Lines Written For Insertion In A Collection Of Handwritings And Signatures Made By Miss Patty
In vain to live from age to age
While modern bards endeavour,
I write my name in Patty's page,
And gain my point for ever.
poem by William Cowper
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The Baker Man
Well here comes a dance that will never be banned now
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
Yeah, stolen from a story called "The Baker's Man" now
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
(Choo choo choo choo-do choo choo)
It's impossible too sweet to cross the land????
(Patty cake patty cake)
Put your favorite records on and start the show now
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
Abra-cadabra look at everyone go now
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
(Choo choo choo choo-do choo choo)
Alakazam this dance has got to grow now
(Patty cake patty cake)
Well they tell me that it's optional to use your feet
But now you really don't need them if you keep your beat
Well Arthur Murray's gettin' blurry tryin' to learn that jive
When all the kids from coast to coast are really comin' alive
Well go tell the gang what a time you've had now
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
This Friday night we'll start a regular fad now
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
(Choo choo choo choo-do choo choo)
We'll do the Baker 'til it drives us mad now
(Patty cake patty cake)
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
(Choo choo choo choo-do choo choo)
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
Come on and take a lesson now
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
Clap your partner's hands
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
Not too hard
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
Now slap her in the face
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man)
What a disgrace
(Choo choo choo choo-do choo choo)
(Patty cake patty cake)
(Patty cake patty cake baker's man
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A New Simile
IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT
LONG had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind;
The modern scribbling kind, who write
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite:
Till reading, I forget what day on,
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there,
To suit my purpose to a hair;
But let us not proceed too furious,
First please to turn to god Mercurius;
You'll find him pictur'd at full length
In book the second, page the tenth:
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our simile.
Imprimis, pray observe his hat,
Wings upon either side--mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bard's decreed:
A just comparison,--proceed.
In the next place, his feet peruse,
Wings grow again from both his shoes;
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear,
And waft his godship through the air;
And here my simile unites,
For in a modern poet's flights,
I'm sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.
Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand,
Filled with a snake-encircl'd wand;
By classic authors term'd caduceus,
And highly fam'd for several uses.
To wit--most wond'rously endu'd,
No poppy water half so good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,
Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore.
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to hell.
Now to apply, begin we then;
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twin'd
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike too both conduce to sleep.
This diff'rence only, as the god
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod,
With his goosequill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.
And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing:
Well! what of that? out with it--stealing;
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he:
But ev'n this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards! why what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks?
poem by Oliver Goldsmith
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Lines Written In A Lady's Album
GRANT me, I cried, some spell of art,
To turn with all a lover's care,
That spotless page, my Eva's heart,
And write my burning wishes there.
But Love, by faithless Laia taught
How frail is woman's holiest vow,
Look'd down, while grace attempered thought
Sate serious on his baby brow.
'Go! blot her album,' cried the sage,
'There none but bards a place may claim;
But woman's heart's a worthless page,
Where every fool may write his name.'
Until by time or fate decayed,
That line and leaf shall never part;
Ah! who can tell how soon shall fade
The lines of love from woman's heart.
poem by Joseph Rodman Drake
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Modern Dancing
Modern, modern, modern, modern dancing
Modern dancing, modern dancing
Modern dancing, modern
I see you acting modernly with the boys and girls
Exposure breeds discovery in the modern world
The 60's hairdos 90's eyes are just flashing lights
A touch of neon hinting class for the modern night
Modern dancing, modern dancing
Modern dancing, modern dancing
Dancing
Modern dancing, modern dancing
Modern dancing, modern
Mono vision tv face and determined eyes
The clothes are perfect the rips in place just the perfect size
Familiarity breeds contempt but it doesn't show
We've heard the music times before but it still makes you go
Modern dancing, modern dancing
Modern dancing, modern dancing
Modern dancing, dancing
....variations to fade....
song performed by by Men Without Hats
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Written in a Lady's Album
Grant me, I cried, some spell of art,
To turn with all a lover's care,
That spotless page, my Eva's heart,
And write my burning wishes there.
