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Diaper backward spells repaid. Think about it.

quote by Marshall McLuhan
Added by Lucian Velea
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Healthy Back Bag

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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Handles Bermuda

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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Luggage Canada

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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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The Twelve Days of Christmas – Walking

One fall while walking a path beside the Snake River I spotted a baby's pacifier hanging on a tree limb just over our heads. It caused me to start singing these words to the 12 Days of Christmas tune.

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me
A pacifier in a bare tree

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Two diaper pails
and a pacifier in a bare tree

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Three baby rattles
Two diaper pails
and a pacifier in a bare tree

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Four Lysol bottles
Three baby rattles
Two diaper pails
and a pacifier in a bare tree

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Five baby bibs
Four Lysol bottles
Three baby rattles
Two diaper pails
and a pacifier in a bare tree

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Six baby booties
Five baby bibs
Four Lysol bottles
Three baby rattles
Two diaper pails
and a pacifier in a bare tree

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Seven hours of bawling
Six baby booties
Five baby bibs
Four Lysol bottles
Three baby rattles
Two diaper pails
and a pacifier in a bare tree

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Eight baby blankets
Seven hours of bawling
Six baby booties
Five baby bibs
Four Lysol bottles

[...] Read more

poem by James L. A. Huetson
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Adrienne Vittadini

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[...] Read more

poem by Caasder Fronds
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Fitration Bags

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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Trash Bag

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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Nothing To Fear

What freezes love in your eyes
What steals the force from your life
What holds us ransom tonight
What stops you seeing yourself?
Only fear can stand
On potentials hands
This is the greatest day of your life
If you make it
And the old spells you know
They can be broken
Nothing to fear
Nothing to fear
The greatest faults can be beaten
The grandest problems defeated
Impossible choices completed
Infinite pain will be treated
Only fear can stand
On potentials hands
This is the greatest day of your life
And we made it
And the old spells you know
cause they can be broken
Nothing to fear
Nothing to fear
This is the greatest day of your life
And weve made it
Break the old spells
Oh, let them be broken
Nothing to fear
No, nothing to fear
This is the greatest day
Break the old spells and throw them away
Break the old spells
Dont yknow they can be broken
No, nothing to fear
Nothing to fear
Nothing to fear
Nothing to fear

song performed by Howard Jones
Added by Lucian Velea
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Metamorphosis

Valerie is somehow made aware
As new age dawns, fair feelings open gate.
Longings, soul sating, heartache dissipate.
Energy can focus everywhere, -
Voyage into light and laughter. Share
Always bright emotions and create
Link which chains not, may anticipate
Evolution understanding where
Rebirth rings needed changes, softens care.
Instincts can expand to celebrate
Entwining beginnings, - secondary state.
Visions of serenity prepare,
And opportunities for future fair.
Life looks not back: let Fate precipitate
Events, as metamorphosis Hope's gate
Reopening, offers dreams intense and rare.
Idyll ideal's no mirage as free spirits start
Enchanting voyage, may a new world chart...

Author notes
The ANAGRAM of VALERIE in French: IL A REVE... He dreamed.

Please see VALUE THE TIME ON EARTH as an alternative to this poem without the necessity of a personal name being required for the acrostic http: //allpoetry.com/poem/2521604

The first letter of each line spells Valerie

The first word of each line spells the following phrase:

Valerie, as longings, energy, voyage, always link evolution rebirth: instincts entwining visions and life - events reopening idyll enchanting

The first word of each line READ BOTTOM UP spells the following phrase:

Enchanting idyll reopening events, - life and visions entwining, - instincts' rebirth, evolution, link always voyage, energy, longings, as Valerie!

One word in each line, read TOP DOWN, (Blue) spells the following phrase:

Somehow feelings, sating, focus light, and anticipate understanding. Changes expand beginnings, prepare opportunities. Let metamorphosis intense free new world

One word in each line, read BOTTOM UP, (Blue) spells the following phrase:

World new, free intense metamporphosis, let opportunities prepare beginnings, expand changes, understanding anticipate and light focus, sating feelings somehow!

[c] Jonathan Robin

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Woman of Magic

“Oh woman of magic, charms, spells and strong love potions
will you make me a philtre to give Sarah Green a notion
to fall in love with me and to hold out her left hand
to do as I ask, to marry and wear my gold band? ”

“Tell me, does this Sarah Green know that you exist,
does she give you the eye that flutters so quick?
Does she move gracefully and glance over her shoulder,
smile and pucker her lips, or do something bolder? ”

“No, unfortunately she does none of these desirable things,
but each time I see her she makes my heart sing.
I see her in the village each day and in my dreams at night,
and if I can’t have her I will turn out my life light.”

