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I've been saying in the press that being a NY Post investigator reporter is an oxymoron.

quote by Joe Pantoliano
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 11

SCARCE had the rosy Morning rais’d her head
Above the waves, and left her wat’ry bed;
The pious chief, whom double cares attend
For his unburied soldiers and his friend,
Yet first to Heav’n perform’d a victor’s vows: 5
He bar’d an ancient oak of all her boughs;
Then on a rising ground the trunk he plac’d,
Which with the spoils of his dead foe he grac’d.
The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,
Now on a naked snag in triumph borne, 10
Was hung on high, and glitter’d from afar,
A trophy sacred to the God of War.
Above his arms, fix’d on the leafless wood,
Appear’d his plumy crest, besmear’d with blood:
His brazen buckler on the left was seen; 15
Truncheons of shiver’d lances hung between;
And on the right was placed his corslet, bor’d;
And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.
A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man,
Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began: 20
“Our toils, my friends, are crown’d with sure success;
The greater part perform’d, achieve the less.
Now follow cheerful to the trembling town;
Press but an entrance, and presume it won.
Fear is no more, for fierce Mezentius lies, 25
As the first fruits of war, a sacrifice.
Turnus shall fall extended on the plain,
And, in this omen, is already slain.
Prepar’d in arms, pursue your happy chance;
That none unwarn’d may plead his ignorance, 30
And I, at Heav’n’s appointed hour, may find
Your warlike ensigns waving in the wind.
Meantime the rites and fun’ral pomps prepare,
Due to your dead companions of the war:
The last respect the living can bestow, 35
To shield their shadows from contempt below.
That conquer’d earth be theirs, for which they fought,
And which for us with their own blood they bought;
But first the corpse of our unhappy friend
To the sad city of Evander send, 40
Who, not inglorious, in his age’s bloom,
Was hurried hence by too severe a doom.”
Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way,
Where, new in death, lamented Pallas lay.
Acoetes watch’d the corpse; whose youth deserv’d 45
The father’s trust; and now the son he serv’d
With equal faith, but less auspicious care.
Th’ attendants of the slain his sorrow share.
A troop of Trojans mix’d with these appear,
And mourning matrons with dishevel’d hair. 50

[...] Read more

poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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Mr. Reporter

Hey, mr. reporter,
How 'bout talking about yourself?
Do you like what you're doing,
Or is it that you can do nothing else?
Hey, mr. reporter,
I'll believe all that you put down.
I'll believe the sun is going up,
Even though it's going down.
Hey, mr. reporter,
Don't you twist my words around.
I'll kill you, i won't let you,
Distort my simple sound.
Hey, mr. reporter,
How 'bout talking about yourself?
Do you like what you're doing,
Or is it that you can do nothing else?
Hey, mr. reporter,
How 'bout talking about yourself?
Do you like what you're doing,
Or is it that you can do nothing else?
Did your daddy stop you playing
With your friends when you were young?
And is that why you run down
All the young folks have their fun. [?]
The reason i am stupid,
Is because i read you every day.
You misquote all of the true things
Because they rub you the wrong way.
Hey, mr. reporter,
How 'bout talking about yourself?
Do you like what you're doing,
Or is it that you can do nothing else?

song performed by Kinks
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October the Post Office Cat

Some thought she was a stray
That had come for scraps along the way
That might be left from the lunch
Of the post office staff; a kindly bunch.
But others knew her for what she was,
October the Post Office Cat.

She had a duty like any employee
To be on time and serve the public daily
And as any other as all know,
Had an official position just so.
October the Post Office Cat.

As soon as the walks were swept
And the doors were opened for the daily visits,
She found her space upon the walk
A bit removed so that none would balk
As they came to do their task or mail whatever.
October the Post Office Cat.

She often times was given the duty
Of minding some child whose custodian
Had business to attend
In dealing with the letters or packages within,
So she laid there carefully in the sun
Till end of day when her work was done.
October the Post Office Cat.