But Love, by faithless Laia taught
How frail is woman's holiest vow,
Look'd down, while grace attempered thought
Sate serious on his baby brow.
"Go! blot her album," cried the sage,
"There none but bards a place may claim;
But woman's heart's a worthless page,
Where every fool may write his name."
Until by time or fate decayed,
That line and leaf shall never part;
Ah! who can tell how soon shall fade
The lines of love from woman's heart.
poem by Joseph Rodman Drake
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Free2rhyme
How blessed are those that choose to write,
Expressing thoughts sublime,
As if to seek the greatest height,
Perchance then free2rhyme...
For they shall find God's thoughts revealed,
From age to age to age,
With precious truths that always yield
Sweet poems page by page...
Thus through the day and through the night,
God's thoughts are shared on Earth,
Such that our weary hearts take flight
Remembering God's worth...
To think, that He should be so kind,
With prophecies and such,
Allowing us to keep in mind
God loves us very much...
I know that there are sad times, too,
Yet faith still proves the key
That's always there for me and you,
For all eternity...
Yes, blessed are those that choose to write,
For they shall learn God's love,
And free2rhyme will gain insight
Till called to Him above...
Just think of all the great rewards
That people could yet gain,
If serving Christ, the Lord of Lords,
God's Gospel to explain...
God's pardon isn't once a year,
It's every day we live,
It's every time that we draw near
And ask Him to forgive...
No wonder, then, God's poets share
Amazing grace and more,
They hear Good News, then kneel in prayer,
Then preach from shore to shore...
If free2rhyme, what strides we'd make,
Improving as we go,
Lost souls to Heaven we could take,
More wonders there to know...
Denis Martindale, copyright, November 2012.
We can hear the word of the Lord on
Revelation TV on UK Sky Digital 581
as well as the WATCH NOW link on
the revelationtv-dot-com website...
Live broadcasts are also on some UK
Freeview HD and Roku set top boxes.
poem by Denis Martindale
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Please understand
Have a little consideration
For my unpoetic
Choice of words
I know they are not
To your liking
Your taste is
Professiorial chair-like poetry
Distinguished literati
We are different
You write in the name
Of literature
Perhaps for a prize
You really have to follow
What the awards committee
Says in the rules
Follow page one
Do not disregard page two
And the last rule is
Do no deviate
Do not be a deviant man of
Literature of poetry
Of music
To their ears
I write because I do not know
How to live anymore.
This is a life-death situation
And there are no rules
No specific authorized physician
For this sick, dying man
Those that heal, come
Those that know how to heal, you are welcome.
Tersely put, I write in order to
Live everyday of my life.
Not for fame, not for honor
Not for a chart, they are not necessary.
I have no use of such. Give it to the Lady or the
Gentleman out there, who is grappling with a name
Not with life.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Follow The Imbroglio Closely For It Breeds Inspiration
have you noticed that when in trial
sure its hard to smile
but when im sick when im down when i cant move
when im just stuck when i just cant prove
myself when i feel detached from my body detached from life
that I've given away my life in a sadistic deal a fief,
or contract, this is when i write
this time is right
its then that i spill my best words on this page
even in my sickness and trouble i keep animosity far away like a careful sage
i choose to rhyme
when there is nothing to live for
when I've become something to abhor!
this is when you see me
just write write so happily
okay okay maybe this is just typing
whoosh whoosh listen as i sing
the words that i think and put them on a page just for you only for you
as long as you is the reader
poem by David Knox
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Post-Modern Poetry
The post-modern poem is the poet's surprise-
It has no agenda but its own interpretation-
It reads the ‘expressive I' as an infinite longing of the soul
To know and be known-
It writes out of many different places
But finds it difficult to call one its home-
It has many names and voices
But none speaks with an authoritative rhythm -
It is only its own alone home
And so I writing it know
It will not be found in me by those who write it as their own-
Chaos, perhaps, is its signature,
And loss of all the ancient rhythms and forms-
It wants to wander where it will as it does -
But I, I thinking back to what we were
And remembering years of reading others
Know too its voices are many even within the single self-
There is no ‘modern' anymore and no ‘post- modern' either
In the age where everything is accessible
And all is easily found and communicated
The single soul's signature cannot mean a name is real -
Only where all effort is and fails
Only where nobody really is
Only where many write and no one can really read
Perhaps beyond this
Beyond post- modern poetry
This poem too will teach Poetry how to live.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Return of the forest
War …………………!
