En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Mystery Of Mister Smith

For supper we had curried tripe.
I washed the dishes, wound the clock;
Then for awhile I smoked my pipe -
Puff! Puff! We had no word of talk.
The Misses sewed - a sober pair;
Says I at last: "I need some air."

A don't know why I acted so;
I had no thought, no plot, no plan.
I did not really mean to go -
I'm such a docile little man;
But suddenly I felt that I
Must change my life or I would die.

A sign I saw: A ROOM TO LET.
It had a musty, dusty smell;
It gloated gloom, it growled and yet
Somehow I felt I liked it well.
I paid the rent a month ahead:
That night I smoked my pipe in bed.

From out my world I disappeared;
My walk and talk changed over-night.
I bought black glasses, grew a beard -
Abysmally I dropped from sight;
Old Tax Collector, Mister Smith
Became a memory, a myth.

I see my wife in widow's weeds;
She's gained in weight since I have gone.
My pension serves her modest needs,
She keeps the old apartment on;
And living just a block away
I meet her nearly every day.

I hope she doesn't mourn too much;
She has a sad and worried look.
One day we passed and chanced to touch,
But as with sudden fear I shook,
So blankly in my face she peered,
I had to chuckle in my beard.

Oh, comfort is a blessed thing,
But forty years of it I had.
I never drank the wine of Spring,
No moon has ever made me mad.
I never clutched the skirts of Chance
Nor daftly dallied with Romance.

And that is why I seek to save
My soul before it is too late,
To put between me and the grave
A few years of fantastic fate:
I've won to happiness because
I've killed the man that once I was.

I've murdered Income Taxer Smith,
And now I'm Johnny Jones to you.
I have no home, no kin, no kith,
I do the things I want to do.
No matter though I've not a friend,
I've won to freedom in the end.

Bohemian born, I guess, was I;
And should my wife her widowhood
By wedlock end I will not sigh,
But pack my grip and go for good,
To live in lands where laws are lax,
And innocent of Income Tax.

poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Key Of The Street

"Miss Rosemary," I dourly said,
"Our balance verges on the red,
We must cut down our overhead.
One of the staff will have to go.
There's Mister Jones, he's mighty slow,
Although he does his best, I know.

"A deer old man; I like him well,
But age, alas! will always tell.
Miss Rosemary, please ring the bell
And tell old Jones to step this way . . .
Oh dear, oh dear, it isn't gay
To say the things I have to say.

"Come in and sit down, Mister Jones."
He thanks me in sepulchral tones.
Poor chap! I hear his creaking bones.
"Have a cigar? And how's your wife?
What's that! You're fearing for her life -
A cancer and the surgeon's knife. . . .

"Yes, operations are so dear,
But it's your comfort and your cheer
To know your job's so steady here."
These are his words; so meek and mild,
He looks just like a simple child . . .
Go! darn it! Suddenly I'm riled.

And so I say: "That's just too bad.
But Mister Jones. it's very sad,
You know what losses we have had.
We must cut down in times like these,
So here's a cheque, Oh take it please -
'Twill help to pay your doctor's fees.

"And just to show how I appraise
Your work - despite these doleful days
I'm giving you . . . a little raise."

Said Rosemary: "Old Jones is crying."
Thought I: "Yes, each week I'll be sighing,
When from my pocket I am prying
Ten bucks to keep his wife from dying."

poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Old Black Jacko

Old Black Jacko
Smokes tobacco
In his little pipe of clay.
Puff, puff, puff,
He never has enough
Though he smokes it all day.

But his lubra says, "Mine tink dat Jacky
Him shmoke plenty too much baccy."

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Job Interview

Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife
He would have written sonnets all his life?
DON JUAN, III, 63-4

"Where do you see yourself five years from now?"
the eldest male member (or is "male member"
a redundancy?) of the committee
asked me. "Not here," I thought. A good thing I
speak fluent Fog. I craved that job like some
unappeasable, taunting woman.
What did Byron's friend Hobhouse say after
the wedding? "I felt as if I had buried
a friend." Each day I had that job I felt
the slack leash at my throat and thought what was
its other trick. Better to scorn the job than ask
what I had ever seen in it or think
what pious muck I'd ladled over
the committee. If they believed me, they
deserved me. As luck would have it, the job
lasted me almost but not quite five years.

