The Respectable Burgher on "The Higher Criticism"
Since Reverend Doctors now declare
That clerks and people must prepare
To doubt if Adam ever were;
To hold the flood a local scare;
To argue, though the stolid stare,
That everything had happened ere
The prophets to its happening sware;
That David was no giant-slayer,
Nor one to call a God-obeyer
In certain details we could spare,
But rather was a debonair
Shrewd bandit, skilled as banjo-player:
That Solomon sang the fleshly Fair,
And gave the Church no thought whate'er;
That Esther with her royal wear,
And Mordecai, the son of Jair,
And Joshua's triumphs, Job's despair,
And Balaam's ass's bitter blare;
Nebuchadnezzar's furnace-flare,
And Daniel and the den affair,
And other stories rich and rare,
Were writ to make old doctrine wear
Something of a romantic air:
That the Nain widow's only heir,
And Lazarus with cadaverous glare
(As done in oils by Piombo's care)
Did not return from Sheol's lair:
That Jael set a fiendish snare,
That Pontius Pilate acted square,
That never a sword cut Malchus' ear
And (but for shame I must forbear)
That -- -- did not reappear! . . .
- Since thus they hint, nor turn a hair,
All churchgoing will I forswear,
And sit on Sundays in my chair,
And read that moderate man Voltaire.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Related quotes
Bear Bare Beer
square affair
bare all hair
erring prayer
declare aware
prepare dare
beer heir spare
debonaire millionaire
swear tear
where stare
death chair
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Bee with Honey Combs her Hair
The Bee with honey combs her hair
with yellow pollen pads,
in honour of the sun’s gold glare,
the golden pollen adds.
This she applies with special care –
‘tis one of her few fads –
to head and thorax, everywhere,
which her detractors mads.
Nectarine nectar necklace fair,
demanded by ‘light winged dryads’,
and furred abdomen cincture rare
masks caudad sting with which she’s clad.
Antennae waving in the air
send signals by the chiliad,
she has ‘no time to sit and stare’
copes, mopes not in jeremiads
Ant’s industry, with more to spare,
hive spirit strives without gonads
for common weal, she’ll, feeling, share -
an asset all admirers glads.
Sweetness for the shaggy bear,
hyrdromel for fair maenads,
without this worker who would bear?
who gold dust to hamadryads?
That she’s so fair and debonair
as on her jaunts she gads,
while they forbear their wings to tear, -
this each among them sads.
Thus idle drones to deep despair
she, heartless, drives, - poor lads -
in swarm-storm buzz, [s]trum_pet the air
in concert, tuned like strads.
How’er they fare, their one nightmare –
benighted Galahads -
is their reget so few can share
the joys of being dads!
The royal jelly she’ll prepare
with care so myriads
of future generations fare
as well as she by gad s!
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Will anybody care? 2010 Version
Hurt heart thumps through stark torrent's spew, pain's veins pump vain despair,
why wishing-well what world would do when one's no longer there?
Why worry who will bed or woo, misled wed base affair,
each age sends stage page scene anew, pent rage vents spleen, sad snare.
Once wraith what faith may comfort, who contentment finds? Aware
are all their fall supplies no true rise paradise, skies fair.
Dank dark last leaves grieve hung with dew, shaved, stumpy trees stripped bare,
gibbering ghosts, grey-greenish hue shade shiver in sharp air.
Options, once so bright and blue, too soon turn tarnish, wear
down most who must survive on crust, while some pad out lust's lair
beyond the dreams and rhyming schemes of blushing Baudelaire;
whored guilty conscience safely stored, bribes poured for greased palm tare.
Burnt bridge of sighs quite cuts in two split city's spirit spare,
and therefore, by extension, too, links life to - God knows where.
Wan lie acquaintanceships one knew, affection two should share,
while once exciting avenue of life seems impasse where
old vaunted haunts time's rimed review now daunts. For void prepare.
Is life just bitter pill, missed cue unjustly swilled to bear
hate's weight, tears, fears untimely due where conscience cries beware!
