Small is indeed BIG! ! !
Small brooks together make a big RIVER.
Small giggles together make a big LAUGHTER.
Small mickles together make a big MUCKLE.
Small chuckles together make a big CACKLE.
Small steps together make STAIRCASE.
Small bubbles together make EFFERVESCENCE.
poem by Meetika Srivastava
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Giggles, Laughter and Stabbing Stares
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares,
It would kill them to be nice,
It would hurt them to be kind,
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares,
The notes are being passed around,
They don’t see, no one cares,
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares,
Tearing at all I’ve built up,
But it won’t work anymore,
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares,
What they don’t know is,
I just don’t care,
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares,
Every one is doing it,
But I just sit and laugh,
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares,
It’s so funny they think I care,
They are stupid to think I do,
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares,
I laugh and laugh
Because they don’t see that no one cares,
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares…
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares…
Giggles, laughter and stabbing stares…
poem by Bloodlover16 Loveblood
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The Iliad: Book 21
Now when they came to the ford of the full-flowing river Xanthus,
begotten of immortal Jove, Achilles cut their forces in two: one
half he chased over the plain towards the city by the same way that
the Achaeans had taken when flying panic-stricken on the preceding day
with Hector in full triumph; this way did they fly pell-mell, and Juno
sent down a thick mist in front of them to stay them. The other half
were hemmed in by the deep silver-eddying stream, and fell into it
with a great uproar. The waters resounded, and the banks rang again,
as they swam hither and thither with loud cries amid the whirling
eddies. As locusts flying to a river before the blast of a grass fire-
the flame comes on and on till at last it overtakes them and they
huddle into the water- even so was the eddying stream of Xanthus
filled with the uproar of men and horses, all struggling in
confusion before Achilles.
Forthwith the hero left his spear upon the bank, leaning it
against a tamarisk bush, and plunged into the river like a god,
armed with his sword only. Fell was his purpose as he hewed the
Trojans down on every side. Their dying groans rose hideous as the
sword smote them, and the river ran red with blood. As when fish fly
scared before a huge dolphin, and fill every nook and corner of some
fair haven- for he is sure to eat all he can catch- even so did the
Trojans cower under the banks of the mighty river, and when
Achilles' arms grew weary with killing them, he drew twelve youths
alive out of the water, to sacrifice in revenge for Patroclus son of
Menoetius. He drew them out like dazed fawns, bound their hands behind
them with the girdles of their own shirts, and gave them over to his
men to take back to the ships. Then he sprang into the river,
thirsting for still further blood.
There he found Lycaon, son of Priam seed of Dardanus, as he was
escaping out of the water; he it was whom he had once taken prisoner
when he was in his father's vineyard, having set upon him by night, as
he was cutting young shoots from a wild fig-tree to make the wicker
sides of a chariot. Achilles then caught him to his sorrow unawares,
and sent him by sea to Lemnos, where the son of Jason bought him.
But a guest-friend, Eetion of Imbros, freed him with a great sum,
and sent him to Arisbe, whence he had escaped and returned to his
father's house. He had spent eleven days happily with his friends
after he had come from Lemnos, but on the twelfth heaven again
delivered him into the hands of Achilles, who was to send him to the
house of Hades sorely against his will. He was unarmed when Achilles
caught sight of him, and had neither helmet nor shield; nor yet had he
any spear, for he had thrown all his armour from him on to the bank,
and was sweating with his struggles to get out of the river, so that
his strength was now failing him.
Then Achilles said to himself in his surprise, "What marvel do I see
here? If this man can come back alive after having been sold over into
Lemnos, I shall have the Trojans also whom I have slain rising from
the world below. Could not even the waters of the grey sea imprison
him, as they do many another whether he will or no? This time let
him taste my spear, that I may know for certain whether mother earth
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poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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The Ballad of the White Horse
DEDICATION
Of great limbs gone to chaos,
A great face turned to night--
Why bend above a shapeless shroud
Seeking in such archaic cloud
Sight of strong lords and light?
Where seven sunken Englands
Lie buried one by one,
Why should one idle spade, I wonder,
Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder
To smoke and choke the sun?
In cloud of clay so cast to heaven
What shape shall man discern?
These lords may light the mystery
Of mastery or victory,
And these ride high in history,
But these shall not return.
