Barmaid
Though, if you ask her name, she says Elise,
Being plain Elizabeth, e'en let it pass,
And own that, if her aspirates take their ease,
She ever makes a point, in washing glass,
Handling the engine, turning taps for tots,
And countering change, and scorning what men say,
Of posing as a dove among the pots,
Nor often gives her dignity away.
Her head's a work of art, and, if her eyes
Be tired and ignorant, she has a waist;
Cheaply the Mode she shadows; and she tries
From penny novels to amend her taste;
And, having mopped the zinc for certain years,
And faced the gas, she fades and disappears.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Related quotes
London Types: Barmaid
Though, if you ask her name, she says 'Elise,'
Being plain Elizabeth, e'en let it pass,
And own that, if her aspirates take their ease,
She ever makes a point, in washing glass,
Handling the engine, turning taps for tots,
And countering change, and scorning what men say,
Of posing as a dove among the pots,
Nor often gives her dignity away.
Her head's a work of art, and, if her eyes
Be tired and ignorant, she has a waist;
Cheaply the Mode she shadows; and she tries
From penny novels to amend her taste;
And, having mopped the zinc for certain years,
And faced the gas, she fades and disappears.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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You cook vegetable soup
You cook vegetable soup
and I look at you
while you cut green beans,
carrots, onions, celery, parsley
and tomatoes into two pots.
There are herbs, spices
and pepper that you are scattering
and two types of soup powder
that you throw in
and the pots steam and buzz
while I am washing the dishes
and the smell
makes me hungry
and I wonder
if the soup
are going to taste as good
as it smells.
We drink tee
and there’s medicine
that you give for flu
to me
and it’s great
to be with you
to read the look
in your beautiful eyes.
poem by Gert Strydom
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House Made Of Stone
the cell door slams shut!
staring through the barred window,
he can make out a lone crow
flying just over the treetops....
can feel the sunlight turning
the wheel, as seasons change.
can hear the big trucks
out on the interstate...
lying back on his bunk,
he closes his eyes....
can feel his spirit leaving
his beaten body behind....
turning back time, and years,
and most of all, choices....
back before the cars, the whores,
the dope, the money, and the guns....
he can see his mother
washing clothes in the sink.
can taste the beans, the cornbread,
can hear her reading her Bible....
can see the hope drenched walls
that poverty closed them in with....
and the keys... the books, the faith,
the code of living and giving....
choices... shadows and fire,
roaches on the floor....
dignity or power; and those eyes
that followed every move he made...
lone crow flying into the distance,
smaller and smaller, almost gone.
the part of him so real he'd forgotten,
lost to the hammer and chains....
and a house made of stone!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Turning Point
Black cloud on the sun, I turned my collar up
And walked from your door up to the county road
Oh yeah, what luck, the timings been rough on us
Right then, oh boy, we hit the turning point
Three or four years or more my life was on the floor
Blind faith, hangin in, hungry and tired of it
Oh yeah, better luck--it takin over us
But right now, oh boy, weve hit the turning point
Shes had to follow me up and down these empty streets
Whiskey on her breath tryin to give the world a test
Oh yeah, better luck--it takin over us
Right now, oh boy, weve hit the turning point
Yeah right now, oh boy, weve hit the turning point
Yeah right now, oh boy, weve hit the turning point
Weve hit the turning point
song performed by by Tom Petty
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Our Elected Politicians
Our politicians seem to send their problems to the Supreme Court,
Such as abortion and death with dignity and manage to distort,
As if none of this was really their responsibility,
So better to pass it up to the appointed nobility.
As they get away with this and have for years and years,
Are Canadians getting the gears or is this just how it appears?
As babies get aborted and we have no death with dignity,
And it’s not politically correct to mention this indignity.
And no one seems to want to step forward and make a change,
What do we the people have to do, to arrange or rearrange?
We could send an e-mail, I suppose but do you think it would work?
Dream on my friend; they don’t want to change and might call you a dork.
poem by James Bredin
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Veiled Scenes Behind The Sun
Perceived glimpses cast emotions
Perceptions give glimpses
Wrapped in a draped veil
Cupped hands you hold out with discretion
An offering of vagueness
When a turning sun reveals
Truth maybe scant but
Concealing the obvious is obvious
When a turning sun reveals
Eyes meeting eyes are not insincere
When the turning sun reveals
A pall fades behind the dark side
Truth in abstention drapes around me
It revolves then evolves
Bending the beating heart
When a turning sun reveals
When the turning sun turns
There is dimness, there is luminosity
Aspirations and bleakness
For all this disappears behind the sun gloaming
poem by Eric Von Rohr
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Ode To My Penny
Ode to my penny
That shiny little thing
Not much of value
Oh, but wait, stop and think
Put that old penny
In a little glass jar
Save it for a day
When happy thoughts are far
Shake the little jar
And hear the small jingle
But that little bell
Can't always be single
When penny has friends
This are better
What I mean to say;
Is Penny's quite clever
Do you see it now?