Is life strife rife where favoured few waste privileges rare,
compared to who pimp scrimp limp through misfortunes most unfair?
Is life rewarding revenue splurge surge merge urge shows heir,
or drudge through sludge where cudgel slew ambitions purged with hair.
Is life return bienvenue or one way ticket scare
descending into maggot stew or burned urn's ashen layer?
Is life some sort of déjà vu, self-referencing stare
through mirror that, whate'er ensue, backs to black disrepair?
Is life sharp knife, fine furs, long queue, stores' gaudy glitter glare,
or superficial residue, fast sacrificed false flair?
Is life's brief leaf, grief sheaf shoal reefed, half-hearted whole, farce flare,
or black hole disbelief, soul thief, ploughed under everywhere?
fixed rictus grin whose rigour grim begins tale's tail-end tear,
sin's karmic spin where lose not win cues feud forebear forswear?
Is life pride ride soon set aside, tried sentenced, treatment square
too rarely met, signed with forget-me, knot loose noose to bear
until at last will's pain is cast to wind of change none share,
which willy-nilly blows away race, trace face-value's layer.
Beware where ego's overblown for bonus billionaire
whose bogus option package acts as sham incentive, where
crass top brass brash lop-sided cash expend on solitaire
to grace cute hand who wedding band pretends was never there.
Beware star system beaut's short skirts, beau's silk shirts, suits mohair,
soon boom turns bust must break both bank and back of proletaire
when pensions' dust proves worthless, earth polluted by oil flare:
as oil slick spreads some feather beds that nest eggs gilt prepare.
Once whole, now sole, soul sees right through coal hole's lacklustre air
where honest labour's revenue few faithfully declare
as greed grinds need to feed seed funds, tax shelter debonnaire,
scheme pyramid, insider bid, mid hid guilt's laissez-faire.
Forlorn men boxed, with scarce a clue, worn faces, torn white hair,
from uniformity of view hurt turns, spurned everywhere.
For future life, reborn anew, nor prayer, regret, nor dare,
splash, lonely bubbles, struggles through.
Will anybody care?
(10 November 2010)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Unanswered Letters
Unanswered Letters
Written by: Wilfred Mellers, Friday, January 28,2011 @ 6: 22 AM
She has made it apparently clear
The letters that I write falls on a deaf ear
What have I done wrong I’m not aware
For the love I feel inside is still there
If only I knew I could’ve made it better
She refuses to now answer my letter
Her love fit me like a warm cozy sweater
Haunting my dreams for I cannot forget her
Like a stifling man needing air
Attitude given is so unfair
Without you I am nowhere
For no other woman to you can compare
Not hearing from you is like a nightmare
My eyes for you I will impair
In the midday sun I will stare
For life without you I cannot bear
My solemn oath to you I do swear
Wanting you for life for we are the perfect pair
Moments of heavenly delights we do share
A better life for us I came back to prepare
Questions asked do I dare?
Is it your intention to give me a scare?
Are you taking your love elsewhere?
Has my circles now turned square?
I was always looking out for your welfare
My precious gem found so rare
This is leaving me in utter despair
My heart is in need of a desperate repair
Hurting so badly if you are unaware
On my sleeves my heart I wear
Down the middle of my soul there is a tear
Broken my heart for I have not a spare
This to me is not fair
Each night I recite for you a prayer
My spirit now bound to a wheelchair
My love for you I’ll always declare
No more do I hear the fanfare
No one is longer home when I get there
Broken are all the drums of snare
I lay back in my lonely armchair
The lust for life I no longer care
poem by Wilfred Mellers
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Bible Stories: Esther (Part IIIA)
Esther’s Problems:
Mordecai saw Haman’s order;
He walked through the city crying,
Just dressed in sack-cloth and ashes,
Until he reached the royal gates,
To tell Esther and seek her help.
