0300 Dante on Mowing the Front Lawn
Let's not go into the matter of that
dark wood in our back garden which
shames us in the eyes of our
prissy neighbours (we call it
our 'poetic arbour', where
camelopards roam) -
mowing the lawn - that's all I can manage
between poetic stints:
it's hell when you put it off -
the wife, the pointed looks from
those prissy neighbours, the
pricks of social conscience, and
the guilt...oh the guilt...
sins of omission, all that stuff, I'm
in and out of the confession box...
then when I get round to it at last
it's purgatory - the grass is long,
gets in the rollers at the hub, it's
wet at the roots, tears when it should cut,
bald brown patches revealed -
the neighbours' children do their
'watch and pretend to hide their suppressed
laughter with a hand and a smirk' act... but
it's sheer (sheared?) paradise when
it's done and I can look the neighbours
in the eye and dare them to
make some pointed remark in
the guise of compliment - how I hate
this pre-modern irony, Juvenal started it...
all this to get a whiff of paradise...
and now it's just rained this morning and
the bloody grass looks unshaven
already... lawnmowing, it's just
one eternal round - look,
the neighbour's out already with his
swanky new machine; it's
a real human comedy
(thanks to Adam and The Poetry Society for the initial inspiration)
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
And Why not for M 'lady Tara
On the outskirts of the city
There’s a place that’s very pretty.
A semi rural paradise
for those who can afford the price.
A small elite community
where the norm’s eccentricity.
If you should choose to garden nude
your neighbours would not think you rude.
The watchword here is tolerance
It would not rate a second glance
From neighbours who were passing by.
Although some might wonder why.
You choose to garden in the nude
because you want to they conclude.
28-Jun-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poetic piers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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At the time...
A car pulled up, in front of a house, at four o'clock in the morning.
A man came out of the car, and stood in silence in the dark, dark dark.
Quiet as a mouse, a woman came out of the house, opened the gate and walked into a garbage bin, making a godawful clattering.
Drowsy neighbours, across the road, peeked out
from behind the nosy curtains of their boring bedroom.
But nothing happened, while the clouds moved on,
and the frail moonlight was well again.
Under a blanket of glittering stars, she handed him two suitcases
and he hurried 'round to open the boot but just then,
the toilet lights on the second floor came on.
The neighbours behind the curtains froze like statues.
Swiftly, the man and the woman crouched down behind the car.
In the quiet of the night, they could all hear the urine
gurgling long, loud and plenty into the toilet bowl.
Behind the car, the man and the woman started
groping and kissing and groping and kissing furiously.
The neighbours saw them do it by the light of the moon and stars.
When the toilet flushed, they quietly shut the boot,
tiptoed to the front, got into the car,
and the roar of the car engine died away.
The neighbours closed the curtains. Didn't say much.
Ate sandwiches and milk. Still couldn't sleep.
Started to make love loudly, as if to drown out forever
the drunken snoring beginning again
across the road.
Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
(1989)
poem by Simmon Tan
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Stay At Home
Outside these, four walls lies, anarchy babe
Unnatural acts and sights abound
Glass glaring, eyes staring, young pairing, maybe
What does the world care if Im not around
Cos, I think Id rather stay at home
With people I know
I could watch the whole thing on tv
And the neighbours never know
The bright lights, are like traps, for the unwary
You need a guard just to walk at night
Fights flaring, bombs scaring, pants tearing, maybe
How can you say it will be alright
And, I think Id rather stay at home
And my face not show
I could watch the whole thing on tv
And the neighbours never know, theyd never know
Cos, I think Id rather stay at home
Where cold winds dont blow
I could watch the whole thing on tv
And the neighbours never know, theyd never know
Outside these, four shores lie, countries of strangers
They have water that you shouldnt drink
Bad driving, crime thriving, lifes full of dangers
Its not that Im frightened to walk on the brink.
But I think Id rather stay at home
With people I know
I could watch the whole thing on tv
And the neighbours never know, theyd never know
Think Id rather stay at home
Where the bad guys never go, they never go
Stay at home
With people you know, people you know
Think Id rather stay at home
Where the pimples never show, they never show
Stay at home
Stay at home
song performed by by Men At Work
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Children Of Paradise
We are children of paradise
When the lord created us
All his work was through
Then the children of paradise
Did the only thing
They really shouldnt do
Children of paradise
We started out there
Full of innocence in our eyes
And without a care
Were children of paradise
We knew of no crime
Until one of the meanest lines
Has changed our time
It was long ago
In the early morning glow
When it all began
With adam and eve
They were young and free
And for all eternity
They were meant to feel
No trouble, no grief
Children of paradise
We started out there
Full of innocence in our eyes
And without a care
Were children of paradise
In search of the light
That was put out in paradise
And started the night
It was long ago
In the early morning glow
When it all began
With adam and eve
They were young and free
And for all eternity
They were meant to feel
No trouble, no grief
We are children of paradise
When the lord created us
All his work was through
Then the children of paradise
Did the only thing
They really shouldnt do
Aaahhh...