She was known by all who came along that way
Parking carefully throughout the day
Making sure that she was not disturbed
As she, her duties did perform.
Watching and listening to the sounds of pleasure
That only can be bestowed on one to treasure.
Yet adults knew not how to measure.
October the Post Office Cat.

On the post across the way
A yellow sign was placed on display
By the lady who ran the insurance office
Who wanted to be sure that others notice
That this was the path taken each day
As the cat came to begin her official stay.
October the Post Office Cat.

There came a time when she did not appear
And it was certainly a time to fear
That something had befallen this special one
Who worked so hard to please everyone
And the sign was removed so that all would know

[...] Read more

poem by Sidi J. Mahtrow
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The Columbiad: Book VII

The Argument

Coast of France rises in vision. Louis, to humble the British power, forms an alliance with the American states. This brings France, Spain and Holland into the war, and rouses Hyder Ally to attack the English in India. The vision returns to America, where the military operations continue with various success. Battle of Monmouth. Storming of Stonypoint by Wayne. Actions of Lincoln, and surrender of Charleston. Movements of Cornwallis. Actions of Greene, and battle of Eutaw. French army arrives, and joins the American. They march to besiege the English army of Cornwallis in York and Gloster. Naval battle of Degrasse and Graves. Two of their ships grappled and blown up. Progress of the siege. A citadel mined and blown up. Capture of Cornwallis and his army. Their banners furled and muskets piled on the field of battle.

Thus view'd the Pair; when lo, in eastern skies,
From glooms unfolding, Gallia's coasts arise.
Bright o'er the scenes of state a golden throne,
Instarr'd with gems and hung with purple, shone;
Young Bourbon there in royal splendor sat,
And fleets and moving armies round him wait.
For now the contest, with increased alarms,
Fill'd every court and roused the world to arms;
As Hesper's hand, that light from darkness brings,
And good to nations from the scourge of kings,
In this dread hour bade broader beams unfold,
And the new world illuminate the old.

In Europe's realms a school of sages trace
The expanding dawn that waits the Reasoning Race;
On the bright Occident they fix their eyes,
Thro glorious toils where struggling nations rise;
Where each firm deed, each new illustrious name
Calls into light a field of nobler fame:
A field that feeds their hope, confirms the plan
Of well poized freedom and the weal of man.
They scheme, they theorize, expand their scope,
Glance o'er Hesperia to her utmost cope;
Where streams unknown for other oceans stray,
Where suns unseen their waste of beams display,
Where sires of unborn nations claim their birth,
And ask their empires in those wilds of earth.
While round all eastern climes, with painful eye,
In slavery sunk they see the kingdoms lie,
Whole states exhausted to enrich a throne,
Their fruits untasted and their rights unknown;
Thro tears of grief that speak the well taught mind,
They hail the æra that relieves mankind.

Of these the first, the Gallic sages stand,
And urge their king to lift an aiding hand.
The cause of humankind their souls inspired,
Columbia's wrongs their indignation fired;
To share her fateful deeds their counsel moved,
To base in practice what in theme they proved:
That no proud privilege from birth can spring,
No right divine, nor compact form a king;
That in the people dwells the sovereign sway,
Who rule by proxy, by themselves obey;

[...] Read more

poem by Joel Barlow
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V. Count Guido Franceschini

Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
Needs must the Court be slow to understand
How this quite novel form of taking pain,
This getting tortured merely in the flesh,
Amounts to almost an agreeable change
In my case, me fastidious, plied too much
With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)
To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,
And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.
Four years have I been operated on
I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—
My self-respect, my care for a good name,
Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just
A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,
That looked up to my face when days were dim,
And fancied they found light there—no one spot,
Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.
That, and not this you now oblige me with,
That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!
The poor old noble House that drew the rags
O' the Franceschini's once superb array
Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—
Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out
And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!
Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence
Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,
The father I have some slight feeling for,
Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends
Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,
Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,
Properly push his child to wall one day!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Iliad: Book 23

