The Garret
Within a London garret high,
Above the roofs and near the sky,
My ill-rewarding pen I ply
To win me bread.
This little chamber, six by four,
Is castle, study, den, and more,--
Altho' no carpet decks the floor,
Nor down, the bed.
My room is rather bleak and bare;
I only have one broken chair,
But then, there's plenty of fresh air,--
Some light, beside.
What tho' I cannot ask my friends
To share with me my odds and ends,
A liberty my aerie lends,
To most denied.
The bore who falters at the stair
No more shall be my curse and care,
And duns shall fail to find my lair
With beastly bills.
When debts have grown and funds are short,
I find it rather pleasant sport
To live 'above the common sort'
With all their ills.
I write my rhymes and sing away,
And dawn may come or dusk or day:
Tho' fare be poor, my heart is gay.
And full of glee.
Though chimney-pots be all my views;
'T is nearer for the winging Muse,
So I am sure she 'll not refuse
To visit me.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Related quotes
The Mahogany Tree
Christmas is here:
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,
Little care we:
Little we fear
Weather without,
Shelter about
The Mahogany Tree.
Once on the boughs
Birds of rare plume
Sang, in its bloom;
Night-birds are we:
Here we carouse,
Singing like them,
Perched round the stem
Of the jolly old tree.
Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit;
Laughter and wit
Flashing so free.
Life is but short --
When we are gone,
Let them sing on
Round the old tree.
Evenings we knew,
Happy as this;
Faces we miss,
Pleasant to see.
Kind hearts and true,
Gentle and just,
Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.
Care, like a dun,
Lurks at the gate:
Let the dog wait;
Happy we'll be!
Drink, every one;
Pile up the coals,
Fill the red bowls,
Round the old tree!
Drain we the cup. --
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid
In the Red Sea.
Mantle it up;
Empty it yet;
Let us forget,
Round the old tree.
Sorrows, begone!
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite,
Leave us to-night,
Round the old tree.
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Forgotten Accommodation
We climbed the narrow attic stair,
And entered rooms established there.
Thick grey dust lay across the gloom,
Many years spent without a broom.
Cobwebs hung in every place,
New occupants had filled the space.
On a shelf sat an old birdcage,
Tenanted in another age.
Chills swept in from a broken pane,
Small window letting in the rain.
A rickety stained brocade chair,
Seat and back were now threadbare.
Curtains frayed along their edges,
Hanging crooked. Also ledges
Nailed up on the damp crumbling walls,
Odour of abandoned mothballs.
Wallpaper, once with roses pink,
Now gave off a horrendous stink.
Forgotten accommodation,
In this lonely bleak location.
Empty now of occupation,
Who slept here, what was their station.
Just how hard was their daily grind,
So much history we could find.
Something scuttled along the floor,
Down the steps to the corridor.
A resident we had no doubt,
Some little local layabout
Who we had unkindly disturbed,
Leaving so quickly quite perturbed.
We climbed back down the attic stair,
Away from this poor mouse’s lair,
Back to the present and fresh air,
Off down a pleasant thoroughfare.
Happy that we wouldn’t have to see,
What their life turned out to be.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Macedonia
Stare, bare, ware, mare, care, fare, hare, pare, rare, tare;
And, trying to see beyond!
But, i have something to tell you,
And like your muse in the land of Macedonia.
Blair, chair, air, fair, stair, hair, lair, flair, wheelchair, pair;
You just don't know it because, you can't get there!
And like this girl on the wheelchair.
Wheel, feel, steel, reel, peel, creel, heel!
And to meet with you;
But in six days time you will understand my mind,
For the actions of your love are now recorded.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Cane-Bottom'd Chair
In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,
And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,
Away from the world, and its toils and its cares,
I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.
To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,
But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;
And the view I behold on a sunshiny day
Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.
This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks
With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books,
And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,
Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.
Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd),
Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed;
A two-penny treasury, wondrous to see;
What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.
No better divan need the Sultan require,
Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.
That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn:
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.
Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,
Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times;
As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie,
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.
But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,
There is one that I love and I cherish the best:
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair
I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair.
'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat,
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet;
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there,
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair.
If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms,
A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms!
I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair;
I wished myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair.
It was but a moment she sat in this place,
She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face;
A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair,
And she sat there and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair.
And so I have valued my chair ever since,
Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince;
Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare,
The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair.
When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,
In the silence of night as I sit here alone --
I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair --
My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair.