Gored on the Norman gonfalon
The Golden Dragon died:
We shall not wake with ballad strings
The good time of the smaller things,
We shall not see the holy kings
Ride down by Severn side.
Stiff, strange, and quaintly coloured
As the broidery of Bayeux
The England of that dawn remains,
And this of Alfred and the Danes
Seems like the tales a whole tribe feigns
Too English to be true.
Of a good king on an island
That ruled once on a time;
And as he walked by an apple tree
There came green devils out of the sea
With sea-plants trailing heavily
And tracks of opal slime.
Yet Alfred is no fairy tale;
His days as our days ran,
He also looked forth for an hour
On peopled plains and skies that lower,
From those few windows in the tower
That is the head of a man.
But who shall look from Alfred's hood
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poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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Lathmon
ARGUMENT.
Lathmon, a British prince, taking advantage of Fingal's absence on an expedition to Ireland, made a descent on Morven, and advanced within sight of Selma, the royal residence. Fingal arrived in the mean time, and Lathmon retreated to a hill, where his army was surprised by night, and himself taken prisoner by Ossian and Gaul the son of Morni. The poem opens with the first appearance of Fingal on the coast of Morven, and ends, it may be supposed, about noon the next day.
SELMA, thy halls are silent. There is no sound in the woods of Morven. The wave tumbles along on the coast. The silent beam of the sun is on the field. The daughters of Morven come forth, like the bow of the shower; they look towards green Erin for the white sails of the king. He had promised to return, but the winds of the north arose!
Who pours from the eastern hill, like a stream of darkness? It is the host of Lathmon. He has heard of the absence of Fingal. He trusts in the winds of the north. His soul brightens with joy. Why dost thou come, O Lathmon? The mighty are not in Selma. Why comest thou with thy forward spear? Will the daughters of Morven fight? But stop, O mighty stream, in thy course! Does not Lathmon behold these sails? Why dost thou vanish, Lathmon, like the mist of the lake? But the squally storm is behind thee; Fingal pursues thy steps!
The king of Morven had started from sleep, as we rolled on the dark-blue wave. He stretched his hand to his spear, his heroes rose around. We knew that he had seen his fathers, for they often descended to his dreams, when the sword of the foe rose over the land and the battle darkened before us. "Whither hast thou fled, O wind?" said the king of Morven. "Dost thou rustle in the chambers of the south? pursuest thou the shower in other lands? Why dost thou not come to my sails? to the blue face of my seas? The foe is in the land of Morven, and the king is absent far. But let each bind on his mail, and each assume his shield. Stretch every spear over the wave; let every sword be unsheathed. Lathmon is before us with his host; he that fled from Fingal on the plains of Lona. But he returns like a collected stream, and his roar is between our hills."
Such were the words of Fingal. We rushed into Carmon's bay. Ossian ascended the hill! he thrice struck his bossy shield. The rock of Morven replied: the bounding roes came forth. The foe was troubled in my presence: he collected his darkened host. I stood like a cloud on the hill, rejoicing in the arms of my youth.
Morni sat beneath a tree on the roaring waters of Strumon: his locks of age are gray: he leans forward on his staff; young Gaul is near the hero, hearing the battles of his father. Often did he rise in the fire of his soul, at the mighty deeds of Morni. The aged heard the sound of Ossian's shield; he knew the sign of war. He started at once from his place. His gray hair parted on his back. lie remembered the deeds of other years.
"My son," he said, to fair-haired Gaul, "I hear the sound of war. The king of Morven is returned; his signals are spread on the wind. Go to the halls of Strumon; bring his arms to Morni. Bring the shield of my father's latter years, for my arm begins to fail. Take thou thy armor, O Gaul! and rush to the first of thy battles. Let thine arm reach to the renown of thy fathers. Be thy course in the field like the eagle's wing. Why shouldst thou fear death, my son? the valiant fall with fame; their shields turn the dark stream of danger away; renown dwells on their aged hairs. Dost thou not see, O Gaul! low the steps of my age are honored? Morni moves forth. and the young men meet him, with silent joy, on his course. But I never fled from danger, my son! my sword lightened through the darkness of war. The stranger melted before me; the mighty were blasted in my presence."
Gaul brought the arms to Morni: the aged warrior is covered with steel. He took the spear in his hand, which was stained with the blood of the valiant. He came towards Fingal; his son attended his steps. The son of Comhal arose before him with joy, when he came in his locks of age.