Penny is always 'round
When your feeling down
Penny's here, so be proud
He pulls you out of life's dark cloud
And puts you in light's bright crowd
Ode to my penny
Whose always there
Even when
No one else seems to care.
poem by Jordyn Averitte
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Penny Lane
(LennonMcCartney)
In Penny Lane there is a barber showing photographs
Of every head he's had the pleasure to know
And all the people that come and go
Stop and say hello
On the corner is a banker with a motorcar
The little children laugh at him behind his back
And the banker never wears a mack
In the pouring rain, very strange
Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes
There beneath the blue suburban skies
I sit, and meanwhile back
In Penny Lane there is a fireman with an hourglass
And in his pocket is a portrait of the queen
He likes to keep his fire engine clean
It's a clean machine
Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes
A four of fish and finger pies
In summer, meanwhile back
Behind the shelter in the middle of a roundabout
The pretty nurse is selling poppies from a tray
And though she feels as if she's in a play
She is anyway
In Penny Lane the barber shaves another customer
We see the banker sitting waiting for a trim
And then the fireman rushes in
From the pouring rain, very strange
Penny lane is in my ears and in my eyes
There beneath the blue suburban skies
I sit, and meanwhile back
Penny lane is in my ears and in my eyes
There beneath the blue suburban skies
Penny Lane
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Taste
it is a matter of taste
years of bitterness
cannot teach you
in a day what sweetness is
years of searching
cannot give you an hour
of a solution to the problems
you are grappling with
you mellow down through the years
what tastes so sweet to them
in your discriminating expertise
is never sweet to you
you keep a glass of your favorite concoction
the one that makes you live
she takes the courage of taking a sip
her face changes and she vomits
what makes you live is always
the exquisite taste of bitterness
the one that strengthens your mind
and that makes a lot of difference
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Faded pictures
NLY two patient eyes to stare
Out of the canvas. All the rest-
The warm green gown, the small hands pressed
Light in the lap, the braided hair
That must have made the sweet low brow
So earnest, centuries ago,
When some one saw it change and glow-
All faded! Just the eyes burn now.
I dare say people pass and pass
Before the blistered little frame,
And dingy work without a name
Stuck in behind its square of glass.
But I, well, I left Raphael
Just to come drink these eyes of hers,
To think away the stains and blurs
And make all new again and well.
Only, for tears my head will bow,
Because there on my heart's last wall,
Scarce one tint left to tell it all,
A picture keeps its eyes, somehow.
poem by William Vaughn Moody
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Afternoon Fading
at the beach
something is going on
a change of colors
of the beach scene
the blazing red turning
into a haze of gray
children playing turning into
shadows
the laughter fades into
a sacred silence
the heart learns some more
about the face of solitude
the dance of loneliness
the falling of the curtain of darkness
in the room a candle is lighted
the mind begins to think
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Penny
When just a boy, a penny from his dad to make a wish
Throw it away son like magic your wish will appear
The boy thought and thought somemore
But never a wish worth his penny
Many a battle he fought, the penny still here
Hunger, fear and all types of problems threw his years
The penny he still keeps to the day
Till somewhere in the autumn of his life
A wish like magic, worth his penny did finealy appear
Nothing like this could he ever imagine
A smile from her almost brought him to tears
After all these years,
Sweetheart hears my penny
poem by Sam Pendlebury
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Glass Partition
she lives her life
behind a glass partition.
shuffling papers, washing dishes,
sweeping the floor.
sipping on sterile water,
her hands squeaky clean...
even her cat's been declawed!
he comes in from work,
both tired and bruised.
his pants are dirty,
his hands ache and throb.
pours a small drink,
and lights up a smoke...
sits quietly with an angry stare.
two worlds revolving,
two distant shores.
the phone rings, wrong number,
there's a knock on the door.
she turns her head unwilling to feel,
he hurls the bottle at the glass...
stands up, and looks for the broom!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Gold-tipped Boots, Black Jacket & Tie
Im banered and bruised. I got lines I cant use.
My head wont deliver. well, Im sold down the river.
But Im turning again.
Yes, 'n Im turning again.
Well, Im turning again.
And Im turning again.
Wearing gold-tipped boots, black jacket and tie.