She comes from the past and revisits my room;
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom;
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair.
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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The Bohemian
Up in my garret bleak and bare
I tilted back on my broken chair,
And my three old pals were with me there,
Hunger and Thirst and Cold;
Hunger scowled at his scurvy mate:
Cold cowered down by the hollow grate,
And I hated them with a deadly hate
As old as life is old.
So up in my garret that's near the sky
I smiled a smile that was thin and dry:
"You've roomed with me twenty year," said I,
"Hunger and Thirst and Cold;
But now, begone down the broken stair!
I've suffered enough of your spite . . . so there!"
Bang! Bang! I slapped on the table bare
A glittering heap of gold.
"Red flames will jewel my wine to-night;
I'll loose my belt that you've lugged so tight;
Ha! Ha! Dame Fortune is smiling bright;
The stuff of my brain I've sold;
Canaille of the gutter, up! Away!
You've battened on me for a bitter-long day;
But I'm driving you forth, and forever and aye,
Hunger and Thirst and Cold."
So I kicked them out with a scornful roar;
Yet, oh, they turned at the garret door;
Quietly there they spoke once more:
"The tale is not all told.
It's au revoir, but it's not good-by;
We're yours, old chap, till the day you die;
Laugh on, you fool! Oh, you'll never defy
Hunger and Thirst and Cold."
poem by Robert William Service
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Haiku is
haiku is telling the readers
how the day starts
and how it actually ends
the light, the mist, the birds, the sun
how the dawn is different from the dusk
how the birds sing in the dawn
and how they sing in the dusk
and ultimately how the sun rises
and how it sets
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Progress of Poetry
The Farmer's Goose, who in the Stubble,
Has fed without Restraint, or Trouble;
Grown fat with Corn and Sitting still,
Can scarce get o'er the Barn-Door Sill:
And hardly waddles forth, to cool
Her Belly in the neighb'ring Pool:
Nor loudly cackles at the Door;
For Cackling shews the Goose is poor.
But when she must be turn'd to graze,
And round the barren Common strays,
Hard Exercise, and harder Fare
Soon make my Dame grow lank and spare:
Her Body light, she tries her Wings,
And scorns the Ground, and upward springs,
While all the Parish, as she flies,
Hear Sounds harmonious from the Skies.
Such is the Poet, fresh in Pay,
(The third Night's Profits of his Play;)
His Morning-Draughts 'till Noon can swill,
Among his Brethren of the Quill:
With good Roast Beef his Belly full,
Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull:
Deep sunk in Plenty, and Delight,
What Poet e'er could take his Flight?
Or stuff'd with Phlegm up to the Throat,
What Poet e'er could sing a Note?
Nor Pegasus could bear the Load,
Along the high celestial Road;
The Steed, oppress'd, would break his Girth,
To raise the Lumber from the Earth.
But, view him in another Scene,
When all his Drink is Hippocrene,
His Money spent, his Patrons fail,
His Credit out for Cheese and Ale;
His Two-Year's Coat so smooth and bare,
Through ev'ry Thread it lets in Air;
With hungry Meals his Body pin'd,
His Guts and Belly full of Wind;
And, like a Jockey for a Race,
His Flesh brought down to Flying-Case:
Now his exalted Spirit loaths
Incumbrances of Food and Cloaths;
And up he rises like a Vapour,
Supported high on Wings of Paper;
He singing flies, and flying sings,
While from below all Grub-street rings.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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The Bear and the Hare
The bear is always bare. I have never seen a bear who was not bare. Or does he or she wear a coat of hair? Where does he or she go to buy a coat of hair so that he or she won't be a bare bear? Coats cost money. Bare bears have no money.
But bears eat honey. Even bare bears eat honey. And this bear had a honey who wanted a coat of hair. So when she said to her honey, 'Honey, I want a coat of hair, but I have no money.', her honey replied, 'Honey, I have no money to buy a coat of hair. But I do have honey. Maybe I can sell my honey for money.' So he sold his honey for money so that his honey could have some money to buy a coat of hair and not be a bare bear.
This bear had a friend who was a hare. This hare has hair. Is he bare? He is not a bare bear but a hare and hares have hair. But he is a funny bunny and likes a sunny spot even when it is hot because he like to have fun in the sun. But this funny bunny could not find a sunny spot to go to have fun in the sun until one day a fair came to town.
