Related quotes: Just when she thought She'd...

Mr Paddy's Capers.

Just when she thought
She'd found a place alone

To read her book, Mr Paddy
poked his nose between

Her and the open book, so
That pages are blanked out

By his huge head. Mr Paddy
Go off and annoy another,

She said, but he stood there
Determined to be where he

Was, between her and the
Brown covered book, held

Out in her small hands. Oh
Mr Paddy I cannot see the

Pages. Please go off and run
In the garden or in the kitchen

And steal a bone, she said. But
He wouldn't leave her alone,

He pushed his head against her
Young girl body, his damp nose

Dampening her wrist and her
White dress with blue sash, and

Dribble from his lips was wetting
The pages. Mr Paddy please let

Me be, I'm trying to read can't
You see? Mr Paddy's brown eyes

Scanned the pages, nothing there
But scribbled lines upon white paper,

And still he stood wet mouthed with
Big brown eyes and his silly old caper.

poem by Terry Collett
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Related quotes

Paddy Magee

What are you doing now, Paddy Magee?
Grafting, or spelling now, Paddy Magee?
Breaking, or branding?
Or overlanding,
Out on the sand ridges, Paddy Magee?
Is your mouth parched, from an all-night spree?
Taking a pick-me-up, Paddy Magee?
Cocktail - or simple soda and b.? -
Which is the 'antidote,' Paddy Magee?

Still 'shook' on some beautiful, blushing she?
Girl in the Bogan side, Paddy Magee?
A hack providing
For moonlight riding,
Side-saddle foolery, Paddy Magee?

Up on the station - or in the town -
Or on the Warrego, droving down,
Whatever you're doing - wherever you be!
'There's lashin's o' luck to ye!' Paddy Magee!

poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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The Book, Trees and Leaves

The book
at the used book store
had a leaf pressed between its pages,
its veins showing;
pressed flat
and brown;
an unwilling bookmark-
the pages of the ages.

The tree
its mother,
died for those pages

her offspring
flattened out
upon mother's page breast
tiny lines and squiggles
between the veins;
no tree can read
no leaf can comprehend.

I take the leaf to give it a proper burial
in the compost heap
so that its remains
have a small chance
of one day
becoming part of a tree.

I lay its leafy body down
thinking;
'I think I shall never see
anything a lovely as a tree.'
In years
a bookmark it will make
upon my backyard landscape
marking Nature's Chapter entitled
'Ironies.'

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Paddy Malone In Australia

Och! my name's Pat Malone, and I'm from Tipperary.
Sure, I don't know it now I'm so bothered, Ohone!
And the gals that I danced with, light-hearted and airy,
It's scarcely they'd notice poor Paddy Malone.
'Tis twelve months or more since our ship she cast anchor
In happy Australia, the Emigrant's home,
And from that day to this there's been nothing but canker,
And grafe and vexation for Paddy Malone.
Oh, Paddy Malone! Oh, Paddy, Ohone!
Bad luck to the agent that coaxed ye to roam.

Wid a man called a squatter I soon got a place, sure,
He'd a beard like a goat, and such whiskers, Ohone!
And he said—as he peeped through the hair on his faitures
That he liked the appearance of Paddy Malone.
Wid him I agreed to go up to his station,
Saying abroad in the bush you'll find yourself at home.
I liked his proposal, and 'out hesitation
Signed my name wid a X that spelt Paddy Malone.
Oh, Paddy Malone, you're no scholard, Ohone!
Sure, I made a cris-crass that spelt Paddy Malone.

A-herding my sheep in the bush, as they call it
It was no bush at all, but a mighty great wood,
Wid all the big trees that were small bushes one time,
A long time ago, faith I 'spose 'fore the flood.
To find out this big bush one day I went further,
The trees grew so thick that I couldn't, Ohone!
I tried to go back then, but that I found harder,
And bothered and lost was poor Paddy Malone.
Oh, Paddy Malone, through the bush he did roam
What a Babe in the Wood was poor Paddy Malone.

I was soon overcome, sure, wid grafe and vexation,
And camped, you must know, by the side of a log;
I was found the next day by a man from the station,
For I coo-ey'd and roared like a bull in a bog.
The man said to me, "Arrah, Pat! where's the sheep now?"
Says I, "I dunno! barring one here at home,"
And the master began and kicked up a big row too,
And swore he'd stop the wages of Paddy Malone.
Arrah! Paddy Malone, you're no shepherd, Ohone!
We'll try you with bullocks now, Paddy Malone.

