle Class Retirees. (Algarve)
When she gets up her husband has gone to the golf course, she drinks
a cup of weak tea and has a toast without butter. Then the grooming
begins it takes hours, hair, nails the right dress to choose, takes time;
after all she is going to meet the other ladies and they are a critical lot.
She drives her white Mercedes and tries to park as close as possible
near the café, when she enter there are kisses, big smiles and furtive
looks how the other ladies are dressed, colour combination and so on.
They all have long decorated nails this indicated they have a maid to
do the dishes; they chat is about film stars and others in the news and
how they dress. The ladies eat cream cakes and forget for a moment
about dieting. This séance last about two hours and is the highlight of
ladies day. She drives home, changes her frock, makes a meal for her
hubby just home and suntanned from his golfing, and tells him to take
a shower since they are going to an art exhibition at eight.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Storyteller's Word
In a decent book, I can lose myself,
For, at least, a good couple of hours.
A well told story, for young or old,
My mind will quite hungrily devour.
I’ve always loved a real page turner:
A story, which, is totally compelling.
Sometimes, there’s a story, true or invented,
Which, simply, deserves, and needs telling.
Sometimes, a person in a book,
To me, can feel like a true friend;
You share their life and adventures,
And feel rather sad, when it all ends.
A story can stir up a mixture of emotions:
I’ve cried tears, and gasped with surprise.
I’ve found myself completely captivated,
As a story unfolds before my very eyes.
A good story, has the ability to transport you,
To different places, and to different times.
You just never know where you may end up,
When you sit and read those immortal lines.
Stories should never be kept locked away:
With others, they should be readily shared.
There is no other past-time, known to man,
With which, reading a book, can quite compare.
Whether a story is based on a person’s life,
Or whether, it has been quite purely invented,
A story can make such an impact upon you,
That, forever, in your memory, it is cemented.
I’ve always adored a really well written story,
Regardless of, by whom, or when, it was written.
Snuggled up, with a book held in your hands,
It is so easy, to become completely smitten.
A story can make you lose all track of time,
When, in a book, you are totally immersed.
I love reading a story, and really drinking it in;
For reading books, I’ve developed a real thirst.
There are many stories, the world over,
Which, are still waiting to be heard.
Nothing on earth, is quite so powerful,
As the power of the storyteller’s word.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Grand-stranding
With little success at hair retention
I've one strand left of small dimension
Scalped this way, I'm not enthralled
One-stranded now, I'm follicle-y bald
It's hair raising to feel alone and bereft
Deserted by all it's brothers who left
This ordeal has the hair standing there pining
Atop my bald scalp, so hairless-ly shining
The lonesome strand just keeps on grieving
Missing its mates, since their mass leaving
So soulful and sad, it can't seem to find
On the scalp of this lad, a hair-piece of mind
My dome once covered with hair-filled density
Has no foreseeable future-tense-ity
For so loyally standing hair-ly at hand
I'll always be grateful to that one last grand strand
poem by Stanley Cooper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Is She In Love?
Is she in love with you
or what? Reynard said
indicating across
at the girl
at the other side
of the classroom
every time I look up
she's peering over
here like some hawk
after prey
he added
and you guessed
she was
but didn't say
to Reynard
who thought
all thoughts on love
were dumb
or should be left
between pages
of Shakespeare
or Keats
or maybe just
a cover word for
a fumble behind
bike sheds or woods
maybe she just likes
the way I comb my hair
you replied
looking down
at the science book
open on the desk
and by the way
he said
how much grease
you got on your hair
you look like
you fell in the darn jar?
Tooley the science teacher
looked your way
and Reynard clamped up
and began writing
in his book
and in between
scribbling words
in the exercise book
you glanced over at her
and took in her eyes
and that smile of hers
and smiled kind of
weakly back
and she mouthed
something to you
her lips making odd shapes
like some fish
out of water
and you tried to lip read
but it didn't make sense
so you just nodded
and hoped you'd not agreed
to anything
that her scary mother
wouldn't agree to
and then looked away
back to the science book
and life dull
and uninteresting books
full of boring questions
and Tooley at front
of the class
writing on the board
her fat ass moving
as she wrote
like some aging stripper
on her last show
and outside
the window
grey clouds
carrying
heavy snow.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Something Undeniable
As the Gospel Crusade was advertised far and wide,
A great number was expected to hear this fiery preacher,
The tent was erected and the lights were installed,
Then the seats were set up row upon row...
