Intermix
Intermix the polishing of a forgotten summer,
The parson cools me after the furthest colour.
Furtive numerals are held in the mind when furthest,
Novelties of an oaf nurse on nothing.
Numerous designs matter on the shelf,
Gory oaths are honourable and gouging strength.
Let colours intermix and let the parson mix with us,
The length of numbers are called equations for us.
Gormandize the food once you steal,
The parson refuses to renovate your reality.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Tinker Dick
Good Parson Dickson preached, I'm told,
A sermon-ah, 'twas very old
And very, very, bald!
'Twas all about-I know not what
It was about, nor what 'twas not.
'A Screw Loose' it was called.
Whatever, Parson Dick, you say,
The world will get each blessed day
Still more and more askew,
And fall apart at last. Great snakes!
What skillful tinker ever takes
His tongue to turn a screw?
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Longer Boats
Longer boats are coming to win us
Theyre coming to win us, theyre coming to win us
Longer boats are coming to win us
Hold on to the shore, theyll be taking the key from the door.
I dont want no God on my lawn
Just a flower I can help along
cause the soul of no body knows
How a flower grows... oh how a flower grows.
Chorus
Mary dropped her pants by the sand
And let a parson come and take her hand
But the soul of no body knows
Where the parson goes, where does the parson go?
Chorus
song performed by by Cat Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There Is No God, the Wicked Sayeth
"There is no God," the wicked saith,
"And truly it's a blessing,
For what He might have done with us
It's better only guessing."
"There is no God," a youngster thinks,
"or really, if there may be,
He surely did not mean a man
Always to be a baby."
"There is no God, or if there is,"
The tradesman thinks, "'twere funny
If He should take it ill in me
To make a little money."
"Whether there be," the rich man says,
"It matters very little,
For I and mine, thank somebody,
Are not in want of victual."
Some others, also, to themselves,
Who scarce so much as doubt it,
Think there is none, when they are well,
And do not think about it.
But country folks who live beneath
The shadow of the steeple;
The parson and the parson's wife,
And mostly married people;
Youths green and happy in first love,
So thankful for illusion;
And men caught out in what the world
Calls guilt, in first confusion;
And almost everyone when age,
Disease, or sorrows strike him,
Inclines to think there is a God,
Or something very like Him.
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Disturber
Oh, what shall I do? I am wholly upset;
I am sure I 'll be jailed for a lunatic yet.
I 'll be out of a job--it's the thing to expect
When I 'm letting my duty go by with neglect.
You may judge the extent and degree of my plight
When I 'm thinking all day and a-dreaming all night,
And a-trying my hand at a rhyme on the sly,
All on account of a sparkling eye.
There are those who say men should be strong, well-a-day!
But what constitutes strength in a man? Who shall say?
I am strong as the most when it comes to the arm.
I have aye held my own on the playground or farm.
And when I 've been tempted, I haven't been weak;
But now--why, I tremble to hear a maid speak.
I used to be bold, but now I 've grown shy,
And all on account of a sparkling eye.
There once was a time when my heart was devout,
But now my religion is open to doubt.
When parson is earnestly preaching of grace,
My fancy is busy with drawing a face,
Thro' the back of a bonnet most piously plain;
'I draw it, redraw it, and draw it again.'
While the songs and the sermon unheeded go by,--
All on account of a sparkling eye.
Oh, dear little conjurer, give o'er your wiles,
It is easy for you, you're all blushes and smiles:
But, love of my heart, I am sorely perplexed;
I am smiling one minute and sighing the next;
And if it goes on, I 'll drop hackle and flail,
And go to the parson and tell him my tale.
I warrant he 'll find me a cure for the sigh
That you 're aye bringing forth with the glance of your eye.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Sequel to the "One-Horse Shay"
Doubtless my readers all have heard
Of the "wonderful one-horse shay "
That "went to pieces all at once"
On the terrible earthquake-day.
But did they ever think of the horse,
Or mourn the loss of him,—
The "ewe-necked bay" (who drew the "shay"),
So full of life and vim?
He was a wonderful nag, I'm told,
In spite of his old "rat-tail";
And, though he always minded the rein,
He laughed at the snow and hail.
He had the finest stable in town,
With plenty of oats and hay;
And to the parson's oft "Hud-dup"
He never would answer neigh.
To the parson's shay he was ever true,
Though her other felloes were tired:
To live and die with his fiancée
Was all that his heart desired.
He was much attached to his ancient mate;
So the parson "hitched them together;"
And, when they went on their bridle tour,
His heart was light as a feather.