“It appears to me that you are nothing but a lovesick fool,
how could this Sarah Green make you so drool?
But if I did spend time making you an extra special brew
what could you give me to make your wish come true? ”

“I am by no means a wealthy man, of this you can be assured
and if I was to make you an offer you may think it absurd.
However, are we talking about money in the greatest of sums,
or are we talking about the smallest of crumbs? ”

“A moment ago you said you would turn your life light out,
now what is your life worth, what value would you shout?
It seems that my potions would be worth everything you’ve got,
and if you’ve nothing, you will do anything, am I right, or not? ”

“You mean that money need not be the only method of payment,
and there are other ways to pay for our agreement?
What does one normally have to do to leave you fulfilled,
surely you won’t ask for someone to be killed? ”

“Oh no, no, I wouldn’t sink so low as to hire an assassin
with my spells I can eliminate, alter or fashion.
Now listen to what my dreams have placed on my agenda,
I require a girl child on May 1st whom I’ll name Diana.”

“So you want me to find and kidnap a female child or baby
before ten months has passed, or eleven maybe? ”
“Why don’t you listen properly to what I say you stupid man?
I must conceive a baby in the way only two people can.”

“What! You actually want me to make a baby with you
and you bear my child, and be its mother too?
I don’t know if I can do this, you are so ugly, old and wizen,
my love is for Sarah, and to her only it is to be given.”

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poem by Orlando Belo
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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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The peter-bird

Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter,
And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over;
Down in the pasture the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter,
Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated.
So let me tell you the tale, when, where, and how it all happened,
And, when the story is told, let us pay heed to the lesson.

Once on a time, long ago, lived in the State of Kentucky
One that was reckoned a witch--full of strange spells and devices;
Nightly she wandered the woods, searching for charms voodooistic--
Scorpions, lizards, and herbs, dormice, chameleons, and plantains!
Serpents and caw-caws and bats, screech-owls and crickets and adders--
These were the guides of that witch through the dank deeps of the forest.
Then, with her roots and her herbs, back to her cave in the morning
Ambled that hussy to brew spells of unspeakable evil;
And, when the people awoke, seeing that hillside and valley
Sweltered in swathes as of mist--"Look!" they would whisper in terror--
"Look! the old witch is at work brewing her spells of great evil!"
Then would they pray till the sun, darting his rays through the vapor,
Lifted the smoke from the earth and baffled the witch's intentions.

One of the boys at that time was a certain young person named Peter,
Given too little to work, given too largely to dreaming;
Fonder of books than of chores, you can imagine that Peter
Led a sad life on the farm, causing his parents much trouble.
"Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!"
"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"
So it was "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding, and chiding--
Peter neglected his work; therefore that nagging at Peter!

Peter got hold of some books--how, I'm unable to tell you;
Some have suspected the witch--this is no place for suspicions!
It is sufficient to stick close to the thread of the legend.
Nor is it stated or guessed what was the trend of those volumes;
What thing soever it was--done with a pen and a pencil,
Wrought with a brain, not a hoe--surely 't was hostile to farming!

"Fudge on all readin'!" they quoth; or "that's what's the ruin of
Peter!"

So, when the mornings were hot, under the beech or the maple,
Cushioned in grass that was blue, breathing the breath of the blossoms,
Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo of the ring-doves a-mating,
Peter would frivol his time at reading, or lazing, or dreaming.
"Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!"
"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"
"Peter!" and "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding, and chiding--
Peter neglected his chores; therefore that outcry for Peter;
Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would surely befall him--
Yes, on account of these things, ruin would come upon Peter!

[...] Read more

poem by Eugene Field
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Marmion: Introduction to Canto I

November's sky is chill and drear,
November's leaf is red and sear:
Late, gazing down the steepy linn
That hems our little garden in,
Low in its dark and narrow glen
You scarce the rivulet might ken,
So thick the tangled greenwood grew,
So feeble thrilled the streamlet through:
Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen
Through bush and briar, no longer green,
An angry brook, it sweeps the glade,
Brawls over rock and wild cascade,
And foaming brown, with doubled speed,
Hurries its waters to the Tweed.

No longer Autumn's glowing red
Upon our forest hills is shed;
No more, beneath the evening beam,
Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam:
Away hath passed the heather-bell
That bloomed so rich on Needpath Fell;
Sallow his brow, and russet bare
Are now the sister-heights of Yair.
The sheep, before the pinching heaven,
To sheltered dale and down are driven,
Where yet some faded herbage pines,
And yet a watery sunbeam shines:
In meek despondency they eye
The withered sward and wintry sky,
And far beneath their summer hill,
Stray sadly by Glenkinnon's rill:
The shepherd shifts his mantle's fold,
And wraps him closer from the cold;
His dogs no merry circles wheel,
But, shivering, follow at his heel;
A cowering glance they often cast,
As deeper moans the gathering blast.

