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1,2,3!

I did it once,
You did it twice,
They did it trice;
1,2,3!
Playing around in the garden of love when,
The beautiful flowers started blooming;
But, there is no place like home.

Pump, dump, lump, crump, clump, jump!
And by doing what is right always;
For, the beautiful flowers have started blooming.

Rump, trump, grump, slump, sump, hump!
For, i did it once and you did it twice;
But, they did it trice! !

1,2,3!
Playing around in the garden of love when,
The beautiful flowers started blooming;
But, there is no place like home.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Metaphors of a Magnifico

Twenty men crossing a bridge,
Into a village,
Are twenty men crossing twenty bridges,
Into twenty villages,
Or one man
Crossing a single bridge into a village.

This is old song
That will not declare itself . . .

Twenty men crossing a bridge,
Into a village,
Are
Twenty men crossing a bridge
Into a village.

That will not declare itself
Yet is certain as meaning . . .

The boots of the men clump

[...] Read more

poem by Wallace Stevens
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Matins

You want to know how I spend my time?
I walk the front lawn, pretending
to be weeding. You ought to know
I'm never weeding, on my knees, pulling
clumps of clover from the flower beds: in fact
I'm looking for courage, for some evidence
my life will change, though
it takes forever, checking
each clump for the symbolic
leaf, and soon the summer is ending, already
the leaves turning, always the sick trees
going first, the dying turning
brilliant yellow, while a few dark birds perform
their curfew of music. You want to see my hands?
As empty now as at the first note.
Or was the point always
to continue without a sign?

poem by Louise Gluck
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Nothingness And Being

Sometimes lurking in corner.
Sometimes tumbling down
endlessly,
and sometimes with frozen smile
immolating oneself
before an idol to be.

He danced imprisoned in a glass case
whole life.
Overcoming the pretentious inhibition
to stand naked in dimlights
of arguments.

He started a dialogue
about the disquietening habits
of killing each other with sharp tongues.
I said death and life are two suggestions
worth consideration. A clump disdain in between.

The birds are circling again in sky.

[...] Read more

poem by Satish Verma
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Farewell

Farewell to the bushy clump close to the river
And the flags where the butter-bump hides in forever;
Farewell to the weedy nook, hemmed in by waters;
Farewell to the miller's brook and his three bonny daughters;
Farewell to them all while in prison I lie--
In the prison a thrall sees naught but the sky.

Shut out are the green fields and birds in the bushes;
In the prison yard nothing builds, blackbirds or thrushes.
Farewell to the old mill and dash of waters,
To the miller and, dearer still, to his three bonny daughters.

In the nook, the larger burdock grows near the green willow;
In the flood, round the moor-cock dashes under the billow;
To the old mill farewell, to the lock, pens, and waters,
To the miller himsel', and his three bonny daughters.

poem by John Clare
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Æstivation

An Unpublished Poem, by my late Latin Tutor.

In candent ire the solar splendor flames;
The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames;
His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes,
And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.

How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes,
Dorm on the herb with none to supervise,
Carp the suave berries from thc crescent vine,
And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine!

To me, alas! no verdurous visions come,
Save yon exiguous pool's conferva-scum,--
No concave vast repeats the tender hue
That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue!

[...] Read more

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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By Wood and Wold

Lightly the breath of the spring wind blows,
Though laden with faint perfume,
'Tis the fragrance rare that the bushman knows,
The scent of the wattle bloom.
Two-thirds of our journey at least are done,
Old horse ! let us take a spell
In the shade from the glare of the noon-day sun,
Thus far we have travell'd well ;
Your bridle I'll slip, your saddle ungirth,
And lay them beside this log,
For you'll roll in that track of reddish earth,
And shake like a water-dog.

Upon yonder rise there's a clump of trees—
Their shadows look cool and broad—
You can crop the grass as fast as you please,
While I stretch my limbs on the sward ;
'Tis pleasant, I ween, with a leafy screen
O'er the weary head, to lie
On the mossy carpet of emerald green,

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poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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In June In Old Liscreagh

In a lush damp meadow in Liscreagh
In a rushy clump the brown hare lay
From predators well hid away
He doze and sleep for most of the day.

And at twilight he ventures out
For to graze in the pasture fields about
And under the starry cloak of night
He eats his fill in peace and quiet.

It's early Summer in Liscreagh
And badger and her cubs in the twilight gray
Through fields and meadows amble slow
And dig for grubs and earth worms by hedgerow.

And after early morning showers
The old fields in their Summer flowers
In the noon sunshine look fresh and green
And Nature at her best is seen.

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poem by Francis Duggan
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The Bush Fire

Let's have a tiny little bush fire.
It's a cold, cold night tonight.
We are sick of this long session
Of the darkness of depression.
And a fire would make things bright.

Just a teeny, weeny little bushfire;
It's easily controlled.
We can sit around and watch it;
If it spreads we'll simply scotch it.
But we must keep out the cold.

Oh, let's have the smallest little bush fire;
It's a fair thing in this storm.
There are plenty here to fight it,
So just strike a match and light it. . . .
Ah! Now we'll all get warm.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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I Witness A Raven

When the moonlight fractures the patterned frost,
in fragments chiseled into the glass,
shattering and refracting its battery
of light, in silent solace through my window,
I witness a raven through eyes
thick and glazed with sleep.
The night hermit probes his feast

of carrion, picking at entrails, a solitary
meal devoured beneath the round moon’s
undaunted glare, refracting the criss-cross
claw marks on the crust.
The boughs and branches
are furred with frost, casting their shadows
upon dunes of snow. He lifts his hollow

wings, a rancid clump of meat in his beak,
and springs upon a limb, scattering
the snow that’s sprinkled there;
the moon wears a ring

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poem by Caroline Misner
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