To see me dressed out with my team and my dray too,
Wid a whip like a flail and such gaiters, Ohone!
But the bullocks, as they eyed me, they seemed for to say too,
"You may do your best, Paddy, we're blest if we go."
"Gee whoa! Redman! come hither, Damper!
Hoot, Magpie! Gee, Blackbird! Come hither,
Whalebone!"

But the brutes turned round sharp, and away they did scamper,
And heels over head turned poor Paddy Malone.
Oh, Paddy Malone! you've seen some bulls at home,
But the bulls of Australia cows Paddy Malone.

I was found the next day where the brutes they did throw me
By a man passing by, upon hearing me groan,
And wiping the mud from my face that he knew me,
Says he, "Your name's Paddy?" "Yes! Paddy Malone."
I thin says to him, "You're an angel sent down, sure!"
"No, faith, but I'm not; but a friend of your own!"
And by his persuasion, for home then I started,
And you now see before you poor Paddy Malone.
Arrah, Paddy Malone! you are now safe at home.
Bad luck to the agent that coaxed ye to roam.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Paddy Smell

Nostrils are the steps to soul.
Paddy farm, just reaped, smells.
Same old unique smells
Climb up the attic of soul.

Full soul shines in silver
Above the leaves tide.
Footfalls of cat eyed maid
With a pot on her shoulder.

On embankment in field,
Her anklet resonates.
Old untouched love beats,
Then my soul gets wild.

At dawn smelling paddy,
Old white skirt flutters
Below black blouse hers:
Truly soul smells paddy.

poem by Fabiyas M V
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The Memory Place

Shelves tower over me; crowed with bound pages
of events, people, places, ideas.
Of memories.
Of captured feelings pressed like flowers between the pages;
for people to be inspired by someone else's words.

My eyes caress the titles printed on bright spines
as I run my fingers across
what holds the memories together.
I pick up a book, turning yellowed pages,
the scent of gentle time traveling to my nose.
I close my eyes and smile:
it brings back memories of my own,
but these pages are not for me.

I put back the soft bundle of pages
and continued to search in the Memory Place
until I find my own belonging among the words.

poem by Zoe Guillory
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The dream of gifts!

She hugged me wholeheartedly
And gave me a bottle of Multi-Vitamins!
I kissed on her forehead and offered a second-hand book
From a junk shop.
'Kama Sutra! '

*For my shadowy friend Paddy Martin!
Here few Oxygen to you and I want to see your resurrection soon.

[ Go there, watch the Sun set over the land
You and I loved so intensely.
Taste the scent of Eucalypt
Carried on the evening breeze.]
'My Eternal Valentine'-Paddy Martin

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Books

The universe (which others call the library). . .
-Jorge Luis Borges

Books which are stitched up the center with coarse white thread
Books on the beach with sunglass-colored pages
Books about food with pictures of weeping grapefruits
Books about baking bread with browned corners
Books about long-haired Frenchmen with uncut pages
Books of erotic engravings with pages that stick
Books about inns whose stars have sputtered out
Books of illuminations surrounded by darkness
Books with blank pages & printed margins
Books with fanatical footnotes in no-point type
Books with book lice
Books with rice-paper pastings
Books with book fungus blooming over their pages
Books with pages of skin with flesh-colored bindings
Books by men in love with the letter O
Books which smell of earth whose pages turn

poem by Erica Jong
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The Hearts Filthy Lesson

Hearts filthy lesson
Hearts filthy lesson
Hearts filthy lesson
Theres always the diamond friendly
Sitting in the laugh hotel
The hearts filthy lesson
With her hundred miles to hell
Oh, ramona, if there was only something between us
If there was only something between us
Other than our clothes
Something in our skies
Something in our skies
Something in our blood
Something in our skies
Paddy
Paddy, whos been wearing mirandas clothes?
Its the hearts filthy lesson
Hearts filthy lesson
Hearts filthy lesson
Falls upon deaf ears
Its the hearts filthy lesson
Hearts filthy lesson
Hearts filthy lesson
Falls upon deaf ears
Falls upon dead years
Oh ramona, if there was only some kind of future
Oh ramona, if there was only some kind of future
And these cerulean skies
Something in our skies
Something in our skies
Something in our blood
Something in our skies
Paddy, paddy?
Paddy will you carry me, I think Ive lost my way
Im already five years older Im already in my grave
Im already
Im already
Im already
Will you carry me?
Oh paddy, I think Ive lost my way
Paddy
What a fantastic death abyss
Paddy
What a fantastic death abyss
Its the hearts filthy lesson
Tell the others
Its the hearts filthy lesson
What a fantastic death abyss
Tell the others
Its the hearts filthy lesson
Paddy
What a fantastic death abyss
Its the hearts filthy lesson
Tell the other

song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wing Pages Of The Butterfly

at the nursery
while people
are at purchase
and at transactions
a blue butterfly
comes by
and opens its pages to me
swift and quick
and it says to me:
'Read! Read!
Read my pages! '