Anonymous submission.

poem by William Matthews
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

I changed his face:

I did it like M.L.K,
I changed the nation's face!
Riding in a public place
Saw me, he had a harsh tense
I took out a $ 50 bills
And the white man smiled
He was enchanted
He was delighted
Gave me a little "yes, Sir! "
Here is your receipt"please"
And have a nice night "Mr."

He did not stress up
To make the cops came up
Keeping people lined up
Instead, his eyes popped up
His lips straightened up
His face changed
His voice nicer
His attitude friendlier
Even his manner, better
His color became brighter.

I did it like Oprah Winfried
I did it like Michael Jackson
I did it like Michael Jordan
I have been accepted as equal
I have been seen as normal.

Money made me white
Money gave me right
Money put in me power
Money lifted me higher
Money bought me respect
Money called me: " Money"
Money said to me: hi! Money
I said back: "hello! Money"
Money is Power and Respect.

No matter how I did it
For sure I made it
In his face I saw it
I felt like a heavy weight
I felt like an airfreight
I felt like all my bodyweight
Have been lift up from me
Now I am free with no fee
Now I can live with no fear.

This is my story
I wrote a paragraph in history
I had my taste of victory
I did one thing for humanity
I changed his face, I have my relief
I showed my money, I sent him free.

poem by Dieury Dumas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Her Late Husband (King's-Hintock, 182-.)

"No--not where I shall make my own;
   But dig his grave just by
The woman's with the initialed stone -
   As near as he can lie -
After whose death he seemed to ail,
   Though none considered why.

"And when I also claim a nook,
   And your feet tread me in,
Bestow me, under my old name,
   Among my kith and kin,
That strangers gazing may not dream
   I did a husband win."

"Widow, your wish shall be obeyed;
   Though, thought I, certainly
You'd lay him where your folk are laid,
   And your grave, too, will be,
As custom hath it; you to right,
   And on the left hand he."

"Aye, sexton; such the Hintock rule,
   And none has said it nay;
But now it haps a native here
   Eschews that ancient way . . .
And it may be, some Christmas night,
   When angels walk, they'll say:

"'O strange interment! Civilized lands
   Afford few types thereof;
Here is a man who takes his rest
   Beside his very Love,
Beside the one who was his wife
   In our sight up above!'"

poem by Thomas Hardy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

How the Revolution Started

The bearded amoeba
Quietly smoked his pipe.
The servant came in
And said:
The crocodile is ready
But the president cannot make today
The apple pie.

The bearded amoeba
Quietly smoked his pipe.
Yes, the dentist is in Venice
To make the root canal,
The servant said.
The crocodile was looking
At the sky.

Then suddenly
An angry cat
Began to puff and pant.

An orchestra was playing
In a distant café.

The bearded amoeba
Quietly smoked his pipe.
It is time to start the revolution
Mao said,
Rising from a chair.

A portrait of Lenin
Began to shine
On the wall.

poem by Paul Hartal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Antichrist, or the Reunion of Christendom: An Ode

Are they clinging to their crosses,
F. E. Smith,
Where the Breton boat-fleet tosses,
Are they, Smith?
Do they, fasting, trembling, bleeding,
Wait the news from this our city?
Groaning "That's the Second Reading!"
Hissing "There is still Committee!"
If the voice of Cecil falters,
If McKenna's point has pith,
Do they tremble for their altars?
Do they, Smith?

Russian peasants round their pope
Huddled, Smith,
Hear about it all, I hope,
Don't they, Smith?
In the mountain hamlets clothing
Peaks beyond Caucasian pales,
Where Establishment means nothing
And they never heard of Wales,
Do they read it all in Hansard --
With a crib to read it with --
"Welsh Tithes: Dr. Clifford answered."
Really, Smith?

In the lands where Christians were,
F. E. Smith,
In the little lands laid bare,
Smith, O Smith!
Where the Turkish bands are busy
And the Tory name is blessed
Since they hailed the Cross of Dizzy
On the banners from the West!
Men don't think it half so hard if
Islam burns their kin and kith,
Since a curate lives in Cardiff
Saved by Smith.

It would greatly, I must own,
Soothe me, Smith!
If you left this theme alone,
Holy Smith!
For your legal cause or civil
You fight well and get your fee;
For your God or dream or devil
You will answer, not to me.
Talk about the pews and steeples
And the cash that goes therewith!
But the souls of Christian peoples...
Chuck it, Smith!

poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Faceless Man

I'm dead.
Officially I'm dead. Their hope is past.
How long I stood as missing! Now, at last
        ;                 & nbsp;       &n bsp;       &nb sp;       &nbs p;   I'm dead.

