En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Timmy The Seal

Timmy the Seal was a friend of mine
I'm sorry for I heard He died,
Up in Alaska He was clubbed to death,
So I think, I will sit and cry.
For I remember still when He was a Cub
And the way He use to talk
And the way He smiled through His saddened eyes,
And; His funny walk.
I remember His Mother a good old Girl
And how much She loved Her son
And how She protected Timmy when the Hunters came,
So they killed Her; and Timmy cried so loud.
So into the ocean Timmy ran and jumped,
And swam as fast as He could swim
Though He escaped from the screams and the cries,
But He couldn't escape from where He had been.
For He remembered the cries and the bloody sight
And His friends who were clubbed to death,
And the Hunters who crept through the night,
While carrying those clubs of red.

Timmy the Seal swam back to His home
Just to see if anyone was left,
But all He could find was blood on the snow,
And a Walrus, whose name was Fred;
The Walrus was an ancient one
Whom lived through many of deaths,
And He told Timmy how His family had died,
In one of those bloody nights.
The Hunters all arrived with their clubs
And killed everything that moved
And so went my family, in just one night,
And I knew not what to do.
The Walrus cried and Timmy sighed
Finally knowing how to stop these killings,
Timmy looked at Fred and said unafraid,
I'll show the Hunters we too have feelings, .
So in toward the ocean Timmy jumped and swam,
Leaving the Walrus all alone,
Vowing He'd find the Hunters and stop these killings,
And when He did, He would come back home.
But Timmy never came back home again
I heard this from some friends,
They said Timmy showed the Hunters His sad brown eyes,
So they laughed, and they killed Timmy for His hide.

Timmy the Seal was a Friend of mine
So another tear for me to cry,
For I remember the day Timmy swam away,
For the Walrus, was I.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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Timmy The Turtle

Timmy the Turtle
Ya know he was Tim
Timmy the Turtle
He sang for The Grim
Timmy the Turtle
Ya know he was Tim
Timmy the Turtle
Timmy the Turtle
Ya know he was Tim
Timmy the Turtle
He sang for The Grim
Timmy the Turtle
Ya know he was Tim
Timmy the Turtle
Too slow
He sat in turtle goo
Timmy the Turtle
He's givin 'em hell
Timmy the Turtle
He's out of his shell
Timmy the Turtle
He's givin' 'em hell
He's Timmy the Turtle
Timmy the Turtle
He's givin' 'em hell
Timmy the Turtle
He's out of his shell
Timmy the Turtle
He's givin' 'em hell
Timmy the Turtle
Too slow
He sat in turtle goo

song performed by by NOFX
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Toast II

Frankly, he found them boring, Timmy's hallucinations,
Auditory or visual, no matter,
And it was a little creepy to see
The brother you grew up with in a state like that.
Just who was this Miguel, anyway?
Timmy claimed him the son of a Cuban war hero
Executed a long time ago for drug-running. Bizarre.
Just because their names were both Santos.
Didn't the fool know how many people named Santos
Lived in that country?
That's what he got for fooling around with that stuff!
That's what he got for fooling around, period!
Timmy was always a nervous bloke.
He looked at his brother, who seemed to be falling asleep,
Then down at the ice-cubes in his glass, at the peculiar way
They floated in Scotch, and he laughed.
Poor Timmy would faint at the sight of a white stretch limo.
Crazy bloke. All because he fooled around.
All because he got caught.

poem by Morgan Michaels
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A Little Turtle Called Muddle

There was a little turtle
and his name was Muddle
because at times he got confused
could not remember if he was
a tortoise or a turtle.

Had Muddle been brought up
in the wild
he would not have been confused,
but he was brought up in captivity
and now he was not sure what he was suppose to be.

Now Muddle lived a sheltered life.
He had no friends or playmates
to keep him company.
Then one day in his glass cage,
his owners put in someone new.
Now he had someone to talk to.

The newcomer stayed in his shell
afraid to come out. He felt safe in there,
thinking no one could see him
when he was
tucked inside his shell.

Muddle moved up to him
and nudged him with his shell.
“Have you gone to sleep in there? ”
Muddle asked as turtles do.
“Come on out,
no one is going to hurt you.”

The stranger poked his head out
and gave a look around.
“Who are you? ” he asked.
“My name is Muddle. What is your name? ”
“My name is Timmy
because I’m rather timid.”

After their introductions,
Muddle and Timmy
settled in for a long chat.
They talked to on another
between little snacks,
from sunrise to sunset.