Her eunuchs brought this news to her;
With anguished heart, she sent garments;
But Mordecai refused the clothes;
He gave Haman’s order to her:
‘All Jews would be killed in one day! ’
Haman was second to the king
And sentenced every Jew to death.
Mordecai explained to Hathach
The things that Esther was to do;
She was to pray to God before
She met the king and pleads with him,
To save the lives of all the Jews.
Esther sent the eunuch saying,
She had not been called by the king
For nearly thirty days till then;
One who saw him without summon,
Would be put to death by routine,
Unless the king held his scepter!
But Mordecai reminded her,
Her family will have to die,
And Esther too, a Jew, though queen!
There was no time to wait or plan;
Invoking God’s help, she must start.
Esther told all Jews in Susa
To fast for three days and three nights
And then she went to see the king,
Even if she had to perish!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 4-17-2007
poem by John Celes
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Will anybody care? - April 2012 Version
Hurt heart thumps through stark torrent's spew, pain's veins pump vain despair,
why wishing-well what world would do when one's no longer there?
Why worry who will bed or woo, misled wed base affair,
each age sends stage page scene anew, pent rage vents spleen, sad snare.
Once wraith what faith may comfort, who contentment finds? Aware
are all their nightmare fall supplies no paradise, skies fair.
Dank dark doom leaves grieve hung with dew, shaved, stumpy trees stripped bare,
gibbering ghosts, grey-greenish hue shade shiver in sharp air.
Life's dream team options, once bright blue, tarnish too soon, to wear
down most, ghost host, who must crust rust, while few pad out lust's lair
beyond the seemy rhyming schemes of blushing Baudelaire -
whored guilty conscience safely stored, bribes poured for greased palm tare.
Burnt bridge of sighs quite cuts in two split city's spirit spare,
and therefore, by extension, too, links life to - God knows where.
Wan lie acquaintanceships one knew, affection two should share,
while once exciting avenue of life seems impasse where
old vaunted haunts time's rimed review now daunts. For void prepare.
Is life just bitter pill, missed cue, in chaos swilled to bear
hate's weight, tears, fears untimely due where conscience cries beware!
Is life strife rife where favoured few waste privileges rare,
compared to who pimp scrimp limp through misfortunes most unfair?
Is life rewarding revenue splurge surge merge urge shows heir,
or drudge through sludge where cudgel slew Earth goddess Gaïa's.
Is life return bienvenue or one way ticket scare
descending into maggot stew, hell burned urn's ashen layer?
Is life some sort of déjà vu, self-referencing stare
through mirror that, whate'er ensue, backs to black disrepair?
Is life sharp knife, fine furs, long queue, stores' gaudy glitter glare -
or superficial residue, fast sacrificed false flair?
Is life's brief leaf, grief sheaf shoal reefed, half-hearted whole, farce flare,
or black hole disbelief, soul thief, ploughed under everywhere?
fixed rictus grin whose rigour grim begins tale's tail-end tear,
sin's karmic spin where lose not win cues feud forebear forswear?
Is life pride ride soon set aside, tried sentenced, treatment square
too rarely met, signed with forget-me, knot loose noose to bear
until at last will's pain is cast to wind of change none share,
which willy-nilly blows away race, trace face-value's layer.
Is Life a story book that takes wake's glory down? Truth blare
becomes when ignorance, dumb drum, would triumph everywhere.
Death steals love's breath as Time's wheels churn, night's nothingness prepare,
stars silence scream, beg, borrow theme for no tomorrow fair
as dawn to dusk drains life which wanes to darkness' husk, no clair
de lune or moonlight tune, write cemetry pied à terre.
None raindrops know 'neath purple sky, fame pops, life stops right there.
Beware where ego's overblown for bonus billionaire
whose bogus option package acts as sham incentive, where
crass top brass brash lop-sided cash expend on solitaire
to grace cute hand who wedding band pretends was never there.
Beware star system beaut's short skirts, beau's silk shirts, suits mohair,
soon boom turns bust must break both bank and back of proletaire
when pensions' dust proves worthless, earth polluted by oil flare:
as oil slick spreads some feather beds that nest eggs gilt prepare.