"Chief of the roaring Strumon!" said the rising soul of Fingal; "do I behold thee in arms, after thy strength has failed? Often has Morni shone in fight, like the beam of the ascending sun; when he disperses the storms of the hill, and brings peace to the glittering fields. But why didst thou not rest in thine age? Thy renown is in the song. The people behold thee, and bless the departure of mighty Morni. Why didst thou not rest in thine age? The foe will vanish before Fingal!"
"Son of Comhal," replied the chief, "the strength of Morni's arm has failed. I attempt to draw the sword of my youth, but it remains in its place. I throw the spear, but it falls short of the mark. I feel the weight of my shield. We decay like the grass of the hill; our strength returns no more. I have a son, O Fingal! his soul has delighted in Morni's deeds; but his sword has not been lifted against a foe, neither has his fame begun. I come with him to the war; to direct his arm in fight. His renown will be a light to my soul in the dark hour of my departure. O that the name of Morni were forgot among the people! that the heroes would only say, 'Behold the father of Gaul!'"
"King of Strumon," Fingal replied, "Gaul shall lift the sword in fight. But he shall lift it before Fingal; my arm shall defend his youth. But rest thou in the halls of Selma, and hear of our renown. Bid the harp to be strung, and the voice of the bard to arise, that those who fall may rejoice in their fame, and the soul of Morni brighten with joy. Ossian, thou hast fought in battles: the blood of strangers is on thy spear: thy course be with Gaul in the strife; but depart not from the side of Fingal, lest the foe should find you alone, and your fame fail in my presence."
[Ossian speaks ] "I saw Gaul in his arms; my soul was mixed with his. The fire of the battle was in his eyes! he looked to the foe with joy. We spoke the words of friendship in secret; the lightning of our swords poured together; for we drew them behind the wood, and tried the strength of our arms on the empty air!"
Night came down on Morven. Fingal sat at the beam of the oak. Morni sat by his side with all his gray-waving locks. Their words were of other times, of the mighty deeds of their fathers. Three bards, at times, touched the harp: Ullin was near with his song. He sung of the mighty Comhal; but darkness gathered on Morni's brow. He rolled his red eye on Ullin: at once ceased the song of the bard. Fingal observed the aged hero, and he mildly spoke: "Chief of Strumon, why that darkness? Let the days of other years be forgot. Our fathers contended in war; but we meet together at the feast. Our swords are turned on the foe of our land: he melts before us on the field. Let the days of our fathers be forgot, hero of mossy Strumon!"
King of Morven," replied the chief, "I remember thy father with joy. He was terrible in battle, the rage of the chief was deadly. My eyes were full of tears when the king of heroes fell. The valiant fall, O Fingal! the feeble remain on the hills! How many heroes have passed away in the days of Morni! Yet I did not shun the battle; neither did I fly from the strife of the valiant. Now let the friends of Fingal rest, for the night is around, that they may rise with strength to battle against car-borne Lathmon. I hear the sound of his host, like thunder moving on the hills. Ossian! and fair-haired Gaul! ye are young and swift in the race. Observe the foes of Fingal from that woody hill. But approach them not: your fathers are near to shield you. Let not your fame fall at once. The valor of youth may fail!"
We heard the words of the chief with joy. We moved in the clang of our arms. Our steps are on the woody hill. Heaven burns with all its stars. The meteors of death fly over the field. The distant noise of the foe reached our ears. It was than Gaul spoke, in his valor: his hand half unsheathed his sword.
"Son of Fingal!" he said, "why burns the soul of Gaul? my heart beats high. My steps are disordered; my hand trembles on my sword. When I look towards the foe, my soul lightens before me. I see their sleeping host. Tremble thus the souls of the valiant in battles of the spear? How would the soul of Morni rise if we should rush on the foe? Our renown should grow in song: our steps would be stately in the eyes of the brave."
"Son of Morni," I replied, "my soul delights in war. I delight to shine in battle alone, to give my name to the bards. But what if the foe should prevail? can I behold the eyes of the king? They are terrible in his displeasure, and like the flames of death. But I will not behold them in his wrath! Ossian shall prevail or fall. But shall the fame of the vanquished rise? They pass like a shade away. But the fame of Ossian shall rise! His deeds shall be like his father's. Let us rush in our arms; son of Morni, let us rush to fight. Gaul, if thou shouldst return, go to Selma's lofty hall. Tell to Everallin that I fell with fame; carry this sword to Branno's daughter. Let her give it to Oscar, when the years of his youth shall arise."