We all remember her awful fate,
On that sad November day,
When nothing remained but a heap of trash,
That once was a beautiful shay.
Oh! what could stir-up the equine breast
Like this fearful, harrowing blow.
Which put a check on his happiness,
And filled his heart with w(h)oa.
As he wheeled about, a shaft of pain
Entered his faithful breast,
As he there beheld the sad remains
Of her whom he loved the best.
With a sudden bound and fearful snort,
He sped away like the wind;
And a fact most queer I'll mention here, —
No traces were left behind.
poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The parson knows enough who knows a Duke.
quote by William Cowper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The parson always christens his own child first.
When it pours upon the parson, it drops upon the clerk.
It is not the surplice that makes parson or clerk.
It's enough to make a parson swear, or a quaker kick his mother.
That Half-Crown Sweep
The run of Billabong-go-dry
Is just beyond Lime Burner's Gap;
Its waterhole and tank supply
Is excellent -- upon the map.
But lacking nature's liquid drench,
The station staff are wont to try
With "Bob-in Sweeps" their thirst to quench,
Or nearly quench, at Bong-go-dry.
The parson made five-yearly rounds
That soil of arid souls to delve,
He wrote, "I'll come for seven pounds,
Or I could stop away for twelve."
But lack of lucre brought about
The pusillanimous reply:
"Our luxuries are all cut out,
You'll have to go to Bong-go-dry."
Now rabbit skins were very high --
There'd been a kind of rabbit rush --
And what with traps and sticks they'd shy,
The station blacks were very flush,
And each was taught his churchman's job,
"When that one parson's plate comes roun'
No good you put in sprat or bob,
Too quick you put in harp-a-crown."
The parson's word was duly kept,
He came and did his bit of speak;
The boss remarked he hadn't slept
So sound and well for many a week.
But Gilgai Jack and Monkey Jaw
Regarded preaching as a crime
Against good taste; they said, "What for
That one chap yabber all the time?"
Proceedings ceased: the boss's hat
Was raked from underneath his chair;
The coloured congregation sat
And waited with expectant air.
At last from one far-distant seat
Where Gilgai's Mary'd been asleep,
There came a kind of plaintive bleat,
"Say, boss! Who won the harp-crown sweep?"
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Epilogue to The Husband His Own Cuckold
Like some raw sophister that mounts the pulpit,
So trembles a young poet at a full pit.
Unused to crowds, the parson quakes for fear,
And wonders how the devil he durst come there;
Wanting three talents needful for the place,
Some beard, some learning, and some little grace.
Nor is the puny poet void of care;
For authors, such as our new authors are,
Have not much learning, nor much wit to spare;
And as for grace, to tell the truth, there's scarce one,
But has as little as the very parson:
Both say, they preach and write for your instruction;
But 'tis for a third day, and for induction.
The difference is, that though you like the play,
The poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day;
But with the parson 'tis another case,
He, without holiness, may rise to grace;
The poet has one disadvantage more,
That if his play be dull, he's damned all o'er,
Not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn'd poor.
But dulness well becomes the sable garment;
I warrant that ne'er spoiled a priest's preferment;
Wit's not his business, and as wit now goes,
Sirs, 'tis not so much yours as you suppose,
For you like nothing now but nauseous beaux.
You laugh not, gallants, as by proof appears,
At what his beauship says, but what he wears;
So 'tis your eyes are tickled, not your ears.
The tailor and the furrier find the stuff,
The wit lies in the dress, and monstrous muff.
The truth on 't is, the payment of the pit
Is like for like, clipt money for clipt wit.
You cannot from our absent author hope,
He should equip the stage with such a fop.
Fools change in England, and new fools arise;
For, though the immortal species never dies,
Yet every year new maggots make new flies.
But where he lives abroad, he scarce can find
One fool, for million that he left behind.
poem by John Dryden
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Real Colours
Despite your satsuma the real colours matter,
Restart the savage beast with red colours.
Spikes, with satyrs that reside in your garden,
Are gory and gorgeous, making the satsuma of blood.
The restive operatic folk learn anew for want of blood
And curds of hatred, vampiric sub-stations await.
The orange colour is of horrors and entrapment,
No sweetheart created or admitted this colour.
May the real colours inhibit the offspring
And the opus of life and its workings.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Intermixing
The gout of the mind is to intermix,
Gormandizing and realistically the feathers.
Homer sees in his eye the real food,
And writes as a poet who is blind.
The steady office of many are like the ears
Of the people, and the sight is from the eyes.