Once whole, now sole, soul sees right through coal hole's lacklustre air
where honest labour's revenue few faithfully declare
as greed grinds need to feed seed funds, tax shelter debonnaire,
scheme pyramid, insider bid, mid hid guilt's laissez-faire.
Forlorn men boxed, with scarce a clue, worn faces, torn white hair,
from uniformity of view hurt turns, spurned everywhere.
For karma new, nor whisper, prayer, imaginary dare,
splash, lonely bubbles - struggles through.
Will anybody care?
(8 April 2012)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Want To Be There
I Want To Be There
Wilfred Charles Mellers, Sunday, September 2,2012
I sit patiently awaiting my turn
Colors turn blue, red, and too auburn
Crave not sights western
My spicy Thai I still yearn
Hands reaching out to the sky
Comments posted still I try
Checked message while I sigh
Toil sought not in amply supply
With joy I once had a love affair
Blank pages I do now stare
A cumbersome leer I still wear
Not a shilling I can even spare
Bound now to my armchair
Waiting for something to take me there
Here smile none can compare
So I give a little prayer
Thoughts sometimes of despair
Nights end without fanfare
Dwelling on places elsewhere
For life sometimes seems unfair
Forth I went to prepare
Essences of lavender fill the air
For here I just don't care
Wherever you are I want to be there
poem by Wilfred Mellers
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The Shirt (Demo Recording)
As I walked into the charity store
I saw a second-hand shirt hangin' up by the door
The collar was frayed, there was a stain on the cuff
Caused by ketchup or blood or some such stuff
It wasn't made of polyester or nylon
The label said "Made in the UK" so I tried it on
And I looked in the mirror and declared
"I like this shirt, I want it"
It's not the label on the shirt that you wear
It's the way that you wear it
They say it's style and breeding and culture that counts
But you can't change good taste on the expense account
And if design or fashion makes you a hero
You can dress all highbrow but still be an emotional zero
But I declare "It's not the shirt you wear
It's the way that you wear it"
I was looking for danger, I should have taken more care
I was dressed to kill, I felt so debonair
Wild expectations, arrogant air
Then I walked into that bar, she was standing there
I walked over with all my savoir fair
And she said "You're a smart looking dude
But your character's ugly, it clashes with my shoes
And I, I can't stand your attitude"
I assumed it was leading to a romantic interlude
I thought my conquest was made
But I was stunned by the magnitude
Of her ingratitude
I spent a good thirty bucks on this babe
Like the shirt I was wearing
This romantic affair was not destined to last
The harder I tried, the louder she laughed
I was reduced to despair, my emotions laid bare
She knew I was hurt, made me feel like a jerk
I was humbled, humiliated, castrated
My masculinity dragged through the dirt
Then thrown in the air to be devoured by the lions
The vultures, the jackals and all the scavengers of love
I was strutting around with my chest stuck out
like a peacock preparing to get laid
Thought I looked cool but she put me down
She said "You look like a clown on a circus parade"
Still the shirt has class, it looks well made
She was a babe of the first degree
She was totally fantabulous
Like a goddess from Greece and yet
The epitome of the 20th century femininity
She was in her own league
She was meant for me, it was destiny
Like Adam and Eve, synchronisity
She brought out the testosterone in me
Last time I saw that babe she was smiling contentedly
Now I'm trapped on this murder rap, a mistaken identity
It wasn't me, it wasn't me, it wasn't me
Now this cop says "It's up to you, death row or solitude
Crime of passion, you should plead 'insane'
You say you wouldn't lie, but we've just blown your alibi
We've found your shirt and it's got a blood stain"
It was the shirt you were wearing
It was the shirt you were wearing
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Shirt
As I walked into the charity store
I saw a second-hand shirt hangin up by the door
The collar was frayed, there was a stain on the cuff
Caused by ketchup or blood or some such stuff
It wasnt made of polyester or nylon
The label said made in the uk so I tried it on