"Son of Fingal," Gaul replied with a sigh, "shall I return after Ossian is low? What would my father say? what Fingal, the king of men? The feeble would turn their eyes and say, 'Behold Gaul, who left his friend in his blood!' Ye shall not behold me, ye feeble, but in the midst of my renown! Ossian, I have heard from my father the mighty deeds of heroes; their mighty deeds when alone! for the soul increases in danger!"
"Son of Morni," I replied, and strode before him on the heath, "our fathers shall praise our valor when they mourn our fall. A beam of gladness shall rise on their souls, when their eyes are full of tears. They will, say, 'Our sons have not fallen unknown: they spread death around them.' But why should we think of the narrow house? The sword defends the brave. But death pursues the flight of the feeble; their renown is never heard."
We rushed forward through night; we came to the roar of a stream, which bent its blue course round the foe, through trees that echoed to its sound. We came to the bank of the stream, and saw the sleeping host. Their fires were decayed on the plain: the lonely steps of their scouts were distant far. I stretched my spear before me, to support my steps over the stream. But Gaul took my hand, and spoke the words of the brave. "Shall the son of Fingal rush on the sleeping foe? Shall he come like a blast by night, when it overturns the young trees in secret? Fingal did no receive his fame, nor dwells renown on the gray hairs of Morni, for actions like these. Strike, Ossian, strike the shield, and let their thousands rise! Let them meet Gaul in his first battle, that he may try the strength of his arm."
My soul rejoiced over the warrior; my bursting tears came down. "And the foe shall meet thee, Gaul," I said: "the fame of Morni's son shall arise. But rush not too far, my hero: let the gleam of thy steel be near to Ossian. Let our hands join in slaughter. Gaul! dost thou not behold that rock? Its gray side dimly gleams to the stars. Should the foe prevail, let our back be towards the rock. Then shall they fear to approach our spears; for death is in our hands!"
I struck thrice my echoing shield. The startling foe arose. We rushed on in the sound of our arms. Their crowded steps fly over the heath. They thought that the mighty Fingal was come. The strength of their arms withered away. The sound of their flight was like that of flame, when it rushes through the blasted groves. It was then the spear of Gaul flew in its strength; it was then his sword arose. Cramo fell; and mighty Leth! Dunthormo struggled in his blood. The steel rushed through Crotho's side, as bent he rose on his spear; the black stream poured from the wound, and hissed on the half-extinguished oak. Cathmin saw the steps of the hero behind him: he ascended a blasted tree; but the spear pierced him from behind. Shrieking, panting, he fell. Moss and withered branches pursue his fall, and strew the blue arms of Gaul.
Such were thy deeds, son of Morni, in the first of thy battles. Nor slept the sword by thy side, thou last of Fingal's race! Ossian rushed forward in his strength; the people fell before him; as the grass by the stall of the boy, when he whistles along the field, and the gray beard of the thistle falls. But careless the youth moves on; his steps are towards the desert. Gray morning rose around us; the winding streams are bright along the heath. The foe gathered on a bill; and the rage of Lathmon rose. He bent the red eye of his wrath: he is silent in his rising grief. He often struck his bossy shield: and his steps are unequal on the heath. I saw the distant darkness of the hero, and I spoke to Morni's son.
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poem by James Macpherson
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A Little Mermaid (Fun Poem 81)
For Meggie who suggested I write this.
Deep in the oceans
where the little fishes play
there lives a little mermaid
and her name is Haveagayday.
She is not sure how she got her name,
but it is her name no less,
it might have been her mother
who helped a fisherman in distress.
One day Haveagayday was playing
with her friend a little merman named Gunga Din.
While they played Bubbles, a moaning Clam
came floating by on his way.
He stopped for a moan
that could never be alone.
He said he couldn’t find a soft spot of sand to bury himself in.
Now Haveagayday and Gunga Din suggested
he go to some sandy beach
where the blue waters lap gently to the shore.
There in the golden sand
he could be on his own all day long.
Bubbles blew some more bubbles
and quickly whooshed away
leaving the little mermaid and merman
to continue with their play.
Several days later while playing near that spot
they met up with the moaning clam,
old Bubbles again.
“You said it would be quiet
in that place in the sun,
that I would have all the peace and quite I wanted.