Thus did they make their moan throughout the city, while the
Achaeans when they reached the Hellespont went back every man to his
own ship. But Achilles would not let the Myrmidons go, and spoke to
his brave comrades saying, "Myrmidons, famed horsemen and my own
trusted friends, not yet, forsooth, let us unyoke, but with horse
and chariot draw near to the body and mourn Patroclus, in due honour
to the dead. When we have had full comfort of lamentation we will
unyoke our horses and take supper all of us here."
On this they all joined in a cry of wailing and Achilles led them in
their lament. Thrice did they drive their chariots all sorrowing round
the body, and Thetis stirred within them a still deeper yearning.
The sands of the seashore and the men's armour were wet with their
weeping, so great a minister of fear was he whom they had lost.
Chief in all their mourning was the son of Peleus: he laid his
bloodstained hand on the breast of his friend. "Fare well," he
cried, "Patroclus, even in the house of Hades. I will now do all
that I erewhile promised you; I will drag Hector hither and let dogs
devour him raw; twelve noble sons of Trojans will I also slay before
your pyre to avenge you."
As he spoke he treated the body of noble Hector with contumely,
laying it at full length in the dust beside the bier of Patroclus. The
others then put off every man his armour, took the horses from their
chariots, and seated themselves in great multitude by the ship of
the fleet descendant of Aeacus, who thereon feasted them with an
abundant funeral banquet. Many a goodly ox, with many a sheep and
bleating goat did they butcher and cut up; many a tusked boar
moreover, fat and well-fed, did they singe and set to roast in the
flames of Vulcan; and rivulets of blood flowed all round the place
where the body was lying.
Then the princes of the Achaeans took the son of Peleus to
Agamemnon, but hardly could they persuade him to come with them, so
wroth was he for the death of his comrade. As soon as they reached
Agamemnon's tent they told the serving-men to set a large tripod
over the fire in case they might persuade the son of Peleus 'to wash
the clotted gore from this body, but he denied them sternly, and swore
it with a solemn oath, saying, "Nay, by King Jove, first and mightiest
of all gods, it is not meet that water should touch my body, till I
have laid Patroclus on the flames, have built him a barrow, and shaved
my head- for so long as I live no such second sorrow shall ever draw
nigh me. Now, therefore, let us do all that this sad festival demands,
but at break of day, King Agamemnon, bid your men bring wood, and
provide all else that the dead may duly take into the realm of
darkness; the fire shall thus burn him out of our sight the sooner,
and the people shall turn again to their own labours."
Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said. They made haste
to prepare the meal, they ate, and every man had his full share so
that all were satisfied. As soon as they had had had enough to eat and
drink, the others went to their rest each in his own tent, but the son
of Peleus lay grieving among his Myrmidons by the shore of the
sounding sea, in an open place where the waves came surging in one

[...] Read more

poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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Cursum Perficio

Cursum perficio
Cursum perficio
Cursum perficio
Cursum perficio
Cursum perficio
Verbum sapienti (eo plus cupiunt)
Verbum sapienti
Quo plus habent} eo plus cupiunt
Verbum sapienti
Quo plus habent} eo plus cupiunt
Post nubila, phoebus
Post nubila, phoebus
Post nubila, phoebus
Quo plus habent, eo plus cupiunt
Quo plus habent, eo plus cupiunt
Quo plus habent, eo plus cupiunt
Post nubila, phoebus
Post nubila, phoebus
Post nubila, phoebus
Post nubila, phoebus
Post nubila, phoebus
Post nubila, phoebus
Iternum
Iternum
Iternum

song performed by Enya
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Whipping Post