The choir rehearsed for half-an-hour
And a few Church stewards arrived
And a few local ministers followed suit,
Soon a prayer meeting began with many requests,
Healings, prophecies, words of knowledge,
A sincere hope the offering would cover the costs...
A guest pianist arrived, complaining about the weather,
A few going outside to see the thunder streaks above,
Some fretting about low attendance and the lost souls,
Others fretting about the offering even now...
Suddenly, the fiery preacher arrived and spirits rallied,
He moved among them like a politician full of smiles,
He shook hands here, there and everywhere,
Recognising ministers, calling them near to him,
Huddling together like generals going into battle...
Laughing away like schoolboys, chuckling at anecdotes,
Spellbound by reports of new miracles God had given,
Praising the Lord this and praising the Lord that,
With hands held high proclaiming God's glory...
Then the guest came over and it was his turn to join in,
With stories of his own miracles to bless them with,
Oh, they were thrilled, like it was their birthdays,
All clustered side-by-side, trying to take it all in,
Hoping to share the tales when returning home...
The sweet hymns played soothingly in the background,
Yet not one singer dared to interrupt them,
But then the visitors were seen gathering outside,
Too timid to enter the Gospel Crusade tent...
Quick as a flash, the fiery preacher was there,
Gently inviting each one inside where it was warm and dry,
Within seconds, a few rows at the front were filled,
A quick nod to the choir and they lit up like sunshine,
Faces aglow, hymnbooks held high, voices of angels,
Yes, it was truly beautiful to see and to hear them,
With white robes as wondrous witnesses to the Lord...
More visitors had arrived, this time, a coach load full,
Some visitors just standing in awe, taking it all in,
While some noticed a few tables laid out with books,
And wondrous books they were, pure gold, to be sure...
Really, Holy Bibles for just a few pounds, amazing!
Yet there they were, a special purchase for this evening,
Some illustrated children's Bibles, too, for those at home
And surprisingly, some Gospel films, DVDs and videos,
Truly a feast of faithful things for later study...
All too soon, the fiery preacher stood up and prayed,
The tent completely full, as if predestined to occur,
The lightning replaced by the preacher's sermon,
Then he began reading a poem he had written that day...
It was so moving to him that he struggled to read it,
All about Jesus, dying on the Cross, as if just for him...
And not even half-way through, his tears began...
Nobody had ever seen him like this before, this was new,
This was real, so real, that the front rows began to weep,
So real that the next few rows began to weep, too...
Handkerchieves came out of gentlemen's top pockets,
Ladies found tissues from their Sunday-best handbags,
Reporters took camera shots of the teary-eyed preacher,
Then the crowd, then the stewards and local ministers,
Then the reporters began to weep, heads bowed...
The fiery preacher sat down and his friend read the poem,
All the while, the preacher nodding his head in agreement
And at the finish of his poem, he stood up and prayed...
He prayed a prayer that would make a cynic repent...
Then he asked people if they loved Jesus as he did...
Did they? Oh, yes, for such was the revelation that night,
Not just words on a page, or the teardrops falling there,
Not just the sermon that sacred night just for them,
But something else, something truly of the Spirit,
Something undeniable that no-one would ever forget...
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Are You Sincere?
The words you said to me,
you repeat to someone new.
You say the things I want to hear,
but are you sincere?
I sit alone and wonder,
if your words are meant for me,
that I am the only one that you hold dear.
However, my mind keeps nagging, are you sincere?
Friends tell me stories about you,
I do not want to believe.
You just say the words are all lies.
In my mind the questions still arise, are you sincere?
I find the back door open,
when I come home at night.
You say you left it open in a state of fear.
As I close and lock it I wonder, are you sincere?
(12 June 2007)
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Black And White World
I was looking at the black and white world
it seemed so exciting
if you'd only put me back to back with that girl
when the night's inviting
with just a little lighting
there'll never be days like that again
when I was just a boy and men were men
you'd never go from moment to moment
you're the living double of a single fiction
you're the very colour poets compliment
cause you feel the fingers friction
it's a freeze frame, still it's real life
you don't want to look
cause you've seen the film and read the book
I was looking at the black and white world
trying to name some pin-up
in those days she was just a beautiful girl
now she's framed and hung up
I thought she was younger until
I saw her last night in close detail
though they all fade away when you're so pale
it's more than just a physical attraction
starts with a face and ends up a fixation
but you're never going to feel a fraction
the way it used to work on your imagination
when you were looking at a black and white world
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
A Confession
Her heart an open book
Easy to read
Emotions bald for all to observe
A confession to the one
Who denied her soul
As she read his text
Weigh heavy on chest
Squeezing the life from her faint heart
He could not read between the lines
How sincere her words
Until it was too late
Reading the diaries of a broken heart
poem by Persian Khushi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Lake Worth Herald
The Lake Worth Herald records events in Lake Worth town
Mark Easton works hard making sure Lake Worth Herald paper gets out.