War …………………! !
War to the dwellers
Gain ………………….!
Gain ………………….! !
Gain from the vain of inheritance
tranquil and madly ready
Wasn’t a massacre.
War ………………..!
War: joint-sperm to replenish
On the soil of mute.
Gain ………………….!
Gain; they are exiled and wont return.
Lia, eldest honoured to keep the peace.
Egwe, youngest, Gloried to care.
War ……………..!
War ……………...! !
War, their peace troubled to escape.
War, ‘’Warri’’ destroyed and no one to cook with the fire
Slattered and prisioned tittles.
War ………………!
War ………………! !
War, Gain, gain, gain.
These enemies of pacifism
wait for no age,
dwellers of all land.
To claim, to reign and gain.
Little wheeze close to the prewinkle.
sneeze their repent.
poem by Ebi Robert
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Fighting the Ink
I raced across the page
Daring my pen to a race I cannot win
Not wanting for that full stop to end our story
I thought I could live forever in forever land
Live with you so happily
Forever young
But this page cannot hold our story
Everything must end
Come falling down like it must
For, all fairytales, like ours, must end
Cinderella galloped away into the sun
But I will walk into the sun alone,
with you walking away
into the shadows
But I know,
Even though ours has ended,
I still have many stories to write
To live
And many a setting suns to walk into
So with ink blood all over my hands
I bid you fare well
As I end this story with a
FULLSTOP
poem by Racina Rodriguez
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The Poems Went Away
THE POEMS WENT AWAY
The poems went away.
Nothing inside.
An empty will for poetry
Forcing words on the page,
Words without music
Without resonance
Without great implication
Meaning.
Write, write, write
Lest you die.
And the words themselves
A kind of desperate uphill catching of breath
On the page.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Writing Poetry
Some people write poetry
to fulfil their dream,
others write it as a personal diary.
While yet more write to protest.
Some write sonnets
for unfrequented love.
Some bring laughter
to sad faces somewhere,
while others dwell on memories
that they would like to share.
Some write of love, while
others write of God.
Write as you will on anything,
but the main point is that you write,
and give joy to all that will read.
poem by David Harris
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Patty’s Mother Earth Coffee House
With happy smile and calming effect,
Patty at Mother Earth Coffee House is humble yet.
She always has a listening ear, she is honest, she is sincere.
No other coffee house is quite like hers,
for it has a warm heart, like Mother Earth.
Patty’s Mother Earth coffee house is quite unique,
it has a Earthly feel with gypsy mystic.
In the year 2007, Jim my friend who came along with me
visited Les Beans at the time and met warm hearted Patty.
I was once on stage with Razel at Patty’s place,
She’s a puppet with 2 evil eyes on her pale felt face.
Even Razel knows Patty’s coffee café,
is for connecting with people- having Fun all in one day.
Zoey the cat is a regular on cushy chair, sleeping, you can still pet her cat hair.
Patty has open mics with singers, with a Friday comedy night.
Performers feel comfortable on stage for Mother Earth has soothing light.
With colorful parrot and paintings on the wall,
even the bathroom is cozy, perfect not too small.
So when you are in the city of Lake Worth,
Please visit Patty at her coffee house Mother Earth.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on October 5,2011
www.puppetpoems.com
poem by Christina Sunrise
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A Blank Page Blues
I know we have all done it,
sat in front of a pristine white sheet of paper
and got ready to write something down,
and then we are confronted
with the blank page blues.
The words of inspiration
then scurry and hide away.