I been run down, I been lied to,
I dont know why I let that mean woman make me a fool.
She took all my money, wrecked my new car.
Now shes with one of my goodtime buddies,
Theyre drinkin in some crosstown bar.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I been tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good lord, I feel like Im dyin.
My friends tell me, that Ive been such a fool,
And I have to stand by and take it baby, all for lovin you.
Drown myself in sorrow, and I look at what youve down.
But nothin seems to change, the bad times stay the same,
And I cant run.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I been tied to the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good lord, I feel like Im dyin.
Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I been tied to the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good lord, I feel like Im dyin.
Transcribed by rich kulawiec, rsk@ecn.purdue.edu

song performed by Allman Brothers Band
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The Whipping Post

I been run down, i been lied to,
I don't know why i let that mean woman make me a fool.
She took all my money, wrecked my new car.
Now she's with one of my goodtime buddies,
They're drinkin' in some crosstown bar.
Sometimes i feel, sometimes i feel,
Like i been tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good lord, i feel like i'm dyin'.
My friends tell me, that i've been such a fool,
And i have to stand by and take it baby, all for lovin' you.
Drown myself in sorrow, and i look at what you've down.
But nothin' seems to change, the bad times stay the same,
And i can't run.
Sometimes i feel, sometimes i feel,
Like i been tied to the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good lord, i feel like i'm dyin'.
Sometimes i feel, sometimes i feel,
Like i been tied to the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good lord, i feel like i'm dyin'.
Transcribed by rich kulawiec, rsk@ecn.purdue.edu

song performed by Allman Brothers Band
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Tale XXI

The Learned Boy

An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true;
He did by all as all by him should do;
Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,
Yet famed for rustic hospitality:
Left with his children in a widow'd state,
The quiet man submitted to his fate;
Though prudent matrons waited for his call,
With cool forbearance he avoided all;
Though each profess'd a pure maternal joy,
By kind attention to his feeble boy;
And though a friendly Widow knew no rest,
Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd;
Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone
Their hearts' concern to see him left alone,
Jones still persisted in that cheerless life,
As if 'twere sin to take a second wife.
Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,
To find such numbers who will serve instead;
And in whatever state a man be thrown,
'Tis that precisely they would wish their own;
Left the departed infants--then their joy
Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy:
Whatever calling his, whatever trade,
To that their chief attention has been paid;
His happy taste in all things they approve,
His friends they honour, and his food they love;
His wish for order, prudence in affairs,
An equal temper (thank their stars!), are theirs;
In fact, it seem'd to be a thing decreed,
And fix'd as fate, that marriage must succeed:
Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and

hard,
Can hear such claims and show them no regard.
Soon as our Farmer, like a general, found
By what strong foes he was encompass'd round,
Engage he dared not, and he could not fly,
But saw his hope in gentle parley lie;
With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart,
He met the foe, and art opposed to art.
Now spoke that foe insidious--gentle tones,
And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones:
'Three girls,' the Widow cried, 'a lively three
To govern well--indeed it cannot be.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'it calls for pains and care:
But I must bear it.'--'Sir, you cannot bear;
Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye:'
'That, my kind friend, a father's may supply.'

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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The Lord of the Isles: Canto VI.

I.
O who, that shared them, ever shall forget
The emotions of the spirit-rousing time,
When breathless in the mart the couriers met,
Early and late, at evening and at prime;
When the loud cannon and the merry chime
Hail'd news on news, as field on field was won,
When Hope, long doubtful, soar'd at length sublime,
And our glad eyes, awake as day begun,
Watch'd Joy's broad banner rise, to meet the rising sun!
O these were hours, when thrilling joy repaid
A long, long course of darkness, doubts, and fears!
The heart-sick faintness of the hope delay'd,
The waste, the woe, the bloodshed, and the tears,
That track'd with terror twenty rolling years,
All was forgot in that blithe jubilee!
Her downcast eye even pale Affliction rears,
To sigh a thankful prayer, amid the glee,
That hail'd the Despot's fall, and peace and liberty!