It's Wednesday afternoon and the printing press is running
all of Mark's stories are real life, serious and also funny.
The Lake Worth Library had an article on me
with UniCandle unicorn and doll Melodie.
It was November 2006 and I was on
Lake Worth Herald's cover page
sitting on birthday chair where
children celebrate their age.
Lake Worth Herald is printing
my new poetry book
-the one you are reading-
soon also on the Nook.
Mark was gracious and helped get my book right
he is friendly and easy to work with editing my book
to make it out of sight!
For it has a glow in the dark cover
it is different not like any other.
Thanks Mark for your kindness in working with me
it was a pleasure working with you and also a
"Thank You" from my doll on the front cover Melodie!
Written by Suzae Chevalier on March 10,2012
poem by Christina Sunrise
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Just The Way It Is....
this morning i bring a book
under a tree
and i begin to read
every page
the sun comes up
the sun comes down
I've done my duty to keep the peace of this world
to try to understand what complications
mankind has made
i am simplifying what i can do to make this world
a place for us
page by page
word to word
cover to cover
tonight i will go back to my room
sleep on my bed
it will be cold and dark
just the way it is.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Read The Book
Dolce said to read the book.
Don’t skip any pages though,
Lizzy; I want you to read it
From cover to cover. Ok lover,
You said and examined the
Book’s covers; the hard leather,
The well sewn pages. You knew
He wrote it without his name on
The spine with the title. It was
As he spoke, the words flowing
Across the page, the meaning
Carried on and over and into
Your head. You stopped on page
Nine; he’d written about the night
He’d screwed you five times, although
No name was mentioned, you knew
It was you. Even the bed and room
Were as it had been, written right
Down to the creaking springs and
The man next door banging on the
Wall with his darn shoe. You read on
Carrying that image with you, the way
He’d caught it all with the right words,
Hammered that night right home like
Some crucified butterfly onto the page
And into your head. You paused at page
Twelve. Some paragraph about some
Lark in the bushes in the park after dark.
That didn’t ring true, at least not with you.
Who was the woman? Who was the screw?
You closed up the book; refused to look
Or read anymore; you wondered who it
Was he’d had that night in the bushes
Beneath the moonlight. Maybe it was just
Poetic licence made up to make it sell well
And the cash machines ring loud and true.
But the bitch in the bushes wasn’t you.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Lake Worth Herald
The Lake Worth Herald records events in Lake Worth town
Mark Easton works hard making sure Lake Worth Herald paper gets out.
It's Wednesday afternoon and the printing press is running
all of Mark's stories are real life, serious and also funny.
The Lake Worth Library had an article on me
with UniCandle unicorn and doll Melodie.
It was November 2006 and I was on
Lake Worth Herald's cover page
sitting on birthday chair where
children celebrate their age.
Lake Worth Herald is printing
my new poetry book
-the one you are reading-
soon also on the Nook.
Mark was gracious and helped get my book right
he is friendly and easy to work with editing my book
to make it out of sight!
For it has a glow in the dark cover
it is different not like any other.
Thanks Mark for your kindness in working with me
it was a pleasure working with you and also a
"Thank You" from my doll on the front cover Melodie!
Written by Suzae Chevalier on March 10,2012
poem by Suzae Chevalier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Matters Of Observation
it is me lying on a bench
reading a book halfway through
the pages
for a break i close the book
earmark a page
and look at the jack fruit treetop
just beside the house
i am on the second floor
and no one is in the house
my wife is visiting a friend
who just arrived from the U.S.
there is no other creature except
a white butterfly hovering
on a sampaguita flower
in the small garden
the tree has more leaves
but it is not bearing any fruit
at all
i am reminded of those years
joys forgotten and now i am reading
a book about some shadows
of doubts
there is this systems that works
of patronage
refunds
i am situated in a plateau
and my Jesuit professor who dropped by
last night with a
'how are you? ' through the YM
must have understood that an
introvert like me has no
place outside
the books
i understand and frankly
i do not have to tell him how i feel about it
inside the pages
the stories are too many
my hero is dead.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When I Write The Book
Nick lowe/dave edmunds/billy bremner
Plangent visions music, ltd.
