Quotes about growl, page 14
Handsome
To think that the adult lion
Was once a tiny thing.
So his mother kept her eye on
This one who would be king.
She knew that he was full of life,
Vivacious, full of fun!
Yet he must learn to conquer strife
And fight until he's won.
No easy street, no gentle road,
No straight smooth path ahead...
For him, there was a higher code,
Just like a thoroughbred...
Each day would be a battlefield,
Pretenders for his throne,
Contenders waiting still concealed
Until they are full grown...
For now he was a handsome beast
With tiny hidden scars...
Aware that others never ceased,
He dare not let them pass...
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poem by Denis Martindale
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The Last Generation
In ancient times, Christ prophesied,
Of wars that must yet be
And two world wars each served as guide
Of inhumanity...
Be not surprised as armies grow
Before your very eyes,
Armed to the teeth so blood can flow
From midnight to sunrise...
Across the world that spins in space,
The giddy godless stand,
Heads filled with thoughts that they embrace,
Marked with the Devil's brand.
Thus war begins to fool the foul,
The bombs commence to fall...
The ground itself begins to growl,
Condemning great and small...
The heavens twist, the heavens turn,
Alignments set the scene
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poem by Denis Martindale
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Perhaps Then... (Not A Man)
perhaps then, i am not a man....
i am the creek hidden
deep in the woods,
singing the hymn of rocks,
and stillness.
i am the gun laid down,
for the last time,
by the conscience of discontent.
i am the cry of the child,
born into a hungry world,
the eyes of the mother,
defying hope!
i am the snail that dances,
the deep growl of the dog,
i am firewood, cut and stacked,
in waiting.
i am the kiss of the chapter,
you read again and again...
i am the crossroads,
devoid of signs.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Old Wife's Mood
'Don’t grumble and growl and roar at me
Old man, when your temper’s turning,
I’ve long since tired of your vain disputes
In the halls of your lordship’s learning,
You think, old man, you can tame me now
By beating your breakers shoreward,
I’ve never put up with your antics yet
When your spume is fuming forward.'
‘Don’t shriek at me, ’ said the old man sea
As she whipped at his crests in temper,
‘It’s always the way that your humour turns
Each bleak and harsh September;
Will ever you calm yourself, you witch
And settle my troubled rancour,
Or shriek and howl like a grey old owl
At my spindrift’s sullen anger? ’
‘Old, I was old when the world was young
In my hallowed depths and deeps,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Paws That Refreshes
THE PAWS THAT REFRESHES
Edward Iacona
'I just love coming home to my Phil, '
She said, 'He waits for me at the door
'He wraps his arms around my neck
How could I ever be loved more? '
'He nuzzles me all over my face
He kisses and then nibbles my chin.
His affection will lift my spirit
No matter the poor mood I'm in.'
Is this what I really want to hear
While I'm trying to charm her in chat?
Then she finally reveals to me
She's talking about her beloved cat.
It's good to know that she likes affection.
Now my tactile senses are no longer flat.
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poem by Edward Iacona
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The Little Girl Found
All the night in woe
Lyca’s parents go
Over valleys deep,
While the deserts weep.
Tired and woe-begone,
Hoarse with making moan,
Arm in arm, seven days
They traced the desert ways.
Seven nights they sleep
Among shadows deep,
And dream they see their child
Starved in desert wild.
Pale through pathless ways
The fancied image strays,
Famished, weeping, weak,
With hollow piteous shriek.
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poem by William Blake from Songs of Experience (1794)
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The Fearful Traveller In The Haunted Castle
Oft do I hear those windows ope
And shut with dread surprise,
And spirits murmur as they grope,
But break not on the eyes.
Still fancy spies the winding sheet,
The phantom and the shroud,
And bids the pulse of horror beat
Throughout my ears aloud.
Some unknown finger thumps the door,
From one of faltering voice,
Till some one seems to walk the floor
With an alarming noise.
The drum of horror holds her sound,
Which will not let me sleep,
When ghastly breezes float around,
And hidden goblins creep.
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poem by George Moses Horton
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You're Standing On His Tail
I came across a dog today,
He looked as if he'd bite,
I asked him, am I in your way,
His look said yes you're right.
I refused to move to let him pass,
He drew me a noxious gaze,
His behaviour really was quite crass,
It was time for me to appraise.
I meet these savages day in day out,
They're the blight of my poor life,
But if you show them you've got clout,
You can give them strife.
Do I allow him to see I'm scared?
Or do I ring the bell,
If his aim is to have me ensnared,
Then maybe I should I run like hell.
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poem by Bri Mar
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Old Girl, A Backwards Dream
he was just sitting there listening, you know...
sitting on the stoop, listening to the old black man
play guitar...
listening to the children playing across the way...
listening to the occasional car, and the way the sunset
clapped against the trees, keeping rhythm.
the old man started singing, low, almost a growl:
'old girl, old girl, where you been so long?
old girl, old girl, where you been so long?
done took the night out of my daytime,
and the darkness out of dawn.
old girl, old girl, why you be that way?
old girl, old girl, why you be that way?
you pack your clothes to travel on,
you dont unpack your clothes to stay...'
he grinned at the old man, 'yeah...'
the smell of streaked meat frying, and coffee
boiling over came from the house...
'how many eggs y'all want? '
the old man started singing again:
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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In Praise Of Contentment
(HORACE'S ODES, III, I)
I hate the common, vulgar herd!
Away they scamper when I 'booh' 'em!
But pretty girls and nice young men
Observe a proper silence when
I chose to sing my lyrics to 'em.
The kings of earth, whose fleeting pow'r
Excites our homage and our wonder,
Are precious small beside old Jove,
The father of us all, who drove
The giants out of sight, by thunder!
This man loves farming, that man law,
While this one follows pathways martial--
What moots it whither mortals turn?
Grim fate from her mysterious urn
Doles out the lots with hand impartial.
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poem by Eugene Field
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