Well you were wrong
with all those noisy surfers
all trying to crack my shell.”
Haveagayday and Gunga Din thought
about what they could do.
Then Gunga Din remembered
about his Genie friend.
If his bottle were still on the beach,
his three wishes would help Bubbles
get his peace and quiet.
Haveagayday and Gunga Din swam off
to find the Genie in the bottle
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poem by David Harris
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Bubbles of Love
This poem was inspired while watching the MTV reality show A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila. take it or leave it, you can interprete it the way you want.
Miss Tequila I wish to confess
There is something odd I wish to express
One day I had one shot too many for a penny
As my eyes opened up to 'Bubbles of love'
Bubbles of love
Bubbles of love
This awesome beauty that you possess
Your tanned skin calls for a touch of caress
Bubbles of love
Bubbles of love
Your succulent lips demand a kiss of finesse
And lets not forget the sexy curves you possess
Bubbles of Love
Bubbles of Love
I will fight with words not fists and head butts
I can't help feeling all hot with no second thoughts
These feelings I wish sometimes to suppress
Because I play my life like a game of chess
I know youthful beauty fades as that is its trade
But yours merely radiates over man and hand-made
Miss Tequila I wish to confess
Sometimes I do things in a little excess
It is you I wish to undress in your nightdress
While your breasts pressed against my bareness
Rather than breaking loves no one code
By driving carelessly on slippery roads
For you I'll wear my heart on my sleeve
Kisses, romance, love, the whole lot we can achieve
I see only 'Bubbles of love'
Beyond your smile and sexy little curves
I see only 'Bubbles of love'
In you, a ravishing blessing from above
Miss Tequila I wish to confess
It is you I wish and want to process
One day I had one shot too many for a penny
And in you I saw my little American Princess
Copyright 2008 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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199 Steps to Heaven
They were my 199 steps to heaven
Grandad found them 199 steps of hell
Angina.
But still he always climbed
Never complained
As I think he knew,
He was climbing the 199 steps to heaven.
I can't even remember
When I first did climb
just always had.
I can remember
Counting
Did it really take 199 steps to heaven?
Some debate
That there are only 198
But they were my 199 steps to heaven.
But
Then I realized that
By counting the 199 steps to heaven
Meticulously
Religiously
I was missing the view on the way up
To heaven
And it didn't really matter if it was
198 or 199
They'd always be my 199 steps to heaven.
Then my eyes were opened and I saw
the view up was just as spectacular
As the view from heaven.
And I realized how much of it I'd missed;
Counting
So I stopped and
Just admired the view
On the way up
My 199 steps to heaven.
The view, like time stood still
Old tile roof tops,
Sprawling cliff faces
And the sea.
It was always the sea for me.
Whether in a rage or in a lull
I loved it unconditionally
The long straight pier
Jutting freely.
And all this I could see
From my 199 steps to heaven.
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poem by Shadow Girl
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Beautiful River
And he showed me a pure River of Water of Life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the Throne of God and of the Lamb." -- Rev. xxii. 1
Shall we gather at the river
Where bright angel feet have trod;
With its crystal tide forever
Flowing by the throne of God?
CHORUS.
Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river --
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.
On the margin of the river,
Washing up its silver spray,
We will walk and worship ever,
All the happy, golden day.
Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river --
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.
On the bosom of the river,
Where the Saviour-king we own,
We shall meet, and sorrow never
'Neath the glory of the throne. Cho.
Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river --
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.
Ere we reach the shining river,
Lay we every burden down;
Grace our spirits will deliver,
And provide a robe and crown. Cho.
Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river --
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.
At the smiling of the river,
Rippling with the Saviour's face,
Saints, whom death will never sever,
Lift their songs of saving grace. Cho.
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poem by Robert Wadsworth Lowry
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Through the eyes of a Field Coronet (Epic)
Introduction
In the kaki coloured tent in Umbilo he writes
his life’s story while women, children and babies are dying,
slowly but surely are obliterated, he see how his nation is suffering
while the events are notched into his mind.
Lying even heavier on him is the treason
of some other Afrikaners who for own gain
have delivered him, to imprisonment in this place of hatred
and thoughts go through him to write a book.