Now Muddle had his company,
someone he always wanted,
and Timmy had a friend too.
They both lived together happily
and as they grew older
Muddle found he wasn’t Muddle at all.

As it turned out
Muddle was not Muddle,
But Marianne.
He was not a boy, but a little girl.
Now Marianne and Timmy
live together happily.

They are hoping for
the patter of little feet
in the not to distant future
as they start their family
and live happily ever after.

6 - 7 May 2008

poem by David Harris
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Timmy The Mole

Timmy the mole dug a winding hole
to keep his family in,
but one rainy day the water found its way
and his family had to run or swim.

As fast as they ran the water began
to touch the last one’s tail.
“You must try to run faster to avoid a disaster, ”
said Timmy, as they looked certain to fail.

They ran up a slope, which gave them some hope,
as the chasing water seemed to slow down,
but they came to a dead end and could no longer ascend,
and it looked certain that they would drown.

The moles frantically dug away, on this gloomy day
as they tried desperately to get above ground.
They saw light above and kissed each other with love,
and escaped from being drowned.

poem by Orlando Belo
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Letter Sent to Master Timmy Dwight

Master Timmy brisk and airy
Blythe as Oberon the fairy
On thy head thy cousin wishes
Thousand and ten thousand blisses.
Never may thy wicket ball
In a well or puddle fall;
Or thy wild ambitious kite
O'er the elm's thick foliage light.
When on bended knee thou sittest
And the mark in fancy hittest
May thy marble truly trace
Where thy wishes mark'd the place.
If at hide and seek you play,
All involved in the hay
Titt'ring hear the joyful sound
"Timmy never can be found."
If you hop or if you run
Or whatever is the fun
Vic'try with her sounding pinion
Hover o'er her little minion.
But when hunger calls the boys
From their helter skelter joys
Bread and cheese in order standing
For their most rapacious handling
Timmy may thy luncheon be
More than Ben's as five to three,
But if hasty pudding's dish
Meet thy vast capacious wish -
Or lob-lollys charming jelly
Court thy cormorantal belly
Mortal foe to megre fast
Be thy spoonful first and last.

poem by Major Henry Livingston Jr.
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Toast

'Toast', he said, (drily) , 'toast'.
Then a third time, 'toast'.
Only then did the quivering figure on the sofa seem to hear
How he wished it would stop, the quivering, that is,
And the babble of questions.
They were watching 'New York Law And Order'.
Not a good thing for his brother to be watching, perhaps,
Given his state-what had the doctors called it?
Psychotic depression, complicated by alcohol withdrawal,
Complicated by cocaine withdrawal, complicated by what?
Malnutrition? How could a person become malnourished
In America today? In New York City, with all those delis?
With all those pizzarias?
Johnny enjoyed the show, he told Timmy
Though the noise and violence were scary-
It had a strange way of getting under your skin.
(Timmy especially hated the sirens)
'Toast' is what Miguel would become, Johnny explained,
Soothingly to the figure propped sideways on the sofa
If he touched a hair of his head-here in Center City
Or home in New York, (where he belonged)
Oh, how he wished he'd go home-
He was beginning to get tired of all this
Three week-ends in a row now, but how do you tell
Your own brother to scram? It was a dilemma.
Frankly, ...

poem by Morgan Michaels
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Dadd

When i see you
the thought of you beating me
invades my mind,

I get lost, Can't focus,
What else is there?

Crazy Crazy Crazy
My name changed to Crazy,

When you speak to me
you insult me,

You are no father,
Your lies are clear,
&&you buy forgiveness,
When it can be earned,

Others are blinded,
Yet they see when i shed tears,
Of what? ? Of sadness, , Or anger?

Kept hostage in this place,
My wings were meant to spread freely,
But you cut them,

I was never crazy,
Until you made me.

poem by Timmy Turner
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Ill Be There For You

(gary baker, wayne perry, timmy allen)
Dont say a word
I understand
You wanna know
If Im still your man
Girl cant you tell
By the touch of my hand
Im gonna please you
Every way that I can
Ill hold you, hold you
Love you, love you
Ill never let your love go let you go, let you go
For always , for always
Ill stay, Ill stay
Just look in my eyes and youll know
Chorus
Baby Ill be there for you
Wherever you go
Whatever you do
Girl Ive got forever inside
For all of my life
Ill be there for you
Dont ever doubt
Your trust in me
Ill give you my heart
So honestly
Deep in my soul
Baby youll find the truth
Ill never change
Girl I promise you
Chorus
Nothing and no one can tear us apart
Youll always be here inside of my heart
And just as sure as the stars shine above
No matter what happens
You can count on my love
Chorus 2x

song performed by by Backstreet Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love Isn't Love