Were children of paradise
Who didnt obey
When we followed the wrong advice
We wandered astray
Were children of paradise
In search of the light
That was put out in paradise
And started the night
It was long ago
In the early morning glow
When it all began
With adam and eve
They were young and free
And for all eternity...
song performed by by Boney M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Run On
(traditional - arranged by elvis presley)
Well you may run on for a long time
Run on for a long time,
Run on for a long time
Let me tell you God almighty gonna cut you down
Go tell that long tongued liar, oh well well
Go tell that midnight rider, oh well well
Tell the gambler, rambler, back-biter
Tell them God almighty gonna cut them down
Stop God almighty let me tell you the news
My heads been wet with the midnight dews
Coming down on my bended knees
Talking to the man from galilee
My God spoke and he spoke so sweet
I thought I heard the shuffle of angels feet
He put one hand upon my head
Great God almighty let me tell you what he said
Go tell that long tongued liar, oh well well
Go tell that midnight rider, oh well well
Tell the gambler, rambler, back-biter
Tell them God almighty gonna cut them down
Run on for a long time,
Run on for a long time,
Let me tell you God almighty gonna cut you down
You may throw your rock and hide your hand
Working in the dark against your fellow man
As sure as God made the day and the night
What you do in the dark will be brought to the light
You may run and hide, slip and slide
Trying to take the mote from your neighbours eyes
As sure as God made the rich and poor
You gonna reap just what you sow
Run on for a long time,
Run on for a long time
Let me tell you God almighty gonna cut you down
Go tell that long tongued liar, oh well well
Go tell that midnight rider, oh well well
Tell the gambler, rambler, back-biter
Tell them God almighty gonna cut them down
Some people go to church just to sit in the fire
Trying to make a date with the neighbours wife
Brother let me tell you as sure as youre born
You better leave that woman alone
Because one of these days mark my word
You think that brother is going to work
And youll sneak up and knock on that door
Thats all brother youll knock no more
Run on for a long time,
Run on for a long time
Let me tell you God almighty gonna cut you down
Go tell that long tongued liar, oh well well
Go tell that midnight rider, oh well well
Tell the gambler, rambler, back-biter
Tell them God almighty gonna cut them down
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ballad of Old Clonbroney
The Ballad of Old Clonbroney
One night dark walking along
A lane onto its end,
A neighbour walked up to a house
To call upon a friend.
The neighbour was new, his friends wife too
Had arrived not long ago,
And friendship new as neighbours do
They called on one another each other to know.
And as he approached the house,
He wondered at how strange shadows moves,
It looked as if it were a hearse,
And all of a sudden a sound of hooves,
And a wall through at terrific speed,
Driven by a horseman with no head,
A hearse up through the feilds fleed
To Old Clonbroney with its dead.
Our hero stood there shaking,
Wondered if he imaged was what he had seen,
When the woman opened the door to the house,
Asked where the horses had been?
He raced into the house so fast,
Slammed behind him the door,
Told how the hearse before him passed,
And where it came from before...
That it went up to Old Clonbroney,
After driving through a wall,
But it was not real: twas but a ghost,
For the wall was not damaged at all.
And drinking whiskey strong his nerves setlled down,
Though still great in him was fear,
Though you may mock and you may frown,
You too would shake if the headless horseman did appear...
And in time the husband returned,
A miller he was by trade,
He came to see his wife terrified,
And his neighbour, a man strong, afraid,
They told him of the horseman,
Of the hearse, that the man had no head,
He srugged his shoulder with a sigh,
Declared one of the neighbours dead.
It was like the banshee,
The miller said of the apparition,
When these neighbours died, the spectre youd see,
So was local superstition,
And so all a prayer they said,
For their own and the deceased sake,
Its not told the name of who was dead,
Or if the miller and his neighbour slept or stayed that night awake!
===========================
The story of a man who met a headless horseman when calling on a neighbour after moving into the area.