The bear and hare of course went to the fair. What a pair! The fair was quite far so the bare bear and the hare with the hair decided to ride the street car. To ride the street car, they had to pay a fare. I say that was quite an affair - to see the bare bear and the hair paying for their fare. The bare bear had no pockets in which to carry any fare. The funny bunny had no honey to sell to get some money to pay the fare so that he could go to the fair. The fare cost ten cents. But that makes no sense. It isn't fair to make a bear who is bare and has no pockets to hold a fare or a funny bunny who has no honey to get money to pay a fare to go to the fair.
Subsequently, the bare bear barely got on the street car after the funny bunny hopped on, the bare bear and the hair were there sitting in chairs riding in the street car to the fair without paying any fare. Along the way they saw a mare. They did not care about the mare. They wanted to get to the fair. Have you every seen a bare bear sitting in a chair? I once saw a bare bear sitting in a chair at a fair but he wasn't bare.
To get into the fair the bare bear and the hair had to pay another fare. And still the bare bear had no money to pay any fare to get into the fair. And the funny bunny had no money to pay any fare to get into the fair. So what did they do? How did they get into the fair? As I said, I saw the bare bear sitting in a chair at the fair but he wasn't bare.
Tell me if this is a poem. Thanks.
poem by Ben Gieske
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Where The Blacktop Ends
Gonna kick off my shoes
And run in bare feet
Where the grass and the dirt and the gravel all meet
Goin' back to the well gonna visit old friends
And feed my soul where the blacktop ends
I'm lookin' down the barrel of Friday night
Ridin' on a river of freeway lights
Goodbye city I'm country bound
'Til Monday rolls around
Gonna kick off my shoes
And run in bare feet
Where the grass and the dirt and the gravel all meet
Goin' back to the well gonna visit old friends
And feed my soul where the blacktop ends
Workin' in the grind is an uphill road
Punchin' that clock and carryin' that load
I bust it all week and then I'm free
The weekend belongs to me
Gonna kick off my shoes
And run in bare feet
Where the grass and the dirt and the gravel all meet
Goin' back to the well gonna visit old friends
And feed my soul where the blacktop ends
Give me some fresh air give me that farm
Give me some time with you in my arms
Far away from the hustle and the pressure and the noise
Gonna kick off my shoes
And run in bare feet
Where the grass and the dirt and the gravel all meet
Goin' back to the well gonna visit old friends
And feed my soul, you betcha
Gonna kick off my shoes
And run in bare feet
Where the grass and the dirt and the gravel all meet
Goin' back to the well gonna visit old friends
And feed my soul where the blacktop ends
Where the blacktop ends
Where the blacktop ends
Where the blacktop ends
song performed by by Keith Urban
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Peace In The Light
Like Moths to a flame, trying to see,
The poor in spirit, seek to break free,
To avoid the abyss,
Search with all their might,
Where will they find the Light?
Once seen, always mean,
Must find a way to dull the bright,
How can we destroy the Light?
Those that love draw them nearer,
The door to inner Light is clearer,
To live life to the full, it is dear,
No way to live in fear,
Love and Light lie within us all,
Once seen, always agleam,
Must find a way to stay bright,
How can we spread the Light?
Spirit leads to colours bright,
Dark always enhances the Light,
Contrasts show us the way,
Deep within we can keep darkness at bay!
Once seen, always agleam,
Must find a way to stay bright,
How can we spread the Light,
April 2012
poem by David Andre' Klopper
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My Memory's Care
Sing not to me a song of beauty bright,
Nor festive scenes of dazzling light;
Nor of gorgeous pageant in palace hall
Begemmed with many a coronal;
But sing to me my memory's care -
The misspent hours fled where - oh where?
Sing not to me of the battlefield,
Nor splintered lance nor of broken shield,
Not of gory plumes once freshly fair,
Not of banners rent nor pennon bare;
But sing to me my memory's care -
The misspent hours fled where - oh where?
Sing not to me of the sea-fight won,
By daring hearts and by flashing gun,
Not how o'er the deep in exultant glee
The victor's ship speeds galliantly;
But sing to me my memory's care -
The misspent hours fled where - oh where?
Sing not of summer, sing not of spring,
For these no joy to my heart can bring;
Sing not of autumn yellow and sere
Sing not of pallid winter frosty and drear;
But sing to me my memory's care -
The misspent hours fled where - oh where?