And I looked in the mirror and declared
I like this shirt, I want it
Its not the label on the shirt that you wear
Its the way that you wear it
They say its style and breeding and culture that counts
But you cant change good taste on the expense account
And if design or fashion makes you a hero
You can dress all highbrow but still be an emotional zero
But I declare its not the shirt you wear
Its the way that you wear it
I was looking for danger, I should have taken more care
I was dressed to kill, I felt so debonair
Wild expectations, arrogant air
Then I walked into that bar, she was standing there
I walked over with all my savoir fair
And she said youre a smart looking dude
But your characters ugly, it clashes with my shoes
And i, I cant stand your attitude
I assumed it was leading to a romantic interlude
I thought my conquest was made
But I was stunned by the magnitude
Of her ingratitude
I spent a good thirty bucks on this babe
Like the shirt I was wearing
This romantic affair was not destined to last
The harder I tried, the louder she laughed
I was reduced to despair, my emotions laid bare
She knew I was hurt, made me feel like a jerk
I was humbled, humiliated, castrated
My masculinity dragged through the dirt
Then thrown in the air to be devoured by the lions
The vultures, the jackals and all the scavengers of love
I was strutting around with my chest stuck out
Like a peacock preparing to get laid
Thought I looked cool but she put me down
She said you look like a clown on a circus parade
Still the shirt has class, it looks well made
She was a babe of the first degree
She was totally fantabulous
Like a goddess from greece and yet
The epitome of the 20th century femininity
She was in her own league
She was meant for me, it was destiny
Like adam and eve, synchronisity
She brought out the testosterone in me
Last time I saw that babe she was smiling contentedly
Now Im trapped on this murder rap, a mistaken identity
It wasnt me, it wasnt me, it wasnt me
Now this cop says its up to you, death row or solitude
Crime of passion, you should plead insane
You say you wouldnt lie, but weve just blown your alibi
Weve found your shirt and its got a blood stain
It was the shirt you were wearing
It was the shirt you were wearing
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Polka Patterns
Everywhere, I see them there
I stop and stare at patterns
I dont care, I must declare
Ive got a flair for patterns
On my hair, the clothes I wear
My savoir faire is patterns
All I see is patterns
The patterns that repeat
Lets go into the bathroom
I know were in a room where you would not expect much math
Usually youre in here for a shower or a bath
But if you gaze upon the floor, and if youre kinda smart
Youll see the repetition is like geometric art
Wow, haha
Look
Everywhere, I see them there
I stop and stare at patterns
I dont care, I must declare
Ive got a flair for patterns
On my hair, the clothes I wear
My savoir faire is patterns
All I see is patterns
The patterns that repeat
Hey!
A polkameister like myself never has to be bored
I just grab my ax and play some patterns on my keyboard
Nows the time for earplugs if you care about your health
So stand back, everybody, Im gonna express myself
Look at this, patterns
Ive got blisters on my fingers
Woo, hey, aw, get down
Yeah, help me, somebody, woo
Still there? okay
Next time you find yourself at an exciting polka party
You can make some patterns with your feet and with your body
If you dont know the steps yet, heres the gang with all the answers
Ladies and gentlemen, introducing, the weird al polka dancers
Here they are
Everywhere, we see them there
We stop and stare at patterns
We dont care, we must declare
Weve got a flair for patterns
On our hair, the clothes we wear
Our savoir faire is patterns
All we see is patterns
The patterns that repeat
Wallpaper, skyscrapers, funny papers, patterns
Evergreens, nouvelle cuisine, human beings, patterns
Garden rakes, wedding cakes, rattlesnakes, patterns
Golden wheat, little feet, my heartbeat
I gotta stop
Patterns, patterns, patterns, patterns
song performed by by Weird Al Yankovic
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Incandescent Dragon Destiny
Self-feeding, the fire
desires its own warmth, and warms
to its own desire
Fire and brimstone lay all bare: birth, mirth, dearth earth berth soon prepare.