Look in my face -- no likeness can you see,
No tiny trace of him they knew as "me".
How terrible the change!
Even my eyes are strange.
So keyed are they to pain,
That if I chanced to meet
My mother in the street
She'd look at me in vain.

When she got home I think she'd say:
"I saw the saddest sight to-day --
A poilu with no face at all.
Far better in the fight to fall
Than go through life like that, I think.
Poor fellow! how he made me shrink.
No face. Just eyes that seemed to stare
At me with anguish and despair.
This ghastly war! I'm almost cheered
To think my son who disappeared,
My boy so handsome and so gay,
Might have come home like him to-day."

I'm dead. I think it's better to be dead
When little children look at you with dread;
And when you know your coming home again
Will only give the ones who love you pain.
Ah! who can help but shrink? One cannot blame.
They see the hideous husk, not, not the flame
Of sacrifice and love that burns within;
While souls of satyrs, riddled through with sin,
Have bodies fair and excellent to see.
Mon Dieu! how different we all would be
If this our flesh was ordained to express
Our spirit's beauty or its ugliness.

(Oh, you who look at me with fear to-day,
And shrink despite yourselves, and turn away --
It was for you I suffered woe accurst;
For you I braved red battle at its worst;
For you I fought and bled and maimed and slew;
      &nbs p;         ;                 & nbsp;       &n bsp;       For you, for you!

For you I faced hell-fury and despair;
The reeking horror of it all I knew:
I flung myself into the furnace there;
I faced the flame that scorched me with its glare;
I drank unto the dregs the devil's brew --
Look at me now -- for you and you and you. . . .)

      &nb sp;       &nbs p;    . . . . .

I'm thinking of the time we said good-by:
We took our dinner in Duval's that night,
Just little Jacqueline, Lucette and I;
We tried our very utmost to be bright.
We laughed. And yet our eyes, they weren't gay.
I sought all kinds of cheering things to say.
"Don't grieve," I told them. "Soon the time will pass;
My next permission will come quickly round;
We'll all meet at the Gare du Montparnasse;
Three times I've come already, safe and sound."
(But oh, I thought, it's harder every time,
After a home that seems like Paradise,
To go back to the vermin and the slime,
The weariness, the want, the sacrifice.
"Pray God," I said, "the war may soon be done,
But no, oh never, never till we've won!")

Then to the station quietly we walked;
I had my rifle and my haversack,
My heavy boots, my blankets on my back;
And though it hurt us, cheerfully we talked.
We chatted bravely at the platform gate.
I watched the clock. My train must go at eight.
One minute to the hour . . . we kissed good-by,
Then, oh, they both broke down, with piteous cry.
I went. . . . Their way was barred; they could not pass.
I looked back as the train began to start;
Once more I ran with anguish at my heart
And through the bars I kissed my little lass. . . .

Three years have gone; they've waited day by day.
I never came. I did not even write.
For when I saw my face was such a sight
I thought that I had better . . . stay away.
And so I took the name of one who died,
A friendless friend who perished by my side.
In Prussian prison camps three years of hell
I kept my secret; oh, I kept it well!
And now I'm free, but none shall ever know;
They think I died out there . . . it's better so.

To-day I passed my wife in widow's weeds.
I brushed her arm. She did not even look.
So white, so pinched her face, my heart still bleeds,
And at the touch of her, oh, how I shook!
And then last night I passed the window where
They sat together; I could see them clear,
The lamplight softly gleaming on their hair,
And all the room so full of cozy cheer.
My wife was sewing, while my daughter read;
I even saw my portrait on the wall.
I wanted to rush in, to tell them all;
And then I cursed myself: "You're dead, you're dead!"
God! how I watched them from the darkness there,
Clutching the dripping branches of a tree,
Peering as close as ever I might dare,
And sobbing, sobbing, oh, so bitterly!

But no, it's folly; and I mustn't stay.
To-morrow I am going far away.
I'll find a ship and sail before the mast;
In some wild land I'll bury all the past.
I'll live on lonely shores and there forget,
Or tell myself that there has never been
The gay and tender courage of Lucette,
The little loving arms of Jacqueline.

