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Be a tortoise

Gratitude and compassion are front legs;
Fortitude and tolerance are hind legs.
With these as limbs, one moves like a tortoise
But with a tough shell made of good will.

He can’t run with hares but can move safe.
08.03.2009

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Bells of Heaven

'Twould ring the bells of Heaven
The wildest peal for years,
If Parson lost his senses
And people came to theirs,
And he and they together
Knelt down with angry prayers
For tamed and shabby tigers
And dancing dogs and bears,
And wretched, blind pit ponies,
And little hunted hares.

poem by Ralph Hodgson
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M: I: Hair-shirt

He'd run away from haredom,
polished his defeat,
then got an invitation
from the hares of his old seat:
'COME AWAY DEAR PHANTOM,
TO OUR AFRICAN RETREAT',

He spoke but didn't eat,
and when they didn't get,
'What I haven't's what I have,
I have done without the doing',
he laughed at their defeat.

poem by Douglas Scotney
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Cold

Cold leaf blows
freezing wind.
Electric milk car,
frozen bottle milks dinging.
Supersonic squab,
eye's bulbs.
Crystal's cold tears
of snow hares.
The sky, plate of steel,
duck's arrows seel.
Horn of wind,
silent blares,
the tea coloured leafs,
through despair.
Cold bones are quivering
in your pocket coat…

poem by Luca Menin
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Equal Or Larger Must Be Man’s To Woman’s. [Adult]

Compatibilities

Women are does, mares and elephants.
Men are hares, bulls and horses.
Their sizes are in ascending order.

Virility in man is in variance.
The little, the middle and the hyper.
Energy in woman is in variance.
The dull, the middle, the vigour.

The sexual compatibility plugs
Holes in other compatibilities.

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Patience dies

I am here; you are there.
Had we been hares
By now we could have crossed over.
But we are only tortoises.
For my every ten steps
Had you put one step forward,
Then too, time could not have been far
For each to reach the other, my dear.
Had you been stationary,
My reaching you would have been sure.
But you retreat two steps
For every step you put onward.
Must I turn myself a hare
So that I can be fast there?
30.10.99

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Ideal

Remnants of Kansas and Sunflowers--
Play hopscotch with Angels of my door...
Guardians of January...
Guardians of Evermore;

Turtles and Hares ever present...
Seem at times to be gone but are not--
Remnants of Kansas and Sunflowers--
Talk of the spiders that they've caught;

Allowing no viscious webs of deceit...
No Big Birds with Monsterous minds...
No Ghosts of the past-nor shadows to last...!
But only Guardian Angels so very kind! ;

Dedicated to: Tom Stevens (Stephens)

poem by Theodora Onken
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Song #2

One gloomy eve I roamed about
Neath Oxey's hazel bowers,
While timid hares were darting out,
To crop the dewy flowers;
And soothing was the scene to me,
Right pleased was my soul,
My breast was calm as summer's sea
When waves forget to roll.

But short was even's placid smile,
My startled soul to charm,
When Nelly lightly skipt the stile,
With milk-pail on her arm:
One careless look on me she flung,
As bright as parting day;
And like a hawk from covert sprung,
It pounced my peace away.

poem by John Clare
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Kentucky

Summer steam
washes us clean
like a warm bath

as we wade through young fields,
new corn waist high
to where blue sky
meets the rustling green sea.

We navigate by dead-
reckoning to the red barn.

Wary of snakes,
with flailing stick you flush
out the tall, quick hares.

Feathers flashing, quail
burst heavenward at
our clumsy approach,

[...] Read more

poem by Steven Federle
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Invaders Of My Space

Invaders of my Space

Overcast morning, silent is my forest. I see no hares,
hear no birds; it is as nature has stopped breathing.
The sheep that walked ahead of me has disappeared,
and sparrows fall like autumnal leaves.

A carob tree appears, it shouldn’t be here, pods like
green fingers. But hang on, they are green fingers.
Martians are waiting to ambush me. I stop, turn and
run back whence I came. The forest is but a memory.

They came, seized the land; we have to pay to walk
its tracks. They have acquired fresh waters’ nascent
and purchased the salty oceans too; drink or sail you
have to pay. Santo, the ogre, is here… no escape.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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