Great, low, brash dash, ash grate's despair, pride rider, beggar, rich, austere.
Play folds after brief fame flare, tide turns, life burns, urn earns; no prayer
staves off brave, weakling wear and tear, which singes all beyond repair.
Time self-devours, each century is swallowed by that which follows free
from here until eternity. Frost's 'Fire and Ice' identity
from tip to tail tale pours, paws flee unveiled combustion nth degree
that scorch, torch, porch and family: our incandescent destiny.
Today, blank slate but barely scratched
must soon, with predecessors matched,
discover that it is dispatched
beneath time's stubble that sees hatched
new generation Lethe latched
which, pauper, plays with paper patched
until, in turn, from earth 'tis snatched.
Tomorrow, many may not see, Tomorrow turns to history,
and thence returns as all must be re-archived with celerity
as flightless Phoenix cannot key unanswered moral mystery.
His story, her uncertainty, together R.I.P. oubli.
Between the two, one's too aware of pointlessness, that splitting hair
precarious may prove! Beware of splits sectarian, unfair
intolerance, of jealous stare, of petty squabble stirs whose blare
rouse Time's dragon from its lair, till self-consumed are match, strike, flare.
(14 May 2012)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Thine Eyes I Wear
Hidden beneath your immense stare
Is thine soul exquisite, refined and rare
Fluid and chilly as a streaming river
Your look, your soul, makes mine shiver
Under thine eyes, thy raiment I wear
The look of love, thine ardent glare
Attractive to thee like the embers of fire
What is that thou sincerely admire?
Is it thine own eyes I wear?
Is it thine eyes that attract thy own stare?
When thou look I change into you
For in thine look, thy love I accrue
Always look at me with that beautiful glare
And thine look, thine eyes, I will proudly wear.
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Her Song
I sang that song on Sunday,
To witch an idle while,
I sang that song on Monday,
As fittest to beguile;
I sang it as the year outwore,
And the new slid in;
I thought not what might shape before
Another would begin.
I sang that song in summer,
All unforeknowingly,
To him as a new-comer
From regions strange to me:
I sang it when in afteryears
The shades stretched out,
And paths were faint; and flocking fears
Brought cup-eyed care and doubt.
Sings he that song on Sundays
In some dim land afar,
On Saturdays, or Mondays,
As when the evening star
Glimpsed in upon his bending face
And my hanging hair,
And time untouched me with a trace
Of soul-smart or despair?
poem by Thomas Hardy
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The crown of Thorns
The procurator came back home
As dusk began to fall
His man slave helped him to disrobe
He took his meal alone.
He thought about the days events,
of Proculla’s premonition
about the Jewish rabbi
Whose death pleased the Sanhedrin.
He’d washed his hands
But were they clean?
He struggled to decide.
He thought about this Jesus
Whom he’d just had crucified.
He’d found no real fault in the man
- just a holy fool.
Whom Caiaphas had wanted dead
and used him as the tool.
He’d had him scourged, as if just that
Would satisfy the crowd.
His men mocked Jesus with royal robes-
Woven a crown of thorns.
Next he gave the crowd a choice
To set this Rabbi free
But they preferred Barrabus
Nailing Jesus to a tree.
His chief Centurion arrived
From the place of execution
The rebel and two thieves had died
by Roman Crucifixion.
“I’ve brought you back the Crown of thorns
as a memento of the day “
but Pilate, looking horrified,
Ordered him away.
Notes
Procurator: official title of Pontius Pilate, Roman Governor for the Province of Judea
Proculla: Wife of Pontius Pilate. In the gospel of Matthew she had a dream concerning Jesus and asked he husband to spare his life
Caiaphas Chief Priest
Sanhedrin: a religious group in first century Judea.
poem by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bible Stories: Esther (Part VB)
Esther Brings About the Downfall of Haman:
The King and Haman dined with wine;
The happy King asked Queen Esther,
“Tell me your request, anything! ”
Esther replied, ‘Your majesty,
If I‘m your favorite truly,
O spare my life and my people! ’
“I’ve come to know that we’ve been sold;
Our people will be destroyed soon;
Their property will be seized too;
Our children will be taken slaves;
The foe’s a member of your court! ”
The king asked, “Who dared to do thus? ”
‘Dear King, that evil man’s Haman! ’
Said Esther Queen, in almost tears.