Sing not of Love's deep tenderness
Nor its whispered words, share its sweet caress;
Sing not to me of Beauty's power,
Nor the bridal morn - Love's dearest hour!
But sing to me my memory's care
The misspent hours fled where - oh where?
Sing - sing to me with a mocking song,
Of the guilty past and its deeds of wrong;
Sing - till around me the phantoms come,
Or the broken hearts in a distant home;
These, these are my memory's care,
And shriek them forth to my soul's despair!
poem by Owen Suffolk
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Ballade of Ultimate Necessity, An Encore - Parody Author Unknown
You ask again, I'm feeling even worse,
again the morning mail has brought more bills,
their influence on mind I find perverse
while work falls kind of outside all my skills.
The sinews stiffen, blood once warm soon chills,
with checkbook cancelled, debts the soul submerse,
one cannot bless these monetary ills,
and therefore compensate with this poor verse.
The times are bleak, I cannot reimburse,
the bank foreclosure cries, with fear instills.
The world’s a stage but aptly who’d rehearse,
though roles are many, all the bitter pills
to swallow when one’s pale about the gills
and grievance nurse from cradle to the hearse
as what is given, - Time takes back and kills –
which we anticipate in further verse.
In days of old when bard could gold disburse,
and magic casements oped on sunny rills,
the happy mind could roam with ample purse,
and feathered nest. ... The flight of fancy fills
a further page for sharpening Life’s quills
before to earth it tumbles with a curse
ere butter melts in mouth, before milk spills.
ENVOI
Time smiles, the sickle rises, then it kills.
The scene, once acted out, none may reverse.
The world spins onwards, careless of Man’s wills, -
I cannot find the will to write more verse!
poem by Jonathan Robin
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I Refuse
Everythings heaven sent
Thats what you said and went
Inside your fairy glass
Somethin you think will last
And when they crop you like a clown
You got your smile on upside down
B-baby I refuse
(I do refuse)
Uh, you can pick or choose
(I do refuse)
Find omebody else to use
(I do refuse)
cause I refuse to come along
And everythings on a whim
Thats what you said to him
Lyin in wunderlust
Are feelings you never trust
And when they pamper you with ice
I cant believe you dont think twice
Uh baby I refuse
(I do refuse)
Uh, you can pick or choose
(I do refuse)
Find somebody else to use
(I do refuse)
cause I refuse to come along
And everyone makes the play
With nothing left much to say
Theyre all in an endless line
Waiting for equal time
They keep screaming its the truth
And you keep kneelin in the booth
Oh baby I refuse
(I do refuse)
Uh, you can pick or choose
(I do refuse)
Find somebody else to use
(I do refuse)
cause I refuse to come along
Oh, I do refuse
(I do refuse)
Oh, you got nothin to lose
(I do refuse)
Find somebody else to use
(find somebody else to use)
(I do refuse)
cause I refuse to come along
I refuse
(I do refuse)
Ah, oo-oo
(I do refuse)
(find somebody else to use)
(I do refuse)
cause I refuse to come along
I refuse
(I do refuse)
Oo, oh got nothin to lose
(I do refuse)
(find somebody else to use)
(I do refuse)
[fade]
song performed by by Cars
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Friends.... Old Friends......
Friends… old friends…
One sees how it ends.
A woman looks
Or a man lies,
And the pleasant brooks
And the quiet skies,
Ruined with brawling
And caterwauling,
Enchant no more
As they did before,
And so it ends
With friends.
Friends… old friends…
And what if it ends?
Shall we dare to shirk
What we live to learn?
It has done its work,
It has served its turn;
And, forgive and forget
Or hanker and fret,
We can be no more
As we were before.
When it ends, it ends
With friends.
Friends… old friends…
So it breaks, so it ends.
There let it rest!
It has fought and won,
And is still the best
That either has done.