Prologue
The Afrikaner nation sprouted
from Dutchmen,
who fought decades without defeat
against the super power Spain
mixed with French Huguenots
who left their homes and belongings,
with the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
Associate this then with the fact
that these people fought formidable
for seven generations
against every onslaught that they got
from savages en wild animals
becoming marksmen, riding
and taming wild horses
with one bullet per day
to hunt a wild antelope,
who migrated right across the country
over hills in mass protest
and then you have
the most formidable adversary
and then let them fight
in a natural wilderness
where the hunter,
the sniper and horseman excels
and any enemy is at a lost.
Let them then also be patriotic
into their souls,
believe in and read
out of the word of God
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poem by Gert Strydom
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Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.
Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.
PART THE FIRST
I
In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,
Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock,
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting
Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.
There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset
Lighted the village street and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Peter Bell, A Tale
PROLOGUE
There's something in a flying horse,
There's something in a huge balloon;
But through the clouds I'll never float
Until I have a little Boat,
Shaped like the crescent-moon.
And now I 'have' a little Boat,
In shape a very crescent-moon
Fast through the clouds my boat can sail;
But if perchance your faith should fail,
Look up--and you shall see me soon!
The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring,
Rocking and roaring like a sea;
The noise of danger's in your ears,
And ye have all a thousand fears
Both for my little Boat and me!
Meanwhile untroubled I admire
The pointed horns of my canoe;
And, did not pity touch my breast,
To see how ye are all distrest,
Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you!
Away we go, my Boat and I--
Frail man ne'er sate in such another;
Whether among the winds we strive,
Or deep into the clouds we dive,
Each is contented with the other.
Away we go--and what care we
For treasons, tumults, and for wars?
We are as calm in our delight
As is the crescent-moon so bright
Among the scattered stars.
Up goes my Boat among the stars
Through many a breathless field of light,
Through many a long blue field of ether,
Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her:
Up goes my little Boat so bright!
The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull--
We pry among them all; have shot
High o'er the red-haired race of Mars,
Covered from top to toe with scars;
Such company I like it not!
[...] Read more
poem by William Wordsworth
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Ford O' Kabul River
Kabul town's by Kabul river --
Blow the bugle, draw the sword --
There I lef' my mate for ever,
Wet an' drippin' by the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
There's the river up and brimmin', an' there's 'arf a squadron swimmin'
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
Kabul town's a blasted place --
Blow the bugle, draw the sword --
'Strewth I sha'n't forget 'is face
Wet an' drippin' by the ford!
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
Keep the crossing-stakes beside you, an' they will surely guide you
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
Kabul town is sun and dust --
Blow the bugle, draw the sword --
I'd ha' sooner drownded fust
'Stead of 'im beside the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
You can 'ear the 'orses threshin', you can 'ear the men a-splashin',
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
Kabul town was ours to take --
Blow the bugle, draw the sword --
I'd ha' left it for 'is sake --
'Im that left me by the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
It's none so bloomin' dry there; ain't you never comin' nigh there,
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark?
Kabul town'll go to hell --
Blow the bugle, draw the sword --
'Fore I see him 'live an' well --
'Im the best beside the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
Gawd 'elp 'em if they blunder, for their boots'll pull 'em under,
By the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
Turn your 'orse from Kabul town --
Blow the bugle, draw the sword --
'Im an' 'arf my troop is down,
Down an' drownded by the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
[...] Read more
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Electric Eel Song
Ay! me one child Ay-eeee!
Ay! me one daughter
Take out you’ foot
From the black river water
Haul out you’ hand
Out the slow river water
Stay ‘pon the bank
Of the cold river water
Ay! me one daughter
Ay! me one child! Ay-eeee!
Electric eel
Is the eel in the river
Shadow ‘pon the bottom
Is the eel in the river
Something like you’ hand
Is the eel in the river
Swimming like you’ foot
Is the eel in the river
Ay! me one child Ay-eeee!
Ay! me one daughter
Foot after foot
Though the black river water
She can’t touch the bottom
Out the slow river water
Shirt like umbrella
In the cold river water
Ay! me one daughter
Ay! me one child! Ay-eeee!
Electric eel
Is the eel in the river
Cutlass shape
Is the eel in the river
Black blade or brown
Is the eel in the river
Dozing so quiet
Is the eel in the river
Ay! me one child Ay-eeee!
Ay! me one daughter
Slap of a tail
Through the black river water
Shiver like ague
Out the slow river water
As if she take cramp
Of the cold river water
Ay! me one daughter
Ay! me one child! Ay-eeee!
