Quotes about beetle, page 2
Saint Maximus at prayer
Sometimes, it’s all humour –
a divine joke shared between gods and men,
a twinkle in the eye of the Creator…
seeing to it, that the man
named Maximus, one day at prayer,
-his eyes were open, for his soul was still -
should notice the smallest beetle
making its way across the open testament,
minding, in its not so tiny mind, its own business…
and in its minimality, the man named Maximus
observed that it had, within its tiny iridescence, being;
watched his mind, learning of its nature;
felt his own being share its life, its spirit, with that little thing;
and understood – the beetle unconcerned, or so
it might appear, within our tiny world –
that in that moment, he had shared
the very nature of the Holy Trinity…
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Caked In Dust
Nit picking is your 'special' gift.
And you snicker when you wish to needle.
Knowing it annoys a bit.
I'm bottled up.
You don't seem to know when it's enough.
I wish I could adhesive tape,
The flow of the rushing stuff...
I would love to hush up.
I'm bottled up.
And feeling like I'm sinking in a tub.
Corrupted by the notion this is love.
But the love I felt is caked in dust...
And pains me in the gut.
I'm bottled up.
And feeling pricked, nit picked and needled.
Bottled up.
Like a pin stuck through a beetle.
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Table And The Chair
Said the Table to the Chair,
'You can hardly be aware
How I suffer from the heat,
And from chilblains on my feet!
If we took a little walk,
We might have a little talk!
Pray let us take the air!'
Said the Table to the Chair.
Said the Chair unto the Table,
'Now you know we are not able!
How foolishly you talk,
When you know we cannot walk!'
Said the Table with a sigh,
'It can do no harm to try;
I've as many legs as you;
Why can't we walk on two?'
So they both went slowly down,
And walked about the town
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poem by Edward Lear
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Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis
I
Plague take all your pedants, say I!
He who wrote what I hold in my hand,
Centuries back was so good as to die,
Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land;
This, that was a book in its time,
Printed on paper and bound in leather,
Last month in the white of a matin-prime
Just when the birds sang all together.
II
Into the garden I brought it to read,
And under the arbute and laurustine
Read it, so help me grace in my need,
From title-page to closing line.
Chapter on chapter did I count,
As a curious traveller counts Stonehenge;
Added up the mortal amount;
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poem by Robert Browning from Garden Fancies (1845)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Garden Francies
I. THE FLOWER'S NAME
Here's the garden she walked across,
Arm in my arm, such a short while since:
Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss
Hinders the hinges and makes them wince!
She must have reached this shrub ere she turned,
As back with that murmur the wicket swung;
For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned,
To feed and forget it the leaves among.
II.
Down this side ofthe gravel-walk
She went while her rope's edge brushed the box:
And here she paused in her gracious talk
To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox.
Roses, ranged in valiant row,
I will never think that she passed you by!
She loves you noble roses, I know;
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poem by Robert Browning
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Cherry Avenue
And so you meet me
Down at the bar
7th and Cherry
That's where we are
And I promise not to take you down too far
Beetle takes a dollar
Benz will make a drink
Two will see you holler
No one wants to think
And it's que sera sera in black and pink
And so we dance
And my feet get lazy
All the stiffs here
They know I'm crazy for you
And so we dance
And the beat gets lost
And this jealous fool
Will pay the cost for you
On Cherry Avenue
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song performed by Melissa Etheridge
Added by Lucian Velea
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Together Again
...hayeahhhh...
A red black beetle crawls over my feet
Its little steps tickle
It gives me the creeps
I wash my hands and I wash my face
A fresh summer breeze catches my hair and I say
...hayeahhhh...
...hayeahhhh...
Went long the river it was a red night
My teddy fell asleep
Closed his black button eyes
It was a red night when I walked on my own
When my teddy awoke theres one thing I knew - cause were
Chorus:
Together again
Yeah forever together
Your heart is my home
Together again
Yeah forever together
Your heart is my home
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song performed by Wonderwall
Added by Lucian Velea
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Tennants Anster Fair
I.
'TIS the middle watch of a summer's night -
The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright;
Nought is seen in the vault on high
But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky,
And the flood which rolls its milky hue,
A river of light on the welkin blue.
The moon looks down on old Cronest,
She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast,
And seems his huge gray form to throw
In a sliver cone on the wave below;
His sides are broken by spots of shade,
By the walnut bough and the cedar made,
And through their clustering branches dark
Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark -
Like starry twinkles that momently break
Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack.
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poem by Joseph Rodman Drake
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The Culprit Fay
'TIS the middle watch of a summer's night -
The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright;
Nought is seen in the vault on high
But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky,
And the flood which rolls its milky hue,
A river of light on the welkin blue.
The moon looks down on old Cronest,
She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast,
And seems his huge gray form to throw
In a sliver cone on the wave below;
His sides are broken by spots of shade,
By the walnut bough and the cedar made,
And through their clustering branches dark
Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark -
Like starry twinkles that momently break
Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack.
II.
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poem by Joseph Rodman Drake
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Wind-Clouds And Star-Drifts
FROM THE YOUNG ASTRONOMER'S POEM
I.
AMBITION
ANOTHER clouded night; the stars are hid,
The orb that waits my search is hid with them.
Patience! Why grudge an hour, a month, a year,
To plant my ladder and to gain the round
That leads my footsteps to the heaven of fame,
Where waits the wreath my sleepless midnights won?
Not the stained laurel such as heroes wear
That withers when some stronger conqueror's heel
Treads down their shrivelling trophies in the dust;
But the fair garland whose undying green
Not time can change, nor wrath of gods or men!
With quickened heart-beats I shall hear tongues
That speak my praise; but better far the sense
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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