Each as he stands
The work of its hands
Which shall be more
As he was before?…
What is it ends
With friends?
poem by William Ernest Henley
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A House Is Not A Home
(burt bacharach / hal david)
A chair is still a chair
Even though theres no-one sitting there
But a chair is not a house
And a house is not a home
When theres no-one there to hold you tight
And no-one there you can kiss goodnight
A room is still a room
Even though theres nothing there but gloom
But a room is not a house
And a house is not a home
When the two of us are far apart
And one of us has a broken heart
Now and then I call your name
And suddenly your voice appears
But its just a crazy game
When it ends, it ends in tears
Darling, have a heart
Dont let one mistake keep us apart
Im not meant to live alone
Turn this house into a home
When I climb the stairs
And turn the key
Oh, please be there
Still in love with me
Im not meant to live alone
Turn this house into a home
When I climb the stairs
And turn the key
Oh, please be there
Still in love with me
song performed by by Dusty Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Expensive Chair - Its A Beautiful Thing B-side
Your face is looking like
Someone you forgot you used to know
You were looking for rhymes and reason
They forgot the things you used to know
You came to rely on good fortune
Your mothers screaming low
With the sky in the eye
And jump through the window
Youve made your own room at the top
Well its getting thin on air
Still you look at me from your most expensive chair
And when youre feeling fit to drop
And you find theres no one there
Still you look at me from your most expensive chair
You dont wanna shout about it
When theres nothing you care to know
Your friends they just laugh about it
In the places that you never go
You cannot deny your good fortune
Your friends they wont let go
See your hair is in place
And see away from the window
Repeat chorus
Youre the judge how high it hangs
When your castles made of sand
Because the people who kill the king
Are the people who move from within
You cant rely on good fortune
Your friends are crying low
Kick your feet from the chair
And let it slip from the gallow
Repeat chorus
song performed by by Ocean Colour Scene
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Scholar's Life
Mark what ills the scholar’s life assail,
toil, envy want, the garret and the jail,
and others Dr. Johnson has omitted,
like friends who think he ought to be committed
by men with licenses and long white coats
who do not care for all the things he quotes,
and patrons who have never gone to college,
who hope that words he uses to acknowledge
their help will make them so respectable
that they to higher office are electable,
and scholars who search carefully his writings
for their own names in small print in the citings
of footnotes, endnotes, all the apparatus
which basically for them is all that matters,
protected by their status and their tenure,
manure some pile on, some pile on womenure.
To toil and envy, garret and the jail,
add steps some make to make their rivals fail.
These are some ills befalling scholars’ lives;
survivors are the ones with lovely wives.
Frank Kermode reviews several books on Dr. Johnson in the NYR, June 22,2006:
When Johnson’s poem “The Vanity of Human Wishes” was first published in 1749, it contained this couplet:
…mark what ills the scholar’s life assail,
Toil, envy, want, the garret at the jail.
In the second edition of 1755, “garret” is changed to “patron.”
6/11/06
poem by Gershon Hepner
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A Guide for Poits
I ain't no verse-'og. When I busts in song
An' fills the air wiv choonful melerdy,
I likes fer uvver coves to come along
An' biff the lyre in company wiv me.
So, when I sees some peb beguile an hour
Be joinin' in the chorus o' me song,
I never sees no use in turnin' sour;
Fer singin' days wiv no one larsts too long.
I'd like to see the Rocks an' Little Lon
Grow centres for the art uv weavin' rhyme,
Wiv dinky 'arps fer blokes to plunk upon,
An' spruiking poits workin' overtime.
I'd love to listen to each choonful lay
Uv soulful coots who scorn to write fer gain;
To see True Art bloom down in Chowder Bay,
An' Culcher jump the joint in Spadger's Lane.
Gawstruth! fer us life's got no joy to spare,
We're short uv bird songs, 'soarin' clean an' pure.'
A bloke is 'ardly orf the bottle there
Before 'e's in the jug -- a bird fer sure.
So 'oo am I to say no blokes shall sing
Jist 'ow an' where an' when sich blokes may choose?
She's got no lines to show, nor yet no ring.
Lor' blim'me! I ain't married to me Muse!
An, square an' all, to show there's no offence,
To show that in me 'eart true friendship lies,
I gives free gratis, an wivout ixpense,
A few igzamples, just to put 'em wise.
First, choose some swingin' metre, sich as this,
That Omar used -- per Fitz -- to boost the wine.
An' 'ere's a point true artists shouldn't miss:
Sling in a bit o' slang to ev'ry line.
An' when yer full o' them alternate rhymes --
As all the true push poits is at times --
Jist ring the changes, as I'm doin' now;
An' find ixcuse to say: 'The bloomin' cow!'
Or, comin' back to Omar's style again,
It's easy fer to pen a sweet refrain
Wiv this 'ere kist a dead-'ead sort o' line,
An' this one rhymin' wiv the former twain.