Such news o'er Scotland's hills triumphant rode,
When 'gainst the invaders turn'd the battle's scale,
When Bruce's banner had victorious flow'd
O'er Loudoun's mountain, and in Ury's vale;
And fiery English blood oft deluged Douglas-dale,
And fiery Edward routed stout St. John,
When Randolph's war-cry swell'd the southern gale,
And many a fortress, town, and tower, was won,
And fame still sounded forth fresh deeds of glory done.

II.
Blithe tidings flew from baron's tower,
To peasant's cot, to forest-bower,
And waked the solitary cell,
Where lone Saint Bride's recluses dwell.
Princess no more, fair Isabel,
A vot'ress of the order now,
Say, did the rule that bid thee wear
Dim veil and wollen scapulare,
And reft thy locks of dark-brown hair,
That stern and rigid vow,
Did it condemn the transport high,
Which glisten'd in thy watery eye,
When minstrel or when palmer told
Each fresh exploit of Bruce the bold?-
And whose the lovely form, that shares
Thy anxious hopes, thy fears, thy prayers?
No sister she of convent shade;
So say these locks in lengthen'd braid,
So say the blushes and the sighs,

[...] Read more

poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Press Intrusion

The World’s Press are often extremely intrusive,
Just so they can obtain a ‘world exclusive.’

When a celebrity pops out to buy a new pair of shoes,
It’s really not that thrilling or potential headline news.
We also see photos of celebs with spots on their faces,
And sweat patches under their arm pits, in some cases.

With really pointless pictures, they fill column space,
And, of everyone’s time and effort, it really is a waste.
The same old celebrities are pictured time and time again,
And it’s increasingly becoming a really annoying pain.

The Press are making themselves a real laughing stock.
And I feel on some of their activities, there should be a block.
They don’t care about anyone, who their actions may affect.
They hone in on the tiniest shred of emotion they can detect.

When celebs are doing normal things or are just on the phone,
The Press really need to just butt out and leave them all alone.
They often set up camp outside celebs private homes,
And this type of behaviour, I really can’t condone.

When people are at one of the lowest points of their entire lives,
The last thing they really want is the Press sticking in the knives.
If a member of the press was at an all time low,
Would they like the whole wide world to know?

I really don’t wish to see photos of people lying around dead,
Or of people upset and injured with blood bespattered heads.
If someone is obviously upset or wincing in severe agony or pain,
Then, from sticking a camera in their face, the Press should refrain.

When a famous footballer breaks their little toe,
The Press seem to think the whole world wants to know.
People often break bones. It happens every single day.
But their injuries aren’t reported to everyone in this way.

There were photos of the lovely Princess Kate in Waitrose,
But, when she’s off-duty, I don’t really care where she goes.
They timed her trip and listed all the items which she bought.
For her personal privacy, they never gave a second thought.

When the Press take photos, they really should ask for permission.
Not just consider that the taking of a photo is their rightful decision.
The Press do not seem to have a shred of respect for anyone.
They see what they do as business, or, in some cases, a bit of fun.

The situation really is becoming more than just a little strange,
And I truly believe that there are things which need to change.

poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 9

WHILE these affairs in distant places pass’d,
The various Iris Juno sends with haste,
To find bold Turnus, who, with anxious thought,
The secret shade of his great grandsire sought.
Retir’d alone she found the daring man, 5
And op’d her rosy lips, and thus began:
“What none of all the gods could grant thy vows,
That, Turnus, this auspicious day bestows.
Æneas, gone to seek th’ Arcadian prince,
Has left the Trojan camp without defense; 10
And, short of succors there, employs his pains
In parts remote to raise the Tuscan swains.
Now snatch an hour that favors thy designs;
Unite thy forces, and attack their lines.”
This said, on equal wings she pois’d her weight, 15
And form’d a radiant rainbow in her flight.
The Daunian hero lifts his hands and eyes,
And thus invokes the goddess as she flies:
“Iris, the grace of heav’n, what pow’r divine
Has sent thee down, thro’ dusky clouds to shine? 20
See, they divide; immortal day appears,
And glitt’ring planets dancing in their spheres!
With joy, these happy omens I obey,
And follow to the war the god that leads the way.”
Thus having said, as by the brook he stood, 25
He scoop’d the water from the crystal flood;
Then with his hands the drops to heav’n he throws,
And loads the pow’rs above with offer’d vows.
Now march the bold confed’rates thro’ the plain,
Well hors’d, well clad; a rich and shining train. 30
Messapus leads the van; and, in the rear,
The sons of Tyrrheus in bright arms appear.
In the main battle, with his flaming crest,
The mighty Turnus tow’rs above the rest.
Silent they move, majestically slow, 35
Like ebbing Nile, or Ganges in his flow.
The Trojans view the dusty cloud from far,
And the dark menace of the distant war.
Caicus from the rampire saw it rise,
Black’ning the fields, and thick’ning thro’ the skies. 40
Then to his fellows thus aloud he calls:
“What rolling clouds, my friends, approach the walls?
Arm! arm! and man the works! prepare your spears
And pointed darts! the Latian host appears.”
Thus warn’d, they shut their gates; with shouts ascend 45
The bulwarks, and, secure, their foes attend:
For their wise gen’ral, with foreseeing care,
Had charg’d them not to tempt the doubtful war,
Nor, tho’ provok’d, in open fields advance,
But close within their lines attend their chance. 50

[...] Read more

poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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Oxymoron

Oxymoron:
fresh fish

*********

JBO:

'The beach at Sanibel... an Arlington Cemetery of shells.'
*
Every suffocated or strangled fish is first given
waterboarding sensations.
*
Fishes more frequently than
mammals or birds are cut open
alive, while their eyes watch
the knifing of others and their
gills struggle for absent air.

Fish cannot scream.
Greed for suffocated fish flesh causes seals to be clubbed in Canada, Norway, S Africa etc., dolphins to be knifed in Japan, whales to be murdered by
Norwegian Japanese Icelandic and American Inuit fishermen, bears
to be murdered in Alaska, untold thousands of fishermen to
be lost in tsunamis,700 Bangladesh fishermen lost in just 1 storm, Thai fishermen working for slave wages, tens of millions around
the world to die of stomach cancer, food poisoning etc.**

What's in fish? unreported Mad Fish
Disease, nuclear toxins a million
times more concentrated than in
sea water, AIDS from unprocessed
human waste dumped into
the oceans, hepatitis, anaphylactic shock, ecoli,
and other food poisoning,
throat, stomach and other cancers,
mercury, lead, cadmium, arsenic, pbb's, pcb's, thousands
of carcinogenic industrial waste products, and heavy metal sired
brain damage, pfiesteria (red tide) which poisons the fishes

FISH CAN'T SCREAM, FISH TOXINS, FISH STORIES

Are all anglers stranglers?

Dick Gregory: Eating fish liver oil is like eating the filter out of a car.

[...] Read more

poem by O. Anna Niemus
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Do Not Post Your Poem Here

Do not post your poem here
Unless you've something worth a say!
You must not waste a space like this,
For space can waste away!

Do not post your poem here
With words which make no sense!
Be careful when you post it here
That you use the proper tense!

Do not post your poem here
Just to fill a space with words!
A poem should be well thought out,
Was it meant to be absurd?

Do not post your poem here
If in cliches you would write.
A poem should be fresh, yes sharp -
You'll know when it's just right!

Do not post your poem here
Just to see yourself in print.
You're wasting others time you know
With such, self centred stints!