My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild,
As best befits the mountain child,
Feel the sad influence of the hour,
And wail the daisy's vanished flower;
Their summer gambols tell, and mourn,
And anxious ask: 'Will spring return,
And birds and lambs again be gay,
And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray?'

Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower
Again shall paint your summer bower;
Again the hawthorn shall supply

[...] Read more

poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Magic Words

In the land of the lost
They dug up a book of magic spells today
No one had seen spells like this before
Some of them were extremely weird
The cover of the book said:
PO-etry
And the people wondered if PO-etry was a black or white magic. The book was sent to an expert in magic and his assistant for examining.

Look at page 82
'Mumps on the breast
sleepless rest
Eastless west
I didn't have to study for my urine test.'

or
page 97
'Crazy insane
painless pain
evaporating rain
nothing changes perception
quite like the brain.'

or how about
page 115
'Vision blurred
brain is slurred
this is what happens
when I think like the herd.'

The expert in magic confirmed it was white magic and shared the spells with everyone. The spells brought wonder and joy to the people in the land of the lost. And perhaps that is magic in itself.

poem by Joseph DeMarco
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Wicked Witch

See the wicked witch ride her broomstick,
As she rides with the moon,
Her pointy hat her distinguished feature,
For it is a full moon tonight,
For magic will reign until the morning light,
For many spells are being cast,
And who will win the magic stakes,
No one knows,
For many a cauldron is being stirred,
The supernatural in nature being brought alive,
And love spells bring love into the wide open,
And treasure good fortune and luck,
For there are many facets in nature,
And spells can be cast, so you'll never be stuck,
Many good luck charms and wishing dust reawaken the spirit,
And throwing salt over your shoulder,
Not walking under ladders,
Knocking on wood,
And keeping a black cat for good luck,
Will keep things swinging your way,
And the phases of the moon will keep the spirits at rest,
At least until the break of day,
For traditions say witches practice their craft through black magic,
But this is not true,
For the way of the witches will never be tragic,
For love spells are also their forte,
And a beautiful prince or princess will greet you,
For you are magic itself,
You have those magical eyes,
That will reveal a pleasant surprise,
The night opening up your unbelieving eyes,
To all of nature and its magic powers,
That keep balance and proprtion in all things,
And give life to those beautiful and colourful spring flowers,
That only heaven itself, with all its magic,
Could create and nurture with the changing seasons.

poem by Paula Glynn
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Beowulf

LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings
of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,
we have heard, and what honor the athelings won!
Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,
from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,
awing the earls. Since erst he lay
friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him:
for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve,
till before him the folk, both far and near,
who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate,
gave him gifts: a good king he!
To him an heir was afterward born,
a son in his halls, whom heaven sent
to favor the folk, feeling their woe
that erst they had lacked an earl for leader
so long a while; the Lord endowed him,
the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown.
Famed was this Beowulf: far flew the boast of him,
son of Scyld, in the Scandian lands.
So becomes it a youth to quit him well
with his father's friends, by fee and gift,
that to aid him, aged, in after days,
come warriors willing, should war draw nigh,
liegemen loyal: by lauded deeds
shall an earl have honor in every clan.
Forth he fared at the fated moment,
sturdy Scyld to the shelter of God.
Then they bore him over to ocean's billow,
loving clansmen, as late he charged them,
while wielded words the winsome Scyld,
the leader beloved who long had ruled….
In the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel,
ice-flecked, outbound, atheling's barge:
there laid they down their darling lord
on the breast of the boat, the breaker-of-rings,
by the mast the mighty one. Many a treasure
fetched from far was freighted with him.
No ship have I known so nobly dight
with weapons of war and weeds of battle,
with breastplate and blade: on his bosom lay
a heaped hoard that hence should go
far o'er the flood with him floating away.
No less these loaded the lordly gifts,
thanes' huge treasure, than those had done
who in former time forth had sent him
sole on the seas, a suckling child.
High o'er his head they hoist the standard,
a gold-wove banner; let billows take him,
gave him to ocean. Grave were their spirits,
mournful their mood. No man is able

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Parkinson's Disease

While spoon-feeding him with one hand
she holds his hand with her other hand,
or rather lets it rest on top of his,
which is permanently clenched shut.
When he turns his head away, she reaches
around and puts in the spoonful blind.
He will not accept the next morsel
until he has completely chewed this one.
His bright squint tells her he finds
the shrimp she has just put in delicious.
Next to the voice and touch of those we love,
food may be our last pleasure on earth—
a man on death row takes his T-bone
in small bites and swishes each sip
of the jug wine around in his mouth,
tomorrow will be too late for them to jolt
this supper out of him. She strokes
his head very slowly, as if to cheer up
each separate discomfited hair sticking up
from its root in his stricken brain.
Standing behind him, she presses
her check to his, kisses his jowl,
and his eyes seem to stop seeing
and do nothing but emit light.
Could heaven be a time, after we are dead,
of remembering the knowledge
flesh had from flesh? The flesh
of his face is hard, perhaps
from years spent facing down others
until they fell back, and harder
from years of being himself faced down
and falling back in his turn, and harder still
from all the while frowning
and beaming and worrying and shouting
and probably letting go in rages.
His face softens into a kind
of quizzical wince, as if one
of the other animals were working at
getting the knack of the human smile.
When picking up a cookie he uses
both thumbtips to grip it
and push it against an index finger
to secure it so that he can lift it.
She takes him then to the bathroom,
where she lowers his pants and removes
the wet diaper and holds the spout of the bottle
to his old penis until he pisses all he can,
then puts on the fresh diaper and pulls up his pants.
When they come out, she is facing him,
walking backwards in front of him