You are left with pen in hand,
scratching your head
wondering what to say.
There is no cure for this syndrome;
writers get it all the time.
Some call it a writer’s block,
when nothing comes into your head.
You sit in front of a blank page.
You know what you want to write,
then someone disturbs you
and the words disappear out of sight.
How many times have we had that?
We sit down to write our masterpiece
and the telephone rings,
or someone shouts your dinner is getting cold.
You feel like screaming,
but you take it on the chin.
You lay down your pen,
answer the phone or have your dinner,
and when you come back,
the blank page confronts you.
Still you cannot write anything on it.
You stare at it for hours,
until finally you get tired
and journey off to bed.
Hoping and hoping tomorrow
a little peace, it will bring
and your words on that blank page
will really begin to sing.
10 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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Book Of Days
Your life is as a book
Written on the pages are the weeks
For you would give anything to take just one look
Into the next chapter, the next page
Each page is a new thought, a new dream
Sometimes it takes so long to pass that page
And sometimes nothing is as it seams
For you know you can not go ahead or back
You know you are where you are
You know you can't change that
As you read page to page, so near to fear
You write the chapters as you go, with each turn
Each turn, each move changes what's to come
And you know each moment could be the last
With this in mind you go so mumb
So numb to the touch, to the thought
You turn page after page
until you reach the 'end'
And only then, you are freed from the title
The title that has kept your thoughts bound, and tight
You turn the pages one by one
You take the pain, take the joy
Until you are done
And your story becomes another on the shelf of eternity
(1/24/2008)
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Modern Art
I’m not sure how I should start
To write a poem on modern art.
It leaves me in a quandary
It holds no real appeal for me.
I don’t dismiss it out hand
I really try to understand.
What modern artists try to do.
I know it’s different for you.
It is quite true I realise
I’m not equipped to criticise
I prefer to feast my eyes
On something I can recognise.
Modern art just baffles me
I don’t know what it’s meant to be.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A Point To Prove
Every child knows its mother more than its father,
That is why i am crying in the wilderness of Africa!
I have a point to prove,
I have a mind to tell,
I have a poem to write,
In the wilderness of Africa to prove a point;
What about the plethora of Authors who do write?
What about they who write about Africa? ! !
Complex as it may be,
I am an African with a vision.
The obnoxious acts of slavery brought about,
The spread of the Africans worldwide;
Yesterday was the Slavery Days but,
Today is for you and me to tell the truth.
Every child knows its mother more than its father,
That is why i have a point to prove to you;
This world is our home but,
Why should some live and others starve?
Bombs with huge sums of money to invest on,
While many in this world have no food to eat;
Tomorrow comes and, what have you to say?
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Losing
Oct 2012
Losing
My love for you inspires me to write poems of love, yet mixed with sadness and sorrow.
Loss and gain of finding and losing, of regret and fulfilment,
happiness and the denial of enlightenment in reality, that I was ment to write for you.
Love, yet not to posses, or to touch.
Only to write of loss and to live in reality, to write of what I may of had...
To write how I sabotaged love.. yet still.. and how I'm too hard to like never mind to love.
Its all written down on paper, in my mind scarred and seared into my heart, im just too out of reach
for anyone to want to....
Loving you, allows me to see this... I have failed...and I thank you for this...
I hope, I'm sure, love will never come my way again.
I write it all down for you,
using red ink.
poem by Jill Laughlin
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Modern Age
Well I found a road and off I sped
I met a man with no little toe and a real big head
Though I did not speak somehow I said
Where are you from? He said the modern age
And where are you from? I said the modern age
On the shore by the sea that was still lathering
I met a man in the business of hunting and gathering
Somehow we understood each other's blathering
And he said where are you from? I said the modern age
And where are you from? He said the modern age
Stopped at a light in my car
I asked the next car how they are
They say that we are fine and how are you?
I say that I am fine and thank you
I'm feeling fine in the modern age
Driving around in the modern age
Driving around in the modern age
song performed by by Frank Black
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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