On this independent day I came with wending
And weaving angering the world with its woe.
Interrupt me never, never hiccup or wallop me,
For the scallops of your mind are brewing.
This is corrupt of your worship of my soul,
For the gallops render me false.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Way To Rule A Village
That Village is perfectly under command,
When the Justice and Rector will go hand in hand;
Their power o'er the peasant can ne'er be shut out,
When jointly these two toss the bottle about.
But when it shall happen the two disagree,
Ill-nature, retorts, and returns, you may see.
The Peasants alarm'd will begin to take sides;
The plague becomes pow'rful--the village divides.
Then take this advice--you no farther need seek,
Let the 'Squire and the Parson get drunk once a week;
When into their breast they've transported the barrel,
Let the Priest and the Magistrate then shun a quarrel.
A Rector of Pride, and a Justice of Peace,
(With sentiments high, they could ne'er coalesce)
Met point-blank together, one day, on the road,
Though the ground each detested the other had trod.
'So, Sir,' says the Justice, 'you ride a fine horse;
Won't follow your master, who rode something worse;
For he, though divine, on a jack-ass we view;
Methinks the same animal might have serv'd you.'
'I own,' says the Parson, 'your judgment is good,
Like our Saviour, I'd ride on an ass, if I cou'd;
But none I can purchase, so riding must cease,
Because every ass is a Justice of Peace.'
poem by William Hutton
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Climbing With Jane.
Jane had climbed
the Downs with you
and had hardly spoken
on the tiring climb
along the dried up tracks
on the way up
and then at the top
standing beside you
she stared out across
the countryside
and said
you can see
where I live from here
and she pointed out
to the church down beneath
and you said
yes
and took in the church
and the house
where she lived
with the parson
and his wife
and tried to pick out
which bedroom was hers
and she said
I like it up here
away from the crowds
and nearer to God
and you studied her profile
and her hair
and the way she stood there
in that summer dress
and sandals
and with that youthfulness
and you wanted suddenly
to kiss her
and embrace her
but you didn't
you just stood
and studied her profile
and moving closer
you reached out
your hand
and touched hers
and her hand was warm
and as you squeezed it gently
you sensed the pulse of life
run through
and the moment
seemed to explode
in your head
in a myriad
of colours and sounds
and you rubbed your thumb
along her wrist
checking the pulse
the life
wanting her
to be the one
and pointing upward
she said breaking through
your dream
look at the colour
of that sky
and feel the warmth
of sun.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Husband-Confessor
WHEN Francis (named the first) o'er Frenchmen reign'd,
In Italy young Arthur laurels gained,
And oft such daring valour showed in fight,
With ev'ry honour he was made a knight;
The monarch placed the spur upon his heel,
That all around his proper worth might feel.
Then household deities at home he sought,
Where--not at prayers his beauteous dame he caught:
He'd left her, truly, quite dissolv'd in tears;
But now the belle had bid adieu to fears;
And oft was dancing joyously around,
With all the company that could be found.
GALLANTS in crowds Sir Arthur soon perceived;
At sight of these the knight was sorely grieved;
And, turning in his mind how best to act;
Cried he, Can this be truly held a fact,
That I've been worthy while I'd fame in view,
Of cuckoldom at home, and knighthood too?
It ought to be but half:--the truth let's know;
From constancy the purest blessings flow.
Then like a father-confessor he dressed,
And took his seat where priests their flock confessed.
His lady absolution sought that day,
And on her knees before him 'gan to pray;
The minor sins were told with downcast eyes,
And then for hearing those of larger size,
The husband-confessor prepared his ears:--
Said she, Good father, ('mid a flood of tears),
My bed receives, (the fault I fear's not slight,)
A gentleman, a parson, and a knight.
Still more had followed, but, by rage o'ercome,
Sir Arthur cut the thread, and she was mum;
Though, doubtless, had the fair been let proceed,
Quite long her Litany had been decreed.
THe husband, in a rage, exclaimed, thou jade,
A parson, say'st thou? t'whom dost think thou'st made
This curst confession?--To my spouse, cried she,
I saw you enter here, and came with glee,
Supposing you'd a trick to raise surprise;
Howe'er 'tis strange that one so very wise,
The riddle should not fully comprehend:--
A KNIGHT, the king created you, my friend;
A GENTLEMAN, your rank was long ago;
A PARSON, you have made yourself you know.
Good heav'ns! exclaimed the knight, 'tis very clear,
And I a blockhead surely must appear
poem by La Fontaine
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