(timmy tappan, don roth)
Smile's not a smile until it wrinkles your face
Bell's not a bell without ringing
A home's not a home when there's nobody there
A song's not a song without singing
Chorus:
Love isn't love till you give it away
Love isn't love till it's free
The love in your heart
Wasn't put there to stay
Oh love isn't love till you give it away
You might think love is a treasure to keep
Feeling to cherish and hold
But love is a treasure for people to share
You keep it by letting it go
Repeat chorus
Cause love can't survive
When it's hidden inside
And love was meant to be shared
Repeat chorus

song performed by by Reba Mcentire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love Isn't Love ('Til You Give It Away)

(Timmy Tappan, Don Roth)
Smile's not a smile until it wrinkles your face
Bell's not a bell without ringing
A home's not a home when there's nobody there
A song's not a song without singing
Chorus:
Love isn't love till you give it away
Love isn't love till it's free
The love in your heart
Wasn't put there to stay
Oh love isn't love till you give it away
You might think love is a treasure to keep
Feeling to cherish and hold
But love is a treasure for people to share
You keep it by letting it go
Repeat Chorus
Cause love can't survive
When it's hidden inside
And love was meant to be shared
Repeat Chorus

song performed by by Reba Mcentire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Disappear

And we are
The krush groovin, the body-movin
The record makin and the record breakin
And it goes a little something like this
Uh, oh, frickity, uh, oh
A lot of y'all was thinkin' that Bubba would disappear
Get some money from Ugly, buy a keg of beer
A lot of y'all was thinkin' that Bubba would disappear
Oh, I see, come on
A lot of y'all was thinkin' that Bubba would disappear
Get some money from Ugly, buy a keg of beer
A lot of y'all was thinkin' that Bubba would disappear
Ohho
I got my boots polished up and my overalls pressed
He is back, it was over y'all guessed
I heard ya new stuff and I hope it's y'all's best
Cos this that ? that's disposin' y'all's mess
See I live with Ricky Wade and I'm still with Timmy Mosley
Hit every town, every suein' city knows me
Oops, I admit, every suein' city chose me
Why are you yappin, I sent you to get the groceries
Hot shot, hype down, money's in my sight now
Really think that you can keep from me but it like how
Bubba's out of sight, wow, yeah I'm really psyched out
Plus we got them kids in the yard and they like (OW)
I was playin' in, Bubba's gonna strike now
Been milkin' music, we just had to find the right cow
Still I'm in the field, ain't no tellin' what I might plow
Fly always from the early bird to nights
A lot of y'all was thinkin' that Bubba would disappear, oh
Get some money from Ugly, buy a keg of beer, ah yeah
A lot of y'all was thinkin' that Bubba would disappear
Oh, I see, I said
A lot of y'all was thinkin' that Bubba would disappear, oh
Get some money from Ugly, buy a keg of beer, ah yeah, oh
A lot of y'all was thinkinc

song performed by by Bubba Sparxxx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Give Peace A Chance

Two, one, two, three, four
Ev'rybody's talking about
Bagism, Shagism, Dragism, Madism,
Ragism, Tagism
This-ism, That-ism, is-m, is-m, is-m
All we are saying is give piece a chance,
All we are saying is give piece a chance
C'mon
Ev'rybody's talking about ministers,
Sinister, Banisters
And canisters, Bishops, Fishops,
Rabbis, and Pop eyes, Bye, bye, bye byes
All we are saying is give piece a chance,
All we are saying is give piece a chance
Let me tell you now
Revoluton, evolution, masturbation,
Flagellation, regulation, integrations,
Meditations, United Nations,
Congratulations
Ev'rybody's talking about
John and Yoko, Timmy Leary, Rosemary,
Tommy Smothers, Bobby Dylan,
Tommy Copper,
Derek Taylor, Norman Mailer,
Alan Ginsburg, Hare Krishna,
Hare
Krishna

song performed by by Beatles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Booger McNulty and Me

In 1948 Booger McNulty's coal yard stirred
constant gossip among the citizens who lived
in little bungalows on narrow blocks
in my far corner of Chicago.
That was more than 60 years ago,
a time when families took Sunday walks
and went back home in time to hear
Jack Benny on the radio.
A Sunday walk didn't cost a cent,
a price my parents could afford.