A man lonely upon a lonely isle,
Sometimes I'll look towards the North and smile
To think they're happy, and they both believe
I died for France, and that I lie at rest;
And for my glory's sake they've ceased to grieve,
And hold my memory sacred. Ah! that's best.
And in that thought I'll find my joy and peace
As there alone I wait the Last Release.

poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Once In A Lifetime

"I know I'm a down and out, wet and freezing cold,
but what do you want from one who feels so old.
Go away, leave me alone, so I can get some sleep
and maybe with luck God will my soul keep.

What do you want? I've got nothing at all for you,
even my aching body is aged and worthless too.
Maybe you're a Samaritan here to do me a good turn?
Oh go away, I'm too old to change or learn."

"What would you say if I could make you well again,
give you a younger body free from pain? "
"Do you think I'm mad or are you completely insane,
who do you think you are to make such a claim? "

"I am not an empty vessel; I only say what I can do,
and I will help you, but you have to help me too.
Ah, I see you're thinking… well, what do you say old man?
No one else can offer this, there's only me that can?

If you turn me down you'll be dead in a very short time;
what've you to lose, why should you decline? "
"And I suppose all you want is my God given soul,
my only possession that's undamaged and whole.

Throughout my entire life, it's been of no use to me,
and yet you want it, in exchange for my misery."
"How did you happen to know it was your soul I desired,
do you believe the stories that I'm by evil inspired?

You people have been grossly misinformed about me,
if I was really evil would I set your pain free,
give you a new life, guaranteed for three more years,
why, such a deal would reduce any man to tears.

Come on old man, before it's too late, what do you say,
are we going to make a deal before you slip away?
Your soul is worthless to you when you're dead and gone,
this is your last chance to live a new life from now on."

"If we can agree to five years instead of three for my soul,
what will happen to me when I've paid my toll?
Will my soul burn forever in that place they call hell,
be tormented and tortured, like I've heard tell? "

You don't want to listen to malicious fairy tales and lies,
which are used to frighten children and the unwise.
As a collector of souls I've been stigmatised by what I do
by the so called honest and religious amongst you.

The truth is hell doesn't really exist, so no one goes there,
and all the other stuff is just a religious scare.
So, with the souls I gather I simply unite them together
so that as soul mates they can remain forever.

"Is it true that we have to have a contract signed in blood,
with everything agreed and understood? "
"This too is superstitious nonsense and it gets under my skin,
but if that's what you want, it's a good way to begin.

"In this modern age a teardropp to seal the contract will do,
and from this day all I promised will be granted to you.
And in four years from now your soul will become mine,
so make the most of your life, and have a good time."

The following four years passed by as though one day
and the payment of a soul is due without delay.
"Hello my friend, you look exceptionally well and healthy,
your four years has not been a waste of time I see."

"I've had an excellent time and I want to thank you a lot,
but is it possible to postpone the contract we've got? "
"How dare you have the audacity to take me as a fool,
do you honestly think I'll break a fundamental rule?

Now listen old man, a deal is a deal and that's a fact,
and its all been signed for in our contract.
Now give me a sealing teardropp from your eye,
and then we can say our last goodbye."

"I'm sorry, it's not medically possible I have dry eyes,
and operations have in vain been tried."
"This is no use to me! I've said it before, a deal is a deal
you'll have to sign it off using blood as the seal! "

"I won't sign in blood, things are different in my life,
I have responsibilities, including a new wife."
"But all these things were made possible because of me,
you owe me your soul and that's how it will be!

Okay, okay… I accept that I cannot have it this day,
but the moment you die you will definitely pay,
and don't go away thinking that you have outwitted me,
your soul will soon be mine, you are not accident free."

poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Old Crony

I had a friend, a breezy friend
I liked an awful lot;
And in his company no end
Of happiness I got.
We clicked in temper, taste and mood,
We gypsied side by side,--
And then, as no pal ever should,
He upped and died.

A score of years have since gone by,
Yet I bemoan him still;
He used to call me Bob and I
Was wont to call him Bill.
Oh how I wish that he were here,
How we would bravely walk
On heather hills to tavern cheer,
And talk and talk!

If as he always used to do,
He'd just drop in to tea,
To rest awhile and jest awhile,
How chirpy I would be!
Then he would puff his pipe of briar
And I my cigarette,
And we would yarn beside the fire,
And time forget.