'I can’t read, '
I say,
amused
at this brash butterfly

'Read and write!
Read and write
about me,
and all flitting butterflies
Read
and write, you silly! '
it commands

And so I read
and I copy
and these are the words
the words from those
pages
the butterfly
holds up to me

poem by Raj Arumugam
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So, You Think You've Found Me

I am not here
Not in these words
not on these pages.
I know..
You think if you read
Enough
Of what I write
You'll know me inside and out..
One small problem though
(I say this as I smile)
I am no longer
Who I use to be
When I use to be
The 'She' who wrote this..
I don't publish until I've grown
From the poem I use to be
If I was her at all...
Sometimes the 'She' you read
She isn't me at all
But a friend,
Or a story I read in the paper
Or a conversation I overheard..
The she you're looking for
You'd have to confront
Ask her all the tough questions yourself.
I'm not there..
In the tattered old pages
Of the poetry book you love so much..
If you read enough
Maybe you'll get a glimpse of the girl
The fragile creature I use to be..
That innocent thing who believed
In magical things so easily..
She does make an appearance from time to time..
She was very sweet..
The me you seek, you may not find..
I hide even from myself from time to time..
I grow from day to day
Oops! You missed it,
I've already changed.
Now some things, those are constant..
But, they aren't found here
Where you look for me.

poem by Rabia Minhas
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The Book Of My Life

Let me watch by the fire and remember my days
And it may be a trick of the firelight
But the flickering pages that trouble my sight
Is a book I'm afraid to write
It's the book of my days, it's the book of my life
And it's cut like a fruit on the blade of a knife
And it's all there to see as the section reveals
There's some sorrow in every life
If it reads like a puzzle, a wandering maze
Then I won't understand 'til the end of my days
I'm still forced to remember,
Remember the words of my life
There are promises broken and promises kept
Angry words that were spoken, when I should have wept
There's a chapter of secrets, and words to confess
If I lose everything that I possess
There's a chapter on loss and a ghost who won't die
There's a chapter on love where the ink's never dry
There are sentences served in a prison I built out of lies.
Though the pages are numbered
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery no-one can read
In the book of my life
There's a chapter on fathers a chapter on sons
There are pages of conflicts that nobody won
And the battles you lost and your bitter defeat,
There's a page where we fail to meet
There are tales of good fortune that couldn't be planned
There's a chapter on god that I don't understand
There's a promise of Heaven and Hell but I'm damned if I see
Though the pages are numbered
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery no-one can read
In the book of my life
Now the daylight's returning
And if one sentence is true
All these pages are burning
And all that's left is you
Though the pages are number

song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Golden Boat

Clouds rumbling in the sky; teeming rain.
I sit on the river bank, sad and alone.
The sheaves lie gathered, harvest has ended,
The river is swollen and fierce in its flow.
As we cut the paddy it started to rain.

One small paddy-field, no one but me -
Flood-waters twisting and swirling everywhere.
Trees on the far bank; smear shadows like ink
On a village painted on deep morning grey.
On this side a paddy-field, no one but me.

Who is this, steering close to the shore
Singing? I feel that she is someone I know.
The sails are filled wide, she gazes ahead,
Waves break helplessly against the boat each side.
I watch and feel I have seen her face before.

Oh to what foreign land do you sail?
Come to the bank and moor your boat for a while.
Go where you want to, give where you care to,
But come to the bank a moment, show your smile -
Take away my golden paddy when you sail.

Take it, take as much as you can load.
Is there more? No, none, I have put it aboard.
My intense labour here by the river -
I have parted with it all, layer upon layer;
Now take me as well, be kind, take me aboard.

No room, no room, the boat is too small.
Loaded with my gold paddy, the boat is full.
Across the rain-sky clouds heave to and fro,
On the bare river-bank, I remain alone -
What had has gone: the golden boat took all.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Unseen Companions of the journey!

Hi everyone

I received this from Fay Slimm today concerning the death of our good friend Mary Martin. Please do go to the site and light a candle for dear Chrissy.