An' though this style me soul 'as often vext,
Wiv care an' pains the knack is easy cort;
This line's rhymed wiv the first, an' then the next
Is cut orf short.
An' if yeh want to round it orf orl neat
Just add a couplet 'ere of equil feet.
An' 'ere's a style I've very often done:
You swing orf 'ere, an' find a second rhyme,
Then hitch the third line to the leadin' one.
An' make the fourth lap wiv the second chime,
An' then you sort o' come another time,
An' jist end up the same as you begin.
It's orl dead easy when yeh know the way,
An' 'ave the time to practise it -- But, say,
Although it sort o' takes the eye, no doubt
(An', mind yeh, I'm not sayin' but it may) --
Wivout a stock uv rhymes to see you out
This style o' rhymin's like to turn yeh grey.
The triplets comes much 'arder than the twins;
But I 'ave 'ad to bear 'em fer me sins.
'Ere, fer a single line, yeh change the style,
Switch orf an' rhyme the same as you begins;
An' then yeh comes back at it wiv a smile,
Pertendin' it's dead easy orl the while.
Them sawed-orf lines 'as often stood me friends;
Fer you kin cut 'em upto serve yer ends.
An' frequent I 'ave slung the dotin' throng
This sort o' song.
To ring su'prises on the eye an' ear
Is 'arf the game. It seems to kind o' queer
The dull monotony. yeh make a miss,
An' then do this.
Aw, 'Struth! it's pretty; but you take my tip,
It gives a bloke the everlastin' pip
'Oo tries to live upon the game and gets. . . .
Corns on 'is brain an' melancholy debts!
Wiv sweat an' tears, wiv misery an' sighs,
Yeh wring yer soul-case fer one drop of bliss
To give the cold, 'ard world; an' it replies,
'Prompt payment will erblige. Please settle this.'
The rarest treasures of yer 'eart yeh spend
On callous, thankless coots; an' in the end
It comes to this: if you can't find a muse
'Oo takes in washin', wot's the flamin' use?
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A little Hope..
When you look but cannot see
You leave but not arrive
Believe but it's beyond the truth
Live life but not alive
When light is total darkness
When sound is silent too
When every day is black as night
And every colour's blue,
When happiness is something less
And friends forget you're there
The only season's winter,
And the cupboards always bare
Find strength where once was weakness
Find love where once was none
Believe that you can beat the odds
Your future's just begun.
poem by Dave James
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Knowledge Is Power
In the morning watch,
Into the midst of learning;
In the evening tide,
Out of the muse that muses;
A knowledge from a pavement made to achieve success,
Like the tune of a beautiful song.
Say it again,
Write it again,
Sing it again,
Play it again,
Come to ACTION SECONDARY TECHNICAL SCHOOL;
A learning environment with love and care.
I do remember, i do remember! !
Like the watchful minutes to the hour when,
I have this loving muse to all who want to learn.
Look!
Over there is ACTION SECONDARY TECHNICAL SCHOOL;
A place where knowledge gained is power to you!
I remember,
Like the open window;
With 'deep-green unifrom' to the vegetation.
Now i know,
'Knowledge is power'!
A peaceful atmosphere of love and care to share with you.
To learn,
To know,
Of a muse like rain drops;
With teachers dedicated to serve you all.
Go, tell it on the moutains;
A candle light from MADINA ESTATE where,
Knowledge is power.
Listen oh heavens,
Hear oh earth,
ACTION SECONDARY TECHNICAL SCHOOL is around you;
A place where knowledge is acquired through learning.
Of the 'grey-trousers' to the world so sweet,
A candle light of hope;
Of the muse that leads to love,
Like a pleasant wit at hand;
A timely success iy all that you need in life.
This is wher love is found,
This is where people learn to gain,
With hopeful years at school;
I remember,
I remember!
'Grey-trousers like grey hairs;
Where knoeledge abounds to the wise like,
The school itself.
Come to where ACTION SECONDARY TECHNICAL is,
Come to gain your knowledge as well;
Learning,
The day's fair face.
Say it again like,
ACTION SECONDARY TECHNICAL SCHOOL;
Like a muse to the world so sweet.
Write it again,
With love and care from the teachers;
Come to this atmosphere where,
Knowledge is power.
A learning place of joy,
To sing to it again and again;
With students and teachers to share their views in,
This royal place of knowledge.
This place of love and care,
This place of a muse that muses;
The day is done when,
You have gained your knowledge.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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