Old Pal, come back a little while,
If just to let me say
How much I miss your jolly smile
Now you have gone away.
Ah, when in life's allotted span
We near our journey's end,
What greater treasure is there than
A Golden Friend!

poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Obadiah Bell

I am fit and I am well (so said Obadiah Bell.)
I take life as it come from day to day,
I have never been a scorner
Of the 'trouble round the corner,'
For it may be lurking half a life away.
No false vision ere bewitches
Me with dreams of fame or riches,So I'm fairly well content and free of strife.
With my job and friends and my garden and my fowls, and my club and my bowls
and my pipe and my books and my dog and my family and my wife.
And, since I seek the safer things in life,
Most especially my family and wife.

On occasion, vagrant fears stir me with the passing years,
A sudden qualm, a flash of half-felt fright;
But I know my limitations
As a savior of nations:
And who am I to put the world aright.
So, when qualms like these assail me,
What I find may never fail me
As, contented as I may, tho' life I jog,
Are my job and friends and my fowls and my club and my bowls and my pipe
and my family and my wife and my books and my garden and my dog,
And, when I'd dissipate some mental fog,
Most especially my garden and my dog.

For a man can tell tell (so said Obadiah Bell.)
When what he has may one day disappear:
So I thank what gods there be
That all they gave to me
Has stayed with me for yet another year.
And I do such as I can
To assist my fellow man
And wish him blessed as I am with my lot
With my family and my wife, and my job and my bowls and my pipe and my
dog and my club and my friends and my little garden plot;
And, when I think of all the joy I've got,
Most especially my friends, and which is not?

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Teeny Tiny Gnome

Kickin stones on an old dirt road
Feelin d-dejected and all alone
When I looked up ahead thought my mind Id blown
On a giant toadstool sat a teeny tiny gnome
He was all involved in a game of solitaire
Said hello with a smile just like I wasnt there
I kicked dirt some more
He said please dont start a fight.
Found a church key in his pocket, he opened up his pipe
He blew some silver circles,
Wound his fingers in his beard
And from that pipe came magic music
Like Id never heard
As the notes came floatin in I pricked up both my ears
I walked up to the drive-in, hadnt felt so starved in years
A rabbit waiter took my order and quickly disappeared
He said the partys over,
Please come back in a thousand years.

song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Three Wives

Said Jones: "I'm glad my wife's not clever;
Her intellect is second-rate.
If she was witty she would never
Give me a chance to scintillate;
But cap my humorous endeavour
And make me seem as addle-pate."

Said Smith: "I'm glad my wife's no beauty,
For if a siren's charm she had,
And stinted her domestic duty,
I fear that she would drive me mad:
For I am one of those sad fellows
Who are unreasonably jealous."

Said Brown: ""I know my wife's not witty,
Nor is she very long on looks;
She's neither humorous nor pretty,
But oh how she divinely cooks!
You guys must come some night to dinner -
You'll see my little girl's a winner."

So it's important in our lives,
(Exaggerating more or less),
To be content with our wives,
And prize the virtues they possess;
And with dispraise to turn one's back
On all the qualities they lack.

poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Cambodia

Written by ricky & marty wilde
Well he was thailand based
She was an airforce wife
He used to fly weekends
It was the easy life
But then it turned around
And he began to change
She didnt wonder then
She didnt think it strange
But then he got a call
He had to leave that night
He couldnt say too much
But it would be alright
He didnt need to pack
Theyd meet the next night
He had a job to do
Flying to cambodia
And as the nights passed by
She tried to trace the past
The way he used to look
The way he used to laugh
I guess shell never know
What got inside his soul
She couldnt make it out
Just couldnt take it all
He had the saddest eyes
The girl had ever seen
He used to cry some nights
As though he lived a dream
Ans as she held him close
He used to search her face
As though she knew the truth
Lost inside cambodia
But then a call came through
They said hed soon be home
She had to pack a case
And they would make a rendez-vous
But now a year has passed
And not a single word
And all the love she knew
Has disappeared out in the haze
Cambodia - dont cry now - no tears now
And now the years have passed
With not a single word
But there is only one thing left
I know for sure
She wont see his face again

song performed by by Kim Wilde
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Ort Jan van Hunks

Many years back an old pirate
Ort Jan van Hunks lived in Cape Town
and he had gathered enough loot
to live an honest life.