When my parents took a Sunday walk,
my sister and I always had to go along,
and every time we'd pass Booger's place,
I'd hear my mother ask my father
what could possibly be on the other side
of Booger's 10-foot fence.
Hoping to avoid a conversation,
my father always said he didn't know
but he believed it couldn't just be coal.

Back then, every kid in the neighborhood
wanted to climb that fence and look around.
But Booger didn't feature visitors.
According to the boy whose keister caught
a chunk of coal from Booger's slingshot,
there was nothing on the other side
except for pigeons and a lot of coal.

In the bungalows surrounding Booger's place,
immigrants from everywhere slept off beer and garlic
when they weren't working, which was pretty often,
according to my mother. My father always worked,
digging graves with the other men,
most of them, like him, from Ireland.
He dug graves because some Bulgarian
broke his nose, after which my mother ruled
no more boxing. He'd been undefeated until then.

I was ten in 1948 and I'd climb Booger's fence
when I was certain he was gone for the night.
Inside the yard I'd climb the piles of coal
until I got tired and then I'd go home
and take a bath before my father saw me.
My mother never let my father see me
cloaked in the soot of Booger's coal
and she always made me promise
never to go back to Booger's again.

But on Easter Sunday in 1948,
I went over Booger's fence a final time.
My mother had taken pains that morning
to get me dressed for the Children's Mass
and sent me off with a caution to be good.
I always went to Mass, every Sunday,
and I would pray and sing the hymns
and usually I was good but this time
the weather was so nice I decided
to go to Booger's instead.
He wouldn't be there on Easter.
It would be just me and the pigeons.
But I was gone for hours that day,
and since no one knew where I was,
a furor in the family flared up,
as I'll explain later.

At school on Monday, Timmy Duffy,
unlike me a favorite of the nuns who taught us,
told me every other boy in class had made it
to the Children's Mass on Easter.
'And where were you? ' he asked.
I told him I'd been sick and thought
with all the polio going around,
I didn't want to cripple anyone on Easter.
Timmy accepted my excuse because
we were all praying for Mickey Kane,
who'd spent a year in an Iron Lung.
'And so, ' said Timmy, 'even though
you weren't there to help, we sang
as loud as we could on Easter, '
something our class always did to keep
the nuns in the aisle from paying us a visit.

I may have sung no hymns that Easter
but I probably looked pretty spiffy
scrambling over Booger's fence
in my new blue suit, white shirt and tie.
I had a wonderful time in the sun
with pigeons careening in the air.
I was free to climb my favorite pile of coal,
toboggan down on my duff,
and then climb a different pile
and toboggan down again,
far more fun than any sled in winter.
Hours later when I got hungry,
back over the fence I went
and headed home for dinner.

Every Easter Sunday, we'd have
ham and yams, Brussels sprouts
and rutabaga, favorites of my father
from his youth in Ireland.
But when I got home that day,
we didn't eat right away
after my father saw me.
As I recall, his reaction was
more Neanderthal than usual.

'Molly, ' he roared to my mother,
with his hand on the back of my neck,
'the little bastid says he went to Booger's!
He never went to Mass! '
And then, despite my mother's protests,
he grabbed from behind the attic door
a belt that had been hanging there for years,
waiting for a felony like mine to happen.
I knew right away what I had to do
and so I dropped my pants and bent
over at the waist as far as possible.
Without a word, he stropped my arse.

I didn't cry, gosh no, since tears
would have brought additional licks.
We were Irish, don'tcha know,
so we didn't cry and we didn't watch
English movies on TV, either.
The accents of the actors would remind
my father of the Black and Tans,
the English soldiers who imprisoned him
on Spike Island, off the coast of Ireland
when he was just 16.
They grabbed him barefoot in a stream
sneaking guns to the IRA.
In 1920, Irish boys ran guns for the IRA
barefoot through the bogs and streams,
provided they were big enough.

Decades later in Chicago, a stranger,
dressed like a Mormon on an urban mission,
rang our bell and told my father
he was from the IRA and had a medal for him
in honor of his service 40 years earlier.
He said 'It took a while for us to find you.'
My father hung the medal in his closet
next to the tan fedora he wore to Irish wakes.
He always went to wakes, hoping to meet
someone 'from home.'

So there I was that Easter Sunday,
standing in our tiny parlor with my pants
napping at my ankles, the result
of a wonderful morning at Booger's
and a terrible afternoon at home.
Now,60 years later,
when that Easter Sunday comes to mind,
no matter where I am, I whisper,
just in case he still can hear me,
'Pops, I haven't missed a Mass on Sunday
since I got that Easter stropping.
I guess I learned my lesson.'