Well, Ive been second to none:
This horse was ready to run.
Now Im has-been and used:
Disarmed and de-fused
But Im turning again.
And Im turning again.
Yes, 'n Im turning again.
Im turning again.
Wearing gold-tipped boots, black jacket and tie.
Im egg over-easy
And Im washing-up squeezy.
Appliance for sale:
Fat wind in my sail
And Im turning again.
Yes, 'n Im turning again.
Well, Im turning again.
Yes, 'n Im turning again.
Wearing gold-tipped boots, black jacket and tie.
Well, Im turning again.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Breath Upon The Looking Glass
My breath expressed
Upon the looking glass
A living veil
Composed of gas
Eyes kept without
Breath held within
A visual shout
A ghastly grin
That fades away
As does the breath
As sure and certain
As life and death
The looking glass
Now free of mist
Lays bare my soul
And doing so insists
That I observe
The exposed nerve
That in said glass
Persists
I hastily breath anew
On said looking glass
To renew said veil
of living gas
Then Hie away
Before it fades
And draws me fast (and forever)
Into the looking glass
poem by David Whalen
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Pour Me A Glass
Once upon a time I was sitting by,
A bottle of wine and all I knew was i,
I was gonna sip it down in a little while,
I drink it glass for glass but theres no reason why,
The bottle of wine has a taste so fine,
It makes feel good, it makes me blow my mind,
I cannot stop pour me another glass,
I would if I could, but now I need it fast,
I lost my friends, nobody holds my hand,
Like a lonley stranger in a long lost land,
I felt the feelings no one ever has,
Bartender, pour me a glass!
Chorus:
Pour me a glass, pour me a glass of a bottle wine...
Im drinking, Im not drinking, I cant tell you why,
How it started, how it ends but I do deny,
That I wanna ruin my life but now I wanna dive,
Into the silent ocean where there is no cry,
For hope, for me that I cannot see,
But if I faced the facts and go inside of me,
I would see myself, my own reality,
I would see myself, my own insanity,
Scared to move another step ahead,
I would lose the strength so I will fast forget,
What I do to myself, why dont you take a guess,
Bartender, pour me a glass!
Chorus...
song performed by by H-BlockX
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Which is - you know, like check it out, I'm pretty young, I'm only about 40 years old. I still have maybe another four decades of work left in me. And it's exceedingly likely that anything I write from this point forward is going to be judged by the world as the work that came after the freakish success of my last book, right?
quote by Elizabeth Gilbert
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Images
I have an image in my head,
It's of my mother
in an old pinny,
her hard, broad hands
that were soft and plump on the palm,
with cigarette yellow
at the fingertips.
I have this image in my head
It's of her with a washing board,
sighing, tired
and me, small and tubby,
taking mini steps
towards the wringer,
'can I do it mummy, can I do it'
I have this image in my head
of her face, all lit up,
her excitement
at her first ‘twin tub'
and my heart aches for her.
I see her poor, over worked body,
her anguished face and I cry for her.
I have this image in my head
and it never fades.
I wish she'd had a better life,
taken more care of herself.
She had this matter of fact attitude,
resololute, never to give in
and at the end, when all was done
there was nothing left but pain.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Old grey eyes
Old grey eyes
~
He sits alone in the bar
Slumped into his chair
Looking down onto the table
Turning the glass in his hand
Occasionally, looking up
He surveys the room quietly
His brow furrowed
Eyes deep cast look tired
The is an air of sadness about him
That no-one seems to know
He is just old grey eyes
The man who sits in a bar alone
Looking down at his drink
Almost mouthing words
In conversation with himself
He is sensibly dressed
With old tatty shoes
He picks through his change
Counting out another drink
He will be there for a while longer
And then when he has gone
Who will say ‘old grey eyes’
‘Do you remember him’
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Tiny Tots (A Celesian)
Tiny tots,
Who barely walk,
Are off to school
Each day;
Their age is meant
To eat and play,
And sleep whenev’r,
They may.
Tiny tots,
With heavy hearts,
Carry huge books
Their way;
With mothers off
To early work
To help husbands’
Poor pay.
Tiny tots,
Just want more love,
But don’t get it
Some way;
Few get pamper’d
By bad adults,
Who tamper them
Today.
Tiny tots,
Raised in this way
Turn delinquent,
I say;
Their future’s bleak:
Know this adults;
They need more care
All day.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 1-4-2007
'Celesian' is a new innovative, simple, structured, rhyming poem
With syllables in the order
3,4,4,2a /4,4,4,2a in each stanza
poem by John Celes
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