Just above the company gardens
he bought some land
and he thought that trustful slaves
would do the work for him
while he would watch his vineyards grow
and it would be possible
to give attention to his weaknesses.

The loneliness caught up with van Hunks
and he got himself a wife
but in Cape Town
at that time the choices was slim
and he was married to a huge woman
that was so broad
that she could not enter a door
without turning sideways
but he thought that in the cold winter evenings
she would keep him warm.

The trouble with his wife
was that she was a strict person
who drove their slave girls
to polish everything,
she had driven him away
from his own fireplace
with a hard hitting elbow,
as she was scared
that the ash from his pipe
would fall on the beautiful yellow-wood floor.

At the trees high up against the saddle
where Devil's peak joins Table Mountain,
van Hunks found a big rock
that was flat like a settee
and there nobody would bother him
as the Citizens thought
that only a lunatic
would climb the peaks of Table Mountain.

With a barrel of rum and a heap of tobacco
that he had carried along secretary
van Hunks was dreaming
with his pipe in his mouth
while he saw the shadow
of the mountain
creeping blue over the meadow
during the late afternoon.

The silence and rest, with the sliver coloured trees,
the small white houses stretched out beneath him,
the castle holding its ground,
was like balm to his soul
and his gaze went to the harbour
with the huge sailing ships
and the deep blue ocean.

On a bright summer day
when he was drawing pleasing on his pipe
and was taking one shot of rum after the next
an irritating sharp voice said:
"Good morning old chap,
what a lovely day we have got."

Van Hunks turned his head
and saw a small fat man
dressed in a black frock-coat
with a black hat on his head
and an expensive walking-stick in his hand.

Van Hunks growled
"Who the hell are you
and what are you doing here? "

The man smiled and said:
Some people call me Nick,
but I have many other names
and at times I come up to catch some fresh air
and to smoke my pipe"

and he removed his hat from head
while he bowed over
and van Hunks
saw two small red horns
while Nick gestured into the direction
of Devil's peak.

"I know that you are van Hunks
and I have your old companion
captain Roedolf van Boons
and all of his men with me, "
which hit van Hunks hard
as they were all dead.

"You have got to meet my wife,
she is a hell of a thing, " van Hunks said
while he watched
the small fat man carefully.

"I have heard about her, "
Nick said with laughter
and he took out a good iron pipe
while van Hunks gestured towards the tobacco.

Van Hunks removed a pair of dice from his pocket
of which the weight was so
that he always was winning and he asked:
"Do you want to play? "

"It will be great, " said the small man
"let us see your money"
while he placed a bag of gold on the rock.

Out of his pockets van Hunks took
a hodgepodge of golden franks, golden guilders,
golden sovereigns and golden rings.

"I did not expect us to play
and do not have a lot of money with me
but we will see who wins.
We will really see, " van Hunks said
while he stroked his pair of dice.

"Great stuff,
I can always give you credit on your soul, "
the devil answered smiling.

Just when the game started Satan said:
"Here's Peter as well, "
and van Hunks looked up astounded.

"I have come to warn you, " Peter said
and van Hunks became angry and replied:
"Leave me alone.
I get enough warnings at home."

"Peter, you will get nowhere with him.
Do you also want to play? "
The Small man asked.
"It will be really nice, " Peter answered
while he gazed upwards.

Van Hunks took some more tobacco out
and another pipe
before he did shake the dices in his hand
and threw them.

They smoked and played
and played and smoked and cleaned their pipes
and started to smoke again
while the game went on
and van Hunks smiled at himself.

With time the air got thicker
and still thicker
while they were clouding the mountain
with so much smoke
that the rock-rabbits, lizards
and snakes fled from their holes.

Suddenly it became dark
from all of the smoke
until Peter could not see the dice clearly
and he started to slap his wings slowly
to blow the smoke away

and the more they did play,
the more they did smoke
and the harder Peter was hitting his wings
until a strong breeze was blowing.

Beneath the mountain the citizens
decided to go home
to get in their hot beds
with their wives
as it was the strongest South Easter
that had blown in many years

and down in the bay
the colour of the water changed
from blue to green and later grey
and the waves was getting bigger
causing the ships to throw out some more anchors
and the captains to return from the bars
back to their heaving ships.

Up high on the saddle of the mountain
the game went on
and the more they played,
the more they did smoke
while the cloud got bigger
and kept growing.