[...] Read more

poem by Galway Kinnell
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Too Few In Number

I am not here to pamper your indulgences.
Or change a diaper,
On no one's grown ass.

That needs repeating!

I am not here to pamper your indulgences.
Or change a diaper,
On no one's grown ass.

If you are helpless...
You wont have to ask!
I'll be there.
That is not my point!

I am not here to pamper your indulgences.
Or make light references to these days we live.
There is a seriousness about what takes place today.
And I do not cater or patronize fools...
To entertain to maintain an acceptance of their ignorance.

There is a need for respect and discipline not happening.
And I am going to do my best,
To show respect to those who know what that means.
Since there are too few in number who do!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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In-Reverse [experimental]

[first the way it's written out] [below this is the way it's read, backwards, hence the title]

Knits ergo nip trad stops step
Lived mined decal brag decaf slag net
Bonk loots a no spam retool parts snub avid
Tab rats ta bag paws god dam
Reward a a no stressed Marc pots
Gulp loop Emil peed pit rail
Yam me dial stun reviled tar
Spots remit lit ton drawer spat tide
Peels a ma snips moor
Snip bats slap live reel I
Straw tog gel won loot revel a snot gut tort reed
Draw on spot nips raw mug gnat
Snug flow pot part spool stew spas flog
Emit pal a pals
Sag Ron regal on tub sub repaid sleets reined dab

[the actual way it is read-backwards is below]

Bad denier steels diaper bus, but no lager nor gas
Slap a lap time
Golf saps wets loop's trap top wolf guns
Tang gum war spin tops on ward
Deer trot tug tons a lever tool, now leg got warts
I leer evil pals stab pins
Room spins, am I a sleep?
Edit taps reward not 'til timer stops
Rat deliver nuts, laid 'em May
Liar tip deep lime pool plug
Stop cram desserts on a drawer
mad dog swap gab at star bat
Diva buns strap looter maps on a stool knob
Ten gals faced garb laced denim devil
Pets spots dart pin ogre stink

poem by R.K. Cowles
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Samson Agonistes (excerpts)

[Samson's Opening Speech]
A little onward lend thy guiding hand
To these dark steps, a little further on;
For yonder bank hath choice of sun or shade,
There I am wont to sit, when any chance
Relieves me from my task of servile toil,
Daily in the common prison else enjoin'd me,
Where I a prisoner chain'd, scarce freely draw
The air imprison'd also, close and damp,
Unwholesome draught: but here I feel amends,
The breath of Heav'n fresh-blowing, pure and sweet,
With day-spring born; here leave me to respire.
This day a solemn feast the people hold
To Dagon, their sea-idol, and forbid
Laborious works; unwillingly this rest
Their superstition yields me; hence with leave
Retiring from the popular noise, I seek
This unfrequented place to find some ease;
Ease to the body some, none to the mind
From restless thoughts, that like a deadly swarm
Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone,
But rush upon me thronging, and present
Times past, what once I was, and what am now.
O wherefore was my birth from Heaven foretold
Twice by an angel, who at last in sight
Of both my parents all in flames ascended
From off the altar, where an off'ring burn'd,
As in a fiery column charioting
His godlike presence, and from some great act
Of benefit reveal'd to Abraham's race?
Why was my breeding order'd and prescrib'd
As of a person separate to God,
Design'd for great exploits; if I must die
Betray'd, captiv'd, and both my eyes put out,
Made of my enemies the scorn and gaze;
To grind in brazen fetters under task
With this Heav'n-gifted strength? O glorious strength
Put to the labour of a beast, debas'd
Lower than bondslave! Promise was that I
Should Israel from Philistian yoke deliver;
Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him
Eyeless in Gaza at the mill with slaves,
Himself in bonds under Philistian yoke.
Yet stay, let me not rashly call in doubt
Divine prediction; what if all foretold
Had been fulfill'd but through mine own default,
Whom have I to complain of but myself?
Who this high gift of strength committed to me,
In what part lodg'd, how easily bereft me,
Under the seal of silence could not keep,

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poem by John Milton
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