And then I tell him, as politely as I can,
that if he can get a pass from wherever
the Lord has stored him, he can verify
my Mass attendance with my wife and kids,
the last of whom, a son, moved out on us
Christmas Eve,2010, even though
the boy promised his mother and me
a ride to Midnight Mass in his new Hummer.
Two feet of snow we got that evening.

My father would have loved that snow.
Back in '67, when we got 30 inches of it,
some of it in drifts as high as Booger's coal,
he was just delighted by the winter scene,
so much so that he had the two of us
shovel frantically for hours,
albeit in our usual Trappist silence.
When we got back to the house,
he told my mother,
with more than a dollop of flair,
the hairs in his nose were frozen.
tThank God my mother had his tea ready,
steaming hot, as it should be, in its cozy
next to his favorite chair.
And she gave me lots of cocoa,
swirling hot with marshmallows
floating on the top.

Now every New Year's Eve at midnight
(and this has been going on for years)
I see those same marshmallows
when it's time for me to hoist a glass
and make my toast to Holy Week 1948,
the week that I absorbed without a tear
Booger's slingshot and my father's belt.
'Praise the Lord, ' I shout,
'and pass the ammunition.'

As the years go by,
fewer guests know what I mean.
But most of them
never had a chance to hear
Jack Benny on the radio.
The young ones always ask
where I got my old fedora.
A couple of them have even said
they'd have it blocked and cleaned.
But most of them, I'm certain,
even though they went to college,
never saw a relic.
They think the old fedora's
just a hat.

poem by Donal Mahoney
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Ballad of the Jelly-Cake

A little boy whose name was Tim
Once ate some jelly-cake for tea--
Which cake did not agree with him,
As by the sequel you shall see.
'My darling child,' his mother said,
'Pray do not eat that jelly-cake,
For, after you have gone to bed,
I fear 't will make your stomach ache!'
But foolish little Tim demurred
Unto his mother's warning word.

That night, while all the household slept,
Tim felt an awful pain, and then
From out the dark a nightmare leapt
And stood upon his abdomen!
'I cannot breathe!' the infant cried--
'Oh, Mrs. Nightmare, pity take!'
'There is no mercy,' she replied,
'For boys who feast on jelly-cake!'
And so, despite the moans of Tim,
The cruel nightmare went for him.

At first, she 'd tickle Timmy's toes
Or roughly smite his baby cheek--
And now she 'd rudely tweak his nose
And other petty vengeance wreak;
And then, with hobnails in her shoes
And her two horrid eyes aflame,
The mare proceeded to amuse,
Herself by prancing o'er his frame--
First to his throbbing brow, and then
Back to his little feet again.

At last, fantastic, wild, and weird,
And clad in garments ghastly grim,
A scowling hoodoo band appeared
And joined in worrying little Tim.
Each member of this hoodoo horde
Surrounded Tim with fierce ado
And with long, cruel gimlets bored
His aching system through and through,
And while they labored all night long
The nightmare neighed a dismal song.

Next morning, looking pale and wild,
Poor little Tim emerged from bed--
'Good gracious! what can ail the child!'
His agitated mother said.
'We live to learn,' responded he,
'And I have lived to learn to take
Plain bread and butter for my tea,
And never, never, jelly-cake!
For when my hulk with pastry teems,
I must expect unpleasant dreams!'

poem by Eugene Field
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The Whale Song

The sun was in clouds. The sun looked out. Exposed a trail of mist and spouts.
Ships followed the ancient lead. Deceiving friends under the sea.
Wow, imagine that? They won't fight back. I got a theory on that.
dark.
They won't fight back. I'm sure they know how. Means they love or are too proud.
They won't fight back. I'm sure they know how. Means they love or too proud.
They swim. It's really free. It's a beautiful thing to see. They sing.
Hunters of land. Hunters of sea. Exploit anything for money.
I refer to anybody that takes advantage of what that is free.
They won't fight back.
your sight.
Take what you want. Kill what you can. That's just one way of the mind of man.
Take their lives. Sell their parts but there is not taking of their hearts.
to be.
They won't fight back. (x5)
They don't know how.
They won't fight back. (x3)

song performed by by Pearl Jam
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Walrus and The Carpenter

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

poem by Lewis Carroll from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There (1872)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy! | In Romanian

Child Development

As sure as prehistoric fish grew legs
and sauntered off the beaches into forests
working up some irregular verbs for their
first conversation, so three-year-old children
enter the phase of name-calling.