Apperantly this is actually true, the miller he was calling on was an uncle of mine who lived in Clonbroney, where an old road led up to a disused cemetry, and a new road now led to the village. The old road partly made the lane to his house and mill that used to be on the side of the old road, but the road was blocked of at the rear, where both sides had grown in to form one hedgegrow that went up the fiends to the old cemetry.
The poem is to be edited later to make sure the information is correct, but this is the first draft.
poem by Tomás Ó Cárthaigh
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All I Want Is You
(carly simon/jacob brackman/andy goldmark)
What do the neighbours say
When they hear us scream at night
Do they talk about a love
All in tatters
What do the neighbours know
About the heart and soul
The fire down below
That really matters
They can never guess
In the silences
That all I want is you
And the sexy hurricane
We got here
All I want is you
I dont want a man
To say good morning dear
Let em listen at the door
Let em listen through the floor
Let em go ahead and draw the wrong conclusion
So chase me round the room
Make me crazy like the moon
They can never guess
In the silences
That all I want is you
And the sexy hurricane that we share
All I want is you
I dont want a man
Who tiptoes up the stairs
All I want is you
And the freight train
Whistling over my track
All I want is you
And your mack truck loving
Jumping me jack!
Oh, jack!
song performed by by Carly Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Soldier Home From A War
Daymare demons spiral your head.
There is no rest in your soft bed.
Images of death reveal.
The guilt you hide, but feel.
A war of shadows.
Where you once fought.
In back gardens where children play
For only peace you wished and sought.
The grass green hills of your childhood remain.
But there, there was no death sign
Wife and kids you greet at garden gate.
They don’t see your inner hate.
They don’t see your embroiled conscience,
or know the infliction you bare.
They’re only too happy to have you home.
Home to love and share.
You are a soldier home.
A soldier home from a war,
Trying your guilt to hide.
Trying to forget the child you shot, that died.
The war was someone else’s.
Why should you really care?
It only really strikes home,
when you see a child dying there.
Visions cloud your mind of voices in despair.
Why did we have to die so young?
Why did our mother’s have to mourn?
Soldier from another land, please tell us why?
The soldier’s forehead frowns.
The answer he can not give.
He was only sent there.
So other have a chance to live.
Now his war is over.
Over his home he now resides.
But the voices of despair.
Still ring in his head.
He cries to himself in silence.
How can his conscience bare.
The purgatory it must go through.
Knowing he killed a child fair.
18 July 1978
poem by David Harris
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Keep Your Nose Clean!
Somebody opened his can of worms
And see how the villain twitches and squirms!
The camera comes out and someone says 'Smile!
The neighbours all think you're a paedophile! '
Listen to you! You bellow and squeal,
We're breaking your spirit on our Virtuous Wheel.
You claim you're a scapegoat, don't make me laugh!
If you had a spine I'd break it in half,
But you haven't got one, you're just a worm
And we're getting our kicks from watching you squirm!
Later, perhaps, after a civilized tea
We'll sit on the sofa and watch our T.V.
Isn't it strange how most of the time
We relish these stories of violent crime?
There's something inside us that likes to be scared
And we'd join in the action if only we dared.
Thinking like this makes me feel insecure -
What if my intentions are not quite so pure?
What if I fancied a bit on the side?
I'd like to reach out but my hands are tied.
What would my friends and the neighbours think?
I'd better behave or there'll be a hell of a stink! !
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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The Daisies
In the great green park with the wooden palings -
The wooden palings so hard to climb,
There are fern and foxglove, primrose and violet,
And green things growing all the time;
And out in the open the daisies grow,
Pretty and proud in their proper places,
Millions of white-frilled daisy faces,
Millions and millions--not one or two.
And they call to the bluebells down in the wood:
'Are you out--are you in? We have been so good
All the school-time winter through,
But now it's playtime,
The gay time, the May time;
We are out and at play. Where are you?'
In the gritty garden inside the railings,
The spiky railings all painted green,
There are neat little beds of geraniums and fuchsia
With never a happy weed between.
There's a neat little grass plot, bald in places,
And very dusty to touch;
A respectable man comes once a week
To keep the garden weeded and swept,
To keep it as we don't want it kept.
He cuts the grass with his mowing-machine,
And we think he cuts it too much.
But even on the lawn, all dry and gritty,
The daisies play about.
They are so brave as well as so pretty,
You cannot keep them out.
I love them, I want to let them grow,
But that respectable man says no.
He cuts off their heads with his mowing-machine
Like the French Revolution guillotine.
He sweeps up the poor little pretty faces,
The dear little white-frilled daisy faces;
Says things must be kept in their proper places
He has no frill round his ugly face -
I wish I could find his proper place!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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You and I
Let this earth go round with care,
Let this world go round with love,
Let this planet go round with peace,
Let this globe go round with joy,
And let us guide our neighbours too;
Give a little and let someone take a little as well.