Thank you,

Patrick

I was shocked!
Mary Martin, your sad demise!
O it's really unbearable?
Paddy sent me two books before he leaves
And then you sent me his two photographs
Before you leave, how do I get things of Paddy now?
I realized life's a journey and not a race!
Tomorrow I am passing the 60th mile post
On my way to your new domicile!
We're in one family of this ridiculous segregated World!
May you rest in peace beside my friend Paddy and your best friend too,
Along this unending journey!

* I asked my beloved to light an additional candle tomorrow on my sad birthday cake and that's for you Mary!

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Learning To Read

Very soon the Yankee teachers
Came down and set up school;
But, oh! how the Rebs did hate it, -
It was agin' their rule.

Our masters always tried to hide
Book learning from our eyes;
Knowledge did'nt agree with slavery -
'Twould make us all too wise.

But some of us would try to steal
A little from the book,
And put the words together,
And learn by hook or crook.

I remember Uncle Caldwell,
Who took pot liquor fat
And greased the pages of his book,
And hid it in his hat.

And had his master ever seen
The leaves upon his head,
He'd have thought them greasy papers,
But nothing to be read.

And there was Mr. Turner's Ben,
Who heard the children spell,
And picked the words right up by heart,
And learned to read 'em well.

Well, the Northern folks kept sending
The Yankee teachers down;
And they stood right up and helped us,
Though Rebs did sneer and frown.

And I longed to read my Bible,
For precious words it said;
But when I begun to learn it,
Folks just shook their heads,

And said there is no use trying,
Oh! Chloe, you're too late;
But as I was rising sixty,
I had no time to wait.

So I got a pair of glasses,
And straight to work I went,
And never stopped till I could read
The hymns and Testament.

Then I got a little cabin
A place to call my own -
And I felt as independent
As the queen upon her throne.

poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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Matters Of Observation

it is me lying on a bench
reading a book halfway through
the pages

for a break i close the book
earmark a page
and look at the jack fruit treetop
just beside the house

i am on the second floor
and no one is in the house

my wife is visiting a friend
who just arrived from the U.S.

there is no other creature except
a white butterfly hovering
on a sampaguita flower
in the small garden

the tree has more leaves
but it is not bearing any fruit
at all

i am reminded of those years
joys forgotten and now i am reading
a book about some shadows
of doubts
there is this systems that works
of patronage
refunds

i am situated in a plateau
and my Jesuit professor who dropped by
last night with a
'how are you? ' through the YM
must have understood that an
introvert like me has no
place outside
the books

i understand and frankly
i do not have to tell him how i feel about it

inside the pages
the stories are too many
my hero is dead.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Destiny Life Leaf Pages

manuscripts we all life write
destiny life leaf pages
some leave empty pages white

others shimmer reflecting light

some smear pages with dirt
record chaos rip rub out hurt
how shall we fill manuscript pages...

poem by Terence George Craddock
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There is a difference between a book of two hundred pages from the very beginning, and a book of two hundred pages which is the result of an original eight hundred pages. The six hundred are there. Only you don't see them.

quote by Elie Wiesel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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More Letters

More letters found stuffed
Beneath his brown best shoes,
Which had yellowed with age.
Love letters with small crosses
For kisses at the bottom
Of the page. Words neatly penned,
Love spoken of, gifts thanked for,
Places seen, shared and remembered.
He was a dark horse, Mother said,
Never knew he had these, so many here,
Stuffed, forgotten or out of sight and mind.
Granddad had had some woman
On the go at some time and place
Years ago, before Gran, before
The whole circus of living had ended.
A photograph tucked between pages,
Some woman in old-fashioned hat
And dress and wide-open eyes.
Secrets hidden and kept, words
Upon words on pages, scribbled
By a hand now sure to be dead.
Best burn them, Mother sighed,
Nothing to be gained, best nothing’s said.

poem by Terry Collett
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To the Reader

As you read, a white bear leisurely
pees, dyeing the snow
saffron,

and as you read, many gods
lie among lianas: eyes of obsidian
are watching the generations of leaves,

and as you read
the sea is turning its dark pages,
turning
its dark pages.

poem by Denise Levertov
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Rat Reading

Rat's are

My home

Reading for book's

At night time...!

Each book's

On the book stand

Rat reading

Not very well....! ?

Rat simply

Read some of

Pages only;

Book's are broken

Rat read mean's

Rat bite's

Book's are crying

I am also...