Now I can remember like it was only yesterday
Love was young and foolish like a little child at play
But oh how lovers change -- I never dreamed how easily
cause now Im just a shadow of the boy I used to be
And when I write the book about my love
It will be about a man whos torn in half
About his hopes and ambitions wasted through the years
The pain will be written on every page in tears
When I write the book about my love
I was a fool to myself when I kept on runnin around
And I fared little better when I tried settlin down
Maybe some magic moment
Ive never known one, not for long
For all too soon the magic is in a moment gone
And when I write the book about my love
Itll be a heartbreaking story about love and luck
When I get down on the pages all I felt
It will make the hardest-hearted of critics hearts melt
When I write the book about my love
When I was young love was fun and I was so happy
I looked so good, and I dressed so snappy
Two-tone shoes on my feet, big old smile on my face
As I moved and grooved all over the place
Now Im down in the heels, my complexion is bad
cause my love life is sadder than sad
And when I write the book about my love
Itll be a pop publication, tougher than tough
When I get down on the pages all I missed
It will shoot to the top of the best-sellers list
When I write the book about my love
song performed by by Huey Lewis And The News
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Chanpa Flower
Supposing I became a chanpa flower, just for fun, and grew on a
branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and
danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother?
You would call, "Baby, where are you?" and I should laugh to
myself and keep quite quiet.
I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.
When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders,
you walked through the shadow of the champ tree to the little court
where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the
flower, but not know that it cane from me.
When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading
ramayana, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap,
I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book,
just where you were reading.
But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your
little child?
When in the evening you went to the cow shed with the lighted
lamp in your hand I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and
be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.
"Where have you been, you naughty child?"
"I won't tell you, mother." That's what you and I would say
then.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Lake Worth Herald
The Lake Worth Herald records events in Lake Worth town
Mark Easton works hard making sure Lake Worth Herald paper gets out.
It's Wednesday afternoon and the printing press is running
all of Mark's stories are real life, serious and also funny.
The Lake Worth Library had an article on me
with UniCandle unicorn and doll Melodie.
It was November 2006 and I was on
Lake Worth Herald's cover page
sitting on birthday chair where
children celebrate their age.
Lake Worth Herald is printing
my new poetry book
-the one you are reading-
soon also on the Nook.
Mark was gracious and helped get my book right
he is friendly and easy to work with editing my book
to make it out of sight!
For it has a glow in the dark cover
it is different not like any other.
Thanks Mark for your kindness in working with me
it was a pleasure working with you and also a
'Thank You' from my doll on the front cover Melodie!
poem by Suzae Chevalier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
(Inspiration Poem) A Book Never Read
Living by the fire
Living to admire
Living down to the wire
Still the wheels don't turn
I think it is because I want it
Urn for it
The beautiful almighty
I will not pray
Not as long as I live day by day
How much does my soul really weigh?
How many sins can be forgiven?
The fog will eventually choke you out
Whine and pout all you want
It won't make a dent in my steel cage
Because it was built from pure rage
If Its not a stage
What am I going through?
Its just another page of my book never read
Words as stale as the food I was fed
Maybe it was how many times I have been dropped on my head
I plead guilty to an unwritten destiny
I lied to myself in a mirror straight to my very own face
Memories erased
It's just another page of my book never read
I can't be lead astray
Especially if I'm willing
It's not much different then stealing
A moral yeng then yang
A oh so perfect harmony
Keeping things on a even keel
Always questioning what is real
It's just another page of my book never read
I hold on so tight to my comfy bed
Such a beautiful night
The stars are glistening oh so bright
I turn off the lights
Sleep for the dreams of a tomorrow
We are all living on borrowed time
So I ask again where's mine?
A question that continues to go unanswered
Draw your own conclusion
It's another one of the deep dark mysterious illusions
It's just another page of my book never read
It's as if every word has never been said
It's just another page of my tattered and torn book that will be never read
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Book Of Days
Your life is as a book
Written on the pages are the weeks
For you would give anything to take just one look
Into the next chapter, the next page
Each page is a new thought, a new dream
Sometimes it takes so long to pass that page
And sometimes nothing is as it seams
For you know you can not go ahead or back
You know you are where you are
You know you can't change that
As you read page to page, so near to fear
You write the chapters as you go, with each turn
Each turn, each move changes what's to come
And you know each moment could be the last
With this in mind you go so mumb
So numb to the touch, to the thought
You turn page after page
until you reach the 'end'
And only then, you are freed from the title
The title that has kept your thoughts bound, and tight
You turn the pages one by one
You take the pain, take the joy
Until you are done
And your story becomes another on the shelf of eternity
(1/24/2008)
poem by Bethany Maxwell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!