Later van Hunks rose tiredly
and stretched out while he said:
"Friends, I have got all of your money
and a halo and a tail as surety, "
while both Nick and Peter
looked downhearted back at him.

"The old woman is waiting
and I will have to go
or she will knock me around out of anger, "
van Hunks said
before he took the twisting road down the mountain.

"It looks as if he has cheated us
but the games was really great, "
Peter said to Nick.

"Hey there van Hunks, " the devil called.
"We want to play again at another time,
as we are now friends? "

"Hallo, " van Hunks called back
certain that they want to find out
how he had won them

but van Hunks agreed to play again
in the summer on a sunny day
as he had trouble with rheumatism.

On the next occasion
each one bragged
that he could smoke
much more than the others
and the winner
would receive a ship full of gold
and after days of smoking
the old pirate
won both the devil and Peter

Thunder suddenly erupted from Devil's peak
hitting just where van Hunks was standing
and he did disappear
and there was only a scorched place
where he had been

and on a summer day
when clouds cover Table Mountain,
the game of smoking
and gambling still continues.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Café Comedy

She

I'm waiting for the man I hope to wed.
I've never seen him - that's the funny part.
I promised I would wear a rose of red,
Pinned on my coat above my fluttered heart,
So that he'd know me - a precaution wise,
Because I wrote him I was twenty-three,
And Oh such heaps and heaps of silly lies. . .
So when we meet what will he think of me?

It's funny, but it has its sorry side;
I put an advert. in the evening Press:
"A lonely maiden fain would be a bride."
Oh it was shameless of me, I confess.
But I am thirty-nine and in despair,
Wanting a home and children ere too late,
And I forget I'm no more young and fair -
I'll hide my rose and run...No, no, I'll wait.

An hour has passed and I am waiting still.
I ought to feel relieved, but I'm so sad.
I would have liked to see him, just to thrill,
And sigh and say: "There goes my lovely lad!
My one romance!" Ah, Life's malign mishap!
"Garcon, a cafè creme." I'll stay till nine. . .
The cafè's empty, just an oldish chap
Who's sitting at the table next to mine. . .

He

I'm waiting for the girl I mean to wed.
She was to come at eight and now it's nine.
She'd pin upon her coat a rose of red,
And I would wear a marguerite in mine.
No sign of her I see...It's true my eyes
Need stronger glasses than the ones I wear,
But Oh I feel my heart would recognize
Her face without the rose - she is so fair.

Ah! what deceivers are we aging men!
What vanity keeps youthful hope aglow!
Poor girl! I sent a photo taken when
I was a student, twenty years ago.
(Hers is so Springlike, Oh so blossom sweet!)
How she will shudder when she sees me now!
I think I'd better hide that marguerite -
How can I age and ugliness avow?

She does not come. It's after nine o'clock.
What fools we fogeys are! I'll try to laugh;
(Garcon, you might bring me another bock)
Falling in love, just from a photograph.
Well, that's the end. I'll go home and forget,
Then realizing I am over ripe
I'll throw away this silly cigarette
And philosophically light my pipe.

* * * * *

The waiter brought the coffee and the beer,
And there they sat, so woe-begone a pair,
And seemed to think: "Why do we linger here?"
When suddenly they turned, to start and stare.
She spied a marguerite, he glimpsed a rose;
Their eyes were joined and in a flash they knew. . .
The sleepy waiter saw, when time to close,
The sweet romance of those deceiving two,
Whose lips were joined, their hearts, their future too.

poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Enemy Conscript

What are we fighting for,
We fellows who go to war?
fighting for Freedom's sake!
(You give me the belly-ache.)
Freedom to starve or slave!
Freedom! aye, in the grave.
Fighting for "hearth and home,"
Who haven't an inch of loam?
Hearth? Why even a byre
Can only be ours for hire.
Dying for future peace?
Killing that killing cease?
To hell with such tripe, I say.
"Sufficient unto the day."

It isn't much fun being dead.
Better to le in bed,
Cuddle up to the wife,
Making, not taking life.
To the corpse that stinks in the clay,
Does it matter who wins the day?
What odds if tyrants reign?
They can't put irons on the brain.
One always can eat one's grub,
Smoke and drink in a pub.
There's happiness in a glass,
A pipe and the kiss of a lass.
It's the best we get anyhow,
In the life we are living now.