Every day a new one arrives and is added
to the repertoire. You Dumb Goopyhead,
You Big Sewerface, You Poop-on-the-Floor
(a kind of Navaho ring to that one)
they yell from knee level, their little mugs
flushed with challenge.
Nothing Samuel Johnson would bother tossing out
in a pub, but then the toddlers are not trying
to devastate some fatuous Enlightenment hack.

They are just tormenting their fellow squirts
or going after the attention of the giants
way up there with their cocktails and bad breath
talking baritone nonsense to other giants,
waiting to call them names after thanking
them for the lovely party and hearing the door close.

The mature save their hothead invective
for things: an errant hammer, tire chains,
or receding trains missed by seconds,
though they know in their adult hearts,
even as they threaten to banish Timmy to bed
for his appalling behavior,
that their bosses are Big Fatty Stupids,
their wives are Dopey Dopeheads
and that they themselves are Mr. Sillypants.

poem by Billy Collins
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Forget (narrative poem)

My mom went to the beach
but she forgot her things
to the back of the car she reached
but still she forgot everything
she asked like a million times where are my things
and then she remembered she forgot them at home
then she called twice and told me: are my things at home
i said yes
and she went mad
she went and swam and when she came back
i saw her wet
i asked her: what did you do
she said its okay i swam in my clothes
and then i laughed until i died
but all she did was shout and fight
and then i got in trouble
for all the mess i had done
goodbye sunshine because i am grounded
for like a week
see you my friends
but maybe till the end

poem by Jana Ghossein
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Last Night, I Died

Last night, I died
And there was no one there
There was no one for me to speak to
Except for GOD; who I did in prayer.
I asked GOD then to forgive me
And please, erase the sins of this man
Then I asked him to watch over my family and friends
And then I asked him please; hold my hand.
And as I lay there dying
Unto GOD I freely spoke
I thanked him for all the gifts he gave me,
I thanked him for all the words I wrote.
Then I closed my eyes and had memories
But not of the bad times, only the good,
Then I thought of the people I loved and trusted,
Not because I had to, but because I should.
And while I was there still alone
Awaiting for death to take my life,
I began to cry, but not for me
But for my son, and the woman I call wife.
Then I thought in Heaven who would walk with me
When I arrived, in my new home,
Then I thought who would be with me
Or in Heaven I thought, Would I walk alone.
And as I awaited For my life to end
I worried as I began to think of everyone else,
The sting of death really didn't bother me,
But only knowing, I would die by myself.
And then at last death it came,
And there for me, no one had cried
Because no one knew that I left this world
Because no one knew, last night I had died.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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We Are Indebted to Them Up to Our Eyelids

...Keep it cleansed, fresh and moisterized! ...

And now back to further news announcements:
The state of the economy worsens.
The higher the skies...
The lower the national deficit!
Crime on all levels of government,
Has ravished the confidence of the people.
Thousands are losing pensions, jobs
And patience.

Oil and gasoline prices...
Although leveling,
Are still higher than they have been in decades.
Food poisoning?
Well...
If imported peppers don't kill you,
Saturated fats will.

Racism is on everyone's lips.
Foreclosures are being issued...
As quickly as pink slips.
And people have become outraged!

Question?
'Are whites right?
Should blacks be kept back?
And what about those of other hues?
The ones we purchase our tainted toys,
Clothes and shoes?
The ones who make our cars...
Liquor we drink and candy bars?
And the Chinese?
We are indebted to them up to our eyelids...
Well passed our knees!
Red is not the only color,
Of their communist flag!

And,
Out of our affliliate location...
This just in!
From Washington, D.C.
We have a news flash! A bulletin!
Is Barack Obama...
Masquerading as a Negro?
Is he black enough?
How can we deepen those attacks?
McCain and others on the right want to know!

This and other very important news reports,
Right after a word from our sponsor...
Stiff Lifter!

*Erectile Dysfunction got you limp?
Are you 'not' enjoying quality sex?
Are you still faking those orgasms?
Climax...
With 'Stiff Lifter'! *

'Timmy, jr.?
Go to your room immediately.
You are not to listen to such garbage.
Go to your room immediately!
Play with the new video game I bought for you,
The other day...
'Kill the Odd Ones! '
You said you really like it! '

~Okay, mom.
But daddy is still smoking crack in there.
And you told me not to disturb him,
Especially when he is 'meditating'.~

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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