I wil not post my poem here,
This one does not exist,
But did I tell you at the start
That I'm a nihilist?

poem by Joe Hughes
Added by Poetry Lover
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New Millenium Homes

Hungry people dont stay hungry for long
They get hope from fire and smoke as the wheat grows strong
Hungry people dont stay hungry for long
They get hope from fire and smoke as they reach for the dawn
Tha spirit of jackson
Now screams through tha ruins
Through factory chainsand tha ghost of tha union
Forgotten remains
Disappear to their new homes
Tha knife tha thrust
Tha life burns to the raw bone
Tha blood on the floor of the tear is still dryin
Cover the spread sheets
Tha dow jones skyin
Cell block live stock
Tha bodies their buyin
Old south order
New northern horizon
Violence in all hands
Embrace it if need be
(violence in all hands, embrace it if need be)
Livin been warfare
I press it to cd
(livin been warfare, I press it to cd)
Violence in all hands
Embrace it if need be
(violence in all hands, embrace it if need be)
Livin been warfare
I press it to cd
(livin been warfare, I press it to cd)
A fire in the masters house is set
A fire in the masters house is set
A fire in the masters house is set
A fire in the masters house is set
Hungry people dont stay hungry for long
They get hope from fire and smoke as the wheat grows strong
Hungry people dont stay hungry for long
They get hope from fire and smoke as they reach for the dawn
Yo, yo
Check tha high tech terror
Yes tha new order athletes
Peer into tha eyes of tha child already on trial
Armies rippin families apart
Get em on file
Convictions fit tha stock profile
All tha while films of dogs
Cutting through homes
Ripping skin from bones
Yes tha new millennium homes
Privatizing through private eyes

[...] Read more

song performed by Rage Against The Machine
Added by Lucian Velea
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Walk, Press, Swim

Walk on, walk on
By the Power of the Spirit of the living God
Walk on, walk on.

I walk by a different drum
Walk on, walk on
By the Power of the Spirit of the living God
Walk on, walk on.

Seek truth, knowledge, wisdom, understanding.
Walk on, walk on,
By the Power of the Spirit of the living God
Walk on, walk on.

Walk in the water of the word.
Walk on, walk on
By the Power of the Spirit of the living God
Walk in the water of the word,
Walk on, walk on!

Press in, press in.
By the Power of the Spirit of the living God.
Press in, press in.

Press in deeper
By the Power of the Spirit of the living God
Press in deeper.

Press in deeper
By the Power of the spirit of the living God.
Press in deeper!

Swim on, swim on,
By the Power of the Spirit of the living God
Swim on, swim on.

Swim a little deeper.
Oh, yea, Swim on, swim on,
By the Power of the Spirit of the living God
Swim on, swim on.

Prophesy, speak my word.
Swim on, swim on
By the Power of the Spirit of the living God.
Swim on, swim on!

poem by Katie J. Figueroa
Added by Poetry Lover
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Trivia ; or, the Art of Walking the Streets of London : Book III

Of Walking the Streets by Night.

O Trivia, goddess, leave these low abodes,
And traverse o'er the wide ethereal roads,
Celestial queen, put on thy robes of light,
Now Cynthia nam'd, fair regent of the night.
At sight of thee the villain sheaths his sword,
Nor scales the wall, to steal the wealthy hoard.
O may thy silver lamp from heaven's high bower
Direct my footsteps in the midnight hour!
When night first bids the twinkling stars appear,
Or with her cloudy vest enwraps the air,
Then swarms the busy street; with caution tread
Where the shop-windows falling threat thy head;
Now labourers home return, and join their strength
To bear the tottering plank, or ladder's length;
Still fix thy eyes intent upon the throng,
And as the passes open, wind along.
Where the fair columns of St. Clement stand,
Whose straighten'd bounds encroach upon the Strand
Where the low pent-house bows the walker's head,
And the rough pavement wounds the yielding tread;
Where not a post protects the narrow space,
And strung in twines, combs dangle in thy face;
Summon at once thy courage, rouse thy care,
Stand firm, look back, be resolute, beware,
Forth issuing from steep lanes, the collier's steeds
Drag the black load; another cart succeeds,
Team follows team, crowds heap'd on crowds appear,
And wait impatient, 'till the road grow clear.
Now all the pavement sounds with trampling feet,
And the mixt hurry barricades the street;
Entangled here, the waggon's lengthen'd team
Cracks the tough harness; here a ponderous beam
Lies overturn'd athwart; for slaughter fed
Here lowing bullocks raise their horned head.
Now oaths grow loud, with coaches coaches jar,
And the smart blow provokes the sturdy war;
From the high box they whirl the thong around,
And with the twining lash their shins resound;
Their rage ferments, more dangerous wounds they try,
And the blood gushes down their painful eye,
And now on foot the frowning warriors light,
And with their ponderous fists renew the fight;
Blow after blow, the cheeks are smear'd with blood,
Till down they fall, and grappling roll in mud.
So when two boars, in wild Ytene bred,
Or on Westphalia's fattening chestnuts fed,
Gnash their sharp tusks, and rous'd with equal fire,
Dispute the reign of some luxurious mire;