[...] Read more
poem by Slade Hopkinson
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The Famine and The Feast
THE FAMINE
Cackle and lay, cackle and lay!
How many eggs did you get to-day?
None in the manger, and none in the shed,
None in the box where the chickens are fed,
None in the tussocks and none in the tub,
And only a little one out in the scrub.
Oh, I say! Dumplings to-day.
I fear that the hens must be laying away.
THE FEAST
Cackle and lay, cackle and lay!
How many eggs did you get to-day?
Two in the manger, and four in the shed,
Six in the box where the chickens are fed,
Two in the tussocks and ten in the tub,
And nearly two dozen right out in the scrub.
Hip, hooray! Pudding to-day!
I think that the hens are beginning to lay.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Laughers
Spring!
And her hidden bugles up the street.
Spring -- and the sweet
Laughter of winds at the crossing;
Laughter of birds and a fountain tossing
Its hair in abandoned ecstasies.
Laughter of trees.
Laughter of shop-girls that giggle and blush;
Laugh of the tug-boat's impertinent fife.
Laughter followed by a trembling hush --
Laughter of love, scarce whispered aloud.
Then, stilled by no sacredness or strife,
Laughter that leaps from the crowd;
Seizing the world in a rush.
Laughter of life...
Earth takes deep breaths like a man who had feared he might smother,
Filling his lungs before bursting into a shout....
Windows are opened -- curtains flying out;
Over the wash-lines women call to each other.
And, under the calling, there surges, too clearly to doubt,
Spring, with the noises
Of shrill, little voices;
Joining in 'Tag' and the furious chase
Of 'I-spy,' 'Red Rover' and 'Prisoner's Base';
Of the roller-skates whir at the sidewalk's slope,
Of boys playing marbles and girls skipping rope.
And there, down the avenue, behold,
The first true herald of the Spring --
The hand-organ gasping and wheezily murmuring
Its tunes ten-years old....
And the music, trivial and tawdry, has freshness and magical swing.
And over and under it,
During and after --
The laughter
Of Spring!...
And lifted still
With the common thrill,
With the throbbing air, the tingling vapor,
That rose like strong and mingled wines;
I turned to my paper,
And read these lines:
'Now that the Spring is here,
The war enters its bloodiest phase...
The men are impatient....
Bad roads, storms and the rigors of the winter
Have held back the contending armies....
But the recruits have arrived,
And are waiting only the first days of warm weather....
[...] Read more
poem by Louis Untermeyer
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The Laughter Therapy
(I)
Every morning the ritual is the same, -
I say my prayers and take His name;
As I settle down to read the papers, –
About our politician’s famous ‘blame game’!
It is then I always hear, loud peals of laughter
from our adjacent park,
A man dedicated to laughter therapy,
With his loud guffaw and reverberating bark!
Trying to resolve this laughing mystery, -
I read several articles about Laughter Therapy!
(II)
Amongst all created things and living beings,
Man alone suffers deeply in his body, mind,
and soul;
With peals of laughter he must suppress his tears,
To balance this life and control!
Yet during those rare and supreme happy moments
of life, -
Tears are seen to well-up in our eyes!
Laughter gets mingled with our tears, -
I wonder why? !
Perhaps laughter and tears are two sides,
Of the same coin of our worldly life!
While our lacrymal glands perform this feat, -
As laughter and tears join hands to make this
life complete!
(III)
While hearty, non-ridiculing and connecting
laughter does provide,
Physiological, psychological and spiritual
benefits - on hindsight!
Laughter brings a twinkle in our eyes, destroying
our conservative reputation;
Improving our cardiovascular flexibility, increasing
our spiritual quotient!
Laughter like internal jogging, gives us an internal
massaging;
Performed both silently and rapidly beyond imagining!
Revitalizing those unexplored internal crannies –
all automatic!
Far better than all our know antibiotics!
Laughter a tranquilizer without side effects,
Releases our pent-up tension relaxing us instead!
(IV)
An optimist always laughs to forget, while a pessimist
forgets to laugh,
My man in the park is perhaps an optimist,
[...] Read more
poem by Raj Nandy (18 December 2008, New Delhi)
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You Dont Pull No Punches But You Dont Push The River
(da da da....)
When you were a child, you were a tomboy
Gimme soul satisfaction
Way back in shady lane
Do you remember darlin?