Haman was panic-stricken fast;
The King went into the garden;
Haman was begging for his life;
He threw himself on the Queen’s couch,
And pleaded to be forgiven.
The angry King then asked Haman,
“You want to rape my wife right here? ”
Haman was too shocked to reply.
Just then, a eunuch told the King,
Haman has set a pole ready
For Mordecai who saved your life;
The pole is seventy-five feet high,
And stands right in his very house.
The King said, ‘Hang Haman on it.’
Haman was hung upon that pole
He’d erected for Mordecai;
The King got over his anger!
Then Mordecai took Haman’s place
As Esther was his relative;
King’s signet ring was given him
And Haman’s wealth too went with it.
Then Esther begged the King again,
‘Cancel the order Haman wrote.’
The King replied, ‘How can I bear
To see my people mistreated?
Could I destroy my own people? ’
The King allowed a new order
To save the lives of every Jew!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 4-17-2007
poem by John Celes
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Fish learning to walk
There was once a fish that was dear friends with a vole,
The means that they sought entertainment was quite droll,
They'd scare the sheepish and dare cats to go up trees,
But soon their escapades were unable to please,
They reasoned amusement was to be found elsewhere,
And agreed to leave in search of it as a pair,
The fish faced a journey that he felt was unfair,
Since it and the one made by land did not compare,
The fish tried walking just like those he'd seen do so,
Believing it was a skill he could in time know,
And kept hopeful in spite of what others would say,
He would set himself targets to achieve each day,
Until he had done all that he could to prepare,
He then chose some shoes that were suitable to wear,
And selected a location for the affair,
Finally he took his first step on land with care,
But soon he realised he was not yet ready,
Owing to his footing being far from steady,
Consequently he fell to the ground, flipped and rolled,
Thus proving right those who thought he'd acted too bold,
After what occurred land became his biggest fear,
Whether he should stick to his aim he was unclear,
His friend said land was something he should not go near,
But it was advice he did not wish to adhere,
So once he had done all that he could to prepare,
Had chosen some clothes that were suitable to wear,
And picked a time that seemed best for what he had planned,
Finally he took his second step onto land,
He'd been foolish to ignore what he had been told,
Because on land a fish cannot get a foothold.
To get back to the water he turned, flipped and rolled,
And once there vowed to never again be so bold.
poem by Christian Lacdael
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pair_Con_Fection
His love paired teamed perfection
with which no dreams compare,
so seemed, upon reflection,
an idyll bright, right rare.
Synaptic thought deflection
sped thoughts led on to pear
where one plus one reflection
begun with perfect pair.
He, after introspection,
decided then and there
into two parts he'd section
fruit for cute beaut to share.
Two parts two hearts' confection
apportioned as in pair, -
the first for her selection,
the second layer his prayer.
The inner her inspection
entrusted with due care,
the outer, - his election -
was not the choicest fare.
He offered for delection
fine fruit to lady fair,
the outer skin's defection
pear pared, prepared, dared dare.
Alas he met rejection
which led into despair,
and then to lead dejection -
more than one man should bear.
Here's no talk of erection,
nor censorship to spare,
the case cites misdirection -
not going anywhere
because one man's projection,
however debonair,
may lose sense of direction
if heart, mind, three make there.
The moral in connection
with these lines - be aware -
‘ware snare before detection
of core accord, beware!
Another recollection
in good stead stands who'd spare
his days from genuflection
in jail cell solitaire.
Advance with circumspection,
don't venture unaware,
avoid brash interjection
deserving angry stare.