Stay blessed,
For you and i were made on this earth with love;
And we have to share our experiences with others too.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Playmates
It's sixty years ago, the people say:
Two village children, neighbours born and bred,
One morning played beneath a rotten tree
That came down crash and caught them as they fled;
And one was killed and one was left unhurt
Except for certain fancies in his head.
And though it's all so very long ago
He's never left the wood a single day;
I've often met him peeping through the leaves
And chuckling to himself, an old man grey;
And once he started in his cracked old voice:
'We're playing I'm a merchant lost his way,
She's robbers in the wood behind yon tree,
The minute we grow up too big to play' -
poem by Ralph Hodgson
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Mowing
There was not a sound
but that of the machine
that howl against the sky
and magically sheared the grass
from where it grew.
No bushes of grass, or even weeds
could keep its length
when that yellow long necked
Weedeater appeared.
Grass, weeds and stems
were scattered everywhere
and underneath, with the smell
of mown grass in the air
a beautiful lawn appeared.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A leaf for hand in hand
i can tell the neighbours
not to shout, scream in the night hours
throw their rubbish this side of residence
but the leaves from his trees
i sweep with resignation that
they at least allow me to potter around
to communicate in a certain, tender, soft manner
with the quiet neighbours
the echoes of my sweeping
the leaves blown by the wind
to settle in my garden, my porch
the only encroachment i do not bother
bring up to each other
as i gather the yellow leaves, shrivelled leaves
into a hill for my lmatch
the birds twitter, the next door children chuckle
their mother peering over the fence with
some fruits in her hands
the fruits that help us meet heart to heart
with an uneasy sweetness in between
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Preachers Turn To Poetry
preachers turn to poetry
which is a most natural thing to do
since most revelations are in verse;
preachers, like the wily snake in Paradise,
look for cunning new ways: and so they turn to poetry sites
and take on the roles of poets
and disguise sermons in verse
and Stalin-style Revelations of Guilt and Sin
and Fearful Humility as poems;
and in Ppreachers turn to poetry
which is a most natural thing to do
since most revelations are in verse;
preachers, like the wily snake in Paradise,
look for cunning new ways: and so they turn to poetry sites
and take on the roles of poets
and disguise sermons in verse
and Stalin-style Revelations of Guilt and Sin
and Fearful Humility as poems;
and in Paradise these will sit as Poet Laureates
winning Eternal Fame
churning out Infinite Praise in standard and approved stock and phrase;
and poets who talk about being human
and the beauty of the morning
and who so cannot make The Big Wizard smile
these wretched poets will bark doggerel in Hell...
poem by Raj Arumugam
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The Day That Curly Billy Shot Down Crazy Sam Mcgee
(clarke)
Big tall man standing in the street
Gun hanging by his side
Just one man that hed like to meet
Thats when I began to hide
I recognised him from the face of his son
The hate in his eye didnt lie
Oh what I did cant be undone
Borrowed time theres none to buy
Well I hid round the back of a derelict shack
Aint looking for a mad showdown
But he was smart, hed already checked
A week in advance Id paid down
Well the hotel clerk was a fun-loving man
The job he had it didnt pay
He told all about what happened that night
There he is, thats the ones all hed say
Well all the people were running, jumping, even thumping
On my bad neighbours doors
Crying curly billy silly with his colt he calls filly
Let me in I gotta hide
Well everybody was crying, sighing sam mcgees dying
No one to protect our town
Curly billy silly with his colt he calls filly,
Hes gonna shoot your sherriff down
Big tall man standing in the street
Now a hand hovering waiting to slide
Drew out his gun it wasnt for fun
Let me in theres nowhere to hide
Well I made my play but it wasnt my day
I felt the ripping lead
Thats when I knew my time was through
Rest in peace were the last words he said
Well all the people were running, jumping, even thumping
On my bad neighbours doors
Crying curly billy silly with his colt he calls filly
Let me in I gotta hide
Well everybody was crying, sighing sam mcgees dying
No one to protect our town
Curly billy silly with his colt he calls filly,
Hes gonna shoot your sherriff down
Well all the people were running, jumping, even thumping
On my bad neighbours doors
Crying curly billy silly with his colt he calls filly
Let me in I gotta hide
Well everybody was crying, sighing sam mcgees dying
No one to protect our town
Curly billy silly with his colt he calls filly,
Hes gonna shoot your sherriff down
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Poor Excuse, but our own
(Why don't you ever write any child poetry?