And its the woman in you, and its the woman in you
Gimme soul satisfaction
And it takes the child in you to know
The woman an you are one
Were goin out in the country to get down to the real soul,
I mean the real soul, people,
Were goin out in the country, get down to the real soul
Were gettin out to the west coast
Shining our light into the days of bloomin wonder
Goin as much with the river as not, as not, yeah, yeah
An Im goin as much with the river as not
Yeah, yeah, right, yeah
Blake and the eternals oh standin with the sisters of mercy
Looking for the veedon fleece, yeah
William blake and the eternals oh standin with the sisters of mercy
Looking for the veedon fleece, yeah
You dont pull no punches, but you dont push the river
You dont pull no punches, and you dont push the river
You dont pull no punches, and you dont push the river, no, no
Goin as much with the river as not
Were goin out in the west, down to the cathedrals
Were goin out in the west (alright), down to the beaches
And the sisters of mercy, behind the sun
Oh behind the sun
And william blake and the sisters of mercy looking for the veedon fleece,
Yeah
You dont pull no punches, goin west, goin as much with the river as not
With the river as not, with the river as not, goin as much,
Goin as much with the river as not, no, ah
You dont pull no punches, and you dont push the river, no
You dont pull no punches, but you dont push the river, no
You dont pull no punches, but you dont push the river, no
You dont pull no punches, but you dont push the river
And we was contemplating baba, william blake and the eternals
Goin down to the sisters of mercy
Looking for the veedon fleece
Looking for the veedon fleece
Looking for the veedon fleece
Looking for the veedon fleece
You dont pull no punches, but ya, you dont push the river
You dont pull no punches, but ya, you dont push the river, no
You dont pull no punches, but ya, you dont push the river
You dont push the river, you dont push the river
song performed by Van Morrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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Let get laughter way out of yourself
Let get laughter way out of yourself
Make the happy sound awake
Laughter magic and enchanting
Don't sustain it in your soul
Let yourself go into joy
May it help forever
People from wherever
Getting circled together
Laughter can be a kind of help
A worthy enemy to distress
Rise this laughter so dear
To be heard by human ears
Make it go on around the world
Little chuckles happy giggles
So many ways of laughing
Don't fear the others comment
Let laughter way out of yourself
Be assured laughter is magic
Open your heart to this very
Very special kind of sound
Let get laughter way out of yourself
Make the happy sound awake
(Switzerland)
(Sitzerland)
poem by Morhardt Carmen Mencita Monoi Angel
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53
My sister saw the black cat inside my monitor
Black fur and sharp eyes
Piercing like sharp claws
Whiskers like catfish
In the mud,
It was staring at her
And felt its anger,
Of course, she did not like it,
She complains
Why of all screensavers
Anthurium (oh she loves Anthurium
Red and white anthuriums)
Or four horses, white grazing horses, brown galloping horses
For some screensavers’ lucky charm,
Why the black cat
As screensaver?
It was just the head of the black cat,
Nothing else
Nothing more, popping up in the screen,
A black cat as wallpaper
(Like one that unzips automatically
The zipless type) ,
And I am afraid she may not like
The sudden popping up,
She fears it may jump in front of her
And scratch her and totally scare her off
Her years of
Prudence,
And easy submission,
And her tradition,
Her sense of
Propriety
And piety
It is indeed a delicate
Issue
She had not seen, to my mind,
Anything yet,
The way I scratch my head
And turn it sidewise
Once or twice to say no
Ordinarily
[...] Read more
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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54
My sister saw the black cat inside my monitor
Black fur and sharp eyes
Piercing like sharp claws
Whiskers like catfish
In the mud,
It was staring at her
And felt its anger,
Of course, she did not like it,
She complains
Why of all screensavers
Anthurium (oh she loves Anthurium
Red and white anthuriums)
Or four horses, white grazing horses, brown galloping horses
For some screensavers’ lucky charm,
Why the black cat
As screensaver?
It was just the head of the black cat,
Nothing else
Nothing more, popping up in the screen,
A black cat as wallpaper
(Like one that unzips automatically
The zipless type) ,
And I am afraid she may not like
The sudden popping up,
She fears it may jump in front of her
And scratch her and totally scare her off
Her years of
Prudence,
And easy submission,
And her tradition,
Her sense of
Propriety
And piety
It is indeed a delicate
Issue
She had not seen, to my mind,
Anything yet,
The way I scratch my head
And turn it sidewise
Once or twice to say no
Ordinarily
[...] Read more
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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