Who's wanting a hero's fate?
To the dead cheers come too late.
Flesh is softer than steel;
Wounds are weary to heal.
In the maniac hell of the fray
Who is there dares to say?
"Hate will be vanquished by Love;
God's in His Heaven above."

When those who govern us lead
The lads they command to bleed;
When rulers march at the head,
And statesmen fall with the dead;
When Kings leap into the fray,
Fight in the old-time way,
Perish beside their men,
Maybe, O maybe then
War will be part of the past,
Peace will triumph at last.

Meantime such lads as I,
Who wouldn't have harmed a fly,
Have got to get out and kill
Lads whom we bear no ill;
As simple as we, no doubt,
Who seek what it's all about;
Who die in defence of - what?
Homes that they haven't got;
Who perish when all they ask
is to finish the daily task;
Make bread for the little ones,
Not feed the greed of the guns,
When fields of battle are red,
And diplomats die in bed.

poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Little Romance

A Little Romance

Bob and MaryAnn walked in hand in hand
To listen to the band
That night they danced damn near all the songs the band played
Bobs knee hurt so bad
It was New Years Eve
MaryAnn couldn’t believe Bob never once complained
Just for her twice that night he got on the stage
And sang
MaryAnn felt like a warm summer rain
Washed her heart free of pain
And all her worries went down the drain
When Bob sang and played his guitar
In that smoked filled bar
Where they danced enjoying a little romance
That night while they were dancing around the room
MaryAnn felt like she was swinging on a crescent moon
With her hand she could reach to touch the stars
Looking down she could see
The traffic the cars

poem by E.Marie AldrichCreasy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sex And The Medical Profession

Sex and the Medical Profession

I’m sitting in my car waiting for my wife who is at mass
I find it impossible to believe in any religion, but I say
nothing it is important for my wife to believe in a merciful
god. Paris, and agony, my wife prayed but did call
an ambulance. Battling doctors, how young they are, I felt
like a low paid, reluctant actor in a hospital drama, one
who has to play the nurse when he really wanted to be
the famous heart transplant surgeon.

The doc asked if I smoked. No! She looked sullen since
I didn’t, it is so easy to blame the fag. I said I had smoked
15 years ago, she looked relieved and told me to keep up
the good, work: she removed the catheter a lovely pee
Is better than sex, if temporarily, now I feel like making
love, my wife tells I’m deluded, I say nothing but bid my
time, keep a blanket in my car in case I should meet
someone who is equally barmy.

poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Faithless Sally Brown

Young Ben he was a nice young man,
A carpenter by trade;
And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.

But as they fetch'd a walk one day,
They met a press-gang crew;
And Sally she did faint away,
Whilst Ben he was brought to.

The Boatswain swore with wicked words,
Enough to shock a saint,
That though she did seem in a fit,
'Twas nothing but a feint.

"Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head,
He'll be as good as me;
For when your swain is in our boat,
A boatswain he will be."

So when they'd made their game of her,
And taken off her elf,
She roused, and found she only was
A coming to herself.

"And is he gone, and is he gone?"
She cried, and wept outright:
"Then I will to the water side,
And see him out of sight."

A waterman came up to her,--
"Now, young woman," said he,
"If you weep on so, you will make
Eye-water in the sea."

"Alas! they've taken my beau Ben
To sail with old Benbow;"
And her woe began to run afresh,
As if she'd said Gee woe!

Says he, "They've only taken him
To the Tender ship, you see";
"The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown
"What a hard-ship that must be!"

"O! would I were a mermaid now,
For then I'd follow him;
But Oh!--I'm not a fish-woman,
And so I cannot swim.

"Alas! I was not born beneath
The virgin and the scales,
So I must curse my cruel stars,
And walk about in Wales."

Now Ben had sail'd to many a place
That's underneath the world;
But in two years the ship came home,
And all her sails were furl'd.

But when he call'd on Sally Brown,
To see how she went on,
He found she'd got another Ben,
Whose Christian-name was John.

"O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown,
How could you serve me so?
I've met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow":

Then reading on his 'bacco box
He heaved a bitter sigh,
And then began to eye his pipe,
And then to pipe his eye.

And then he tried to sing "All's Well,"
But could not though he tried;
His head was turn'd, and so he chew'd
His pigtail till he died.

His death, which happen'd in his berth,
At forty-odd befell:
They went and told the sexton, and
The sexton toll'd the bell.

poem by Thomas Hood
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!