-A MOTHER.)
My right-hand neighbour hath a child,
A pretty child of five or six,
Not more than other children wild,
Nor fuller than the rest of tricks-
At five he rises, shine or rain,
And noisily plays 'fire' or 'train.'
Likewise a girl, _aetatis_ eight,
He hath. Each morning, as a rule,
Proudly my neighbour will relate
How bright Mathilda is at school.
My ardour, less than half of mild,
Bids me to comment, 'Wondrous child!'
All through the vernal afternoon
My other neighbour's children skate
A wild Bacchantic rigadoon
On rollers; nor does it abate
Till dark; and then his babies cry
What time I fain would versify.
Did I but set myself to sing
A children's song, I'd stand revealed
A bard that did the infant thing
As well as Riley or 'Gene Field.
I could write famous Children Stuff,
If they'd keep quiet long enough.
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Back To Paradise
Grab your coat, honey, grab your hat
This train is leaving and it ain't comin' back
Don't need a ticket, can't you understand
You're on your way to the promised land.
It's overdue but now the time is right, yeah
It's up to you to make it real, so take me,
Take me back to paradise
(oooh)
Take me back to paradise
(oooh)
Old Saint Peter at the pearly gate
said hurry up boy or you're gonna be late
Take your mind off your worries for a moment or two
You gotta rock to the rhythm, it ain't hard to do
Cause what you see I know you're gonna like, yeah
It's up to you to make it real, so take me,
Take me back paradise, paradise
(oooh yeah)
Take me back to paradise, paradise
(oooh)
SOLO
When its out of reach it's just another beach in another town
You get your feet back on the ground
You worked all your life you ain't satisfied with a thing you've found
When will you realize it'll come around?
Pack your bags, baby, get your things
You never know what tomorrow brings
Mind your step and watch what you say
Before you know you'll be on your way
It's overdue but now the time is right, yeah
It's up to you to make it real, so take me,
Take me back to paradise, paradise
(oooh)
Take me back to paradise, paradise
(oooh)
Take me back to paradise, paradise
(oooh)
Won't you take me back to paradise, paradise
(oooh)
Take me back to paradise
song performed by by 38 Special
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Frog Frenzy
One night, I opened the back door,
And a small brown frog appeared.
This hadn't happened to me before,
And I did think it was pretty weird!
Maybe because it was really dark,
He just jumped towards the light?
It's certainly something I'll never forget,
As it really was the strangest sight!
Jumping into our dining room,
Was a move, which was pretty bold.
At one point, he jumped on my bare foot:
He felt all wet and slimy and very cold.
We chased him round for quite a while;
The whole situation was quite a hoot.
The poor thing must have been so scared,
But I did think he was rather cute!
My entire family chased him round,
But, at first, he was way to fast.
After much to-ing and fro-ing about,
We managed to catch him at last!
Our neighbours had a pond,
So we took him back there.
We opened the jar and let him out,
And he hopped away without a care.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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I'm Reading Psalm 31...
Sin….
what is it? Is there such a thing?
Is it, would it be, a good thing to have?
do I want it? or do I have it,
so deep, it’s more trouble than illumination…?
All that sadness, all that sense of failure,
all that sense of impending doom,
all that guilt in respect of
person or persons unknown…
or that always trying to please persons
known or unknown…
yes, that makes sense…
So, who am I supposed to have sinned against?
Since I’m a bit hazy about God, then
have I sinned against myself?
Memories now of schooldays – Michael,
you’ve let yourself down…and then
of course they have to add, and you’ve let down
your parents, and you’ve let me down
as your teacher….seems I’m some sorta
team player… who picked this team anyway?
OK, let’s just suppose that there’s
some vast, perfect self-balancing system
running the whole caboosh (with maybe,
wholly good intentions) so that
if you steer badly, then there’s
first the hard shoulder, then the grass verge,
then maybe if you’re on the race track,
piled-up tires, some sort of resistant and yet yielding wall..
and after the hospital period, your steering
is rather more careful, rather more attentive…
so maybe, a sense of … let’s call it
good roadsmanship –
‘Paradise Garden Welcomes Careful Drivers’…
would be a good thing … say ‘sin’
but smile as you say it …
just a warning sign - 'Black Spot'; 'Dangerous Bend';
where the other guys came to grief...
and life – the highs and oh those deepdown downlows –
is more about being your very agreeable self,
and somebody else’s idea of sin
very much a thing of the past;
the neighbours wave at you,
and the postman seems glad to see you.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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