Where peach and cream complexion
is apple's eye, if there
heart's spurned then wormed affection
turns to snare none repair.
Life's light verse in[ter]jection
between dark, dark - joy rare
where there's no resurrection
to compensate for care.
No 'au pair' for compensation
leads to story's swift cessation
waiting Reader's approbation,
welcoming congratulation.
(7 May 2008)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Happy Doctor's Day,2012! ' Let All Indians Say Today
Respect the white coat that all doctors wear;
Respect the stethoscope with which they hear;
Respect the prescriptions they write and tear;
Respect all doctors for they truly care!
To treat diseases, some doctors do dare;
They try their best for all patients to fare;
Some of them are doyens, pioneers rare;
Some do miraculous feats, at which all stare!
Wish doctors all, ‘A Happy Doctors Day! '
Thank them for their hard work and pray today;
Remember, they keep diseases at bay;
Most doctors do their jobs in noble way!
'Happy Doctor's Day,2012 in INDIA! '
From a Doctor Dean, Medical Teacher and Poet
IRT PMC&H & RTS, Perundurai, TN., India
Copyright by Dr John Celes 01-06-2012
poem by John Celes
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Billys 'Square Affair
Long Bill, the captain of the push, was tired of his estate,
And wished to change his life and win the love of something ‘straight’;
’Twas rumour’d that the Gory B.’s had heard Long Bill declare
That he would turn respectable and wed a ‘square affair.’
He craved the kiss of innocence; his spirit longed to rise;
The ‘Crimson Streak,’ his faithful ‘piece,’ grew hateful in his eyes;
(And though, in her entirety, the Crimson Streak ‘was there,’
I grieve to state the Crimson Streak was not a ‘square affair.’)
He wanted clothes, a masher suit, he wanted boots and hat;
His girl had earned a quid or two—he wouldn’t part with that;
And so he went to Brickfield Hill, and from a draper there
He ‘shook’ the proper kind of togs to fetch a ‘square affair.’
Long Bill went to the barber’s shop and had a shave and singe,
And from his narrow forehead combed his darling Mabel fringe;
Long Bill put on a ‘square cut’ and he brushed his boots with care,
And roved about the Gardens till he mashed a ‘square affair.’
She was a tony servant-girl from somewhere on ‘the Shore;’
She dressed in style that suited Bill—he could not wish for more.
While in her guileless presence he had ceased to chew or swear,
He knew the kind of barrack that can fetch a square affair.
To thus desert his donah old was risky and a sin,
And ’twould have served him right if she had caved his garret in.
The Gory Bleeders thought it too, and warned him to take care
In case the Crimson Streak got scent of Billy’s square affair.
He took her to the stalls; ’twas dear, but Billy said ‘Wot odds!’
He couldn’t take his square affair amongst the crimson gods.
They wandered in the park at night, and hugged each other there—
But, ah! the Crimson Streak got wind of Billy’s square affair!
‘The blank and space and stars!’ she yelled; ‘the nameless crimson dash!
‘I’ll smash the blanky crimson and his square affair, I’ll smash’—
In short, she drank and raved and shrieked and tore her crimson hair,
And swore to murder Billy and to pound his square affair.
And so one summer evening, as the day was growing dim,
She watched her bloke go out, and foxed his square affair and him.
That night the park was startled by the shrieks that rent the air—
The ‘Streak’ had gone for Billy and for Billy’s square affair.
The ‘gory’ push had foxed the Streak, they foxed her to the park,
And they, of course; were close at hand to see the bleedin’ lark;
A cop arrived in time to hear a ‘gory B.’ declare
‘Gor blar-me! here’s the Red Streak foul of Billy’s square affair.’
Now Billy scowls about the Rocks, his manly beauty marr’d,
And Billy’s girl, upon her ’ed, is doin’ six months ’ard;
Bill’s swivel eye is in a sling, his heart is in despair,
And in the Sydney ’Orspital lies Billy’s square affair.
poem by Henry Lawson
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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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