[...] Read more

poem by John Gay
Added by Poetry Lover
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Rokeby: Canto VI.

I.
The summer sun, whose early power
Was wont to gild Matilda's bower,
And rouse her with his matin ray
Her duteous orisons to pay,
That morning sun has three times seen
The flowers unfold on Rokeby green,
But sees no more the slumbers fly
From fair Matilda's hazel eye;
That morning sun has three times broke
On Rokeby's glades of elm and oak,
But, rising from their sylvan screen,
Marks no grey turrets' glance between.
A shapeless mass lie keep and tower,
That, hissing to the morning shower,
Can but with smouldering vapour pay
The early smile of summer day.
The peasant, to his labour bound,
Pauses to view the blacken'd mound,
Striving, amid the ruin'd space,
Each well-remember'd spot to trace.
That length of frail and fire-scorch'd wall
Once screen'd the hospitable hall;
When yonder broken arch was whole,
‘Twas there was dealt the weekly dole;
And where yon tottering columns nod,
The chapel sent the hymn to God.
So flits the world's uncertain span
Nor zeal for God, nor love for man,
Gives mortal monuments a date
Beyond the power of Time and Fate.
The towers must share the builder's doom;
Ruin is theirs, and his a tomb:
But better boon benignant Heaven
To Faith and Charity has given,
And bids the Christian hope sublime
Transcend the bounds of Fate and Time.

II.
Now the third night of summer came,
Since that which witness'd Rokeby's flame.
On Brignall cliffs and Scargill brake
The owlet's homilies awake,
The bittern scream'd from rush and flag,
The raven slumber'd on his crag,
Forth from his den the otter drew,
Grayling and trout their tyrant knew,
As between reed and sedge he peers,
With fierce round snout and sharpen'd ears
Or, prowling by the moonbeam cool,

[...] Read more

poem by Sir Walter Scott
Added by Poetry Lover
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T Baggin' Skit

[Dial Tone]
[Numbers being pressed]
Hello, Thank you for calling Disturbing Tha Peace.
To help expodate your call, please listen carefully to the following options.
If you're calling to solicit to a demo tape, press 1.
If you're calling regarding a job, press 2.
If you're calling to borrow money, press 3.
If you're calling to find the nearest weed spot in your area, press 4.
If you're out of alcohol on Sunday, press 5.
If you need a ho for the evening, press 6.
If you woke up with a hang over, and a pair of hairy balls on your forehead, press 7
7.
[Number gets pressed]
You've just pressed 7.
You've been victimized and introduced to a moral crime known as t baggin'.
We suggest you probably hang up the phone,
Beat the ass of any white guys you hung out with last night
and find and destroy all photos before they appear on the internet.
Thank you for calling.
Good luck.
Goodbye
[Dial Tone]

song performed by Ludacris
Added by Lucian Velea
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