Citatepedia^®.com

Alphabet Poem

A was once an ant,
Tiny,
Busy,
Speedy,
Shiny
In the groundy
Little ant!

A was once a little ant,
Antsy
Fantsy
Mantsy
Antsy,
Fa ntsy anty,
Little ant!

B was once a little bat,
Batsy,
Watsy,
Fatsy,

[...] Read more

poem by Edward Lear
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

CLAREVILLE BEACH and 'Bloody Torpedos

BIT MORE FROM ‘GRUMPY OLD BLOGGER’.

Any body remember the NAVEL TORPEDO BASE at TAYLORS POINT, via CLAREVILLE BEACH?

CLAREVILLE BEACH and the “Bloody Torpedo”

Out back of Avalon NSW lives a pretty Pittwater beach, and Clareville, that’s her name. On a peaceful day the beach was pillaged and rent, this is how pretty Clareville Beach, for some time, would to never be the same.

Our Navy boys were our friends, they protected us down under, this day a untervasser thing went mad, well folks they made a blunder.

Must stop, re-late, go back to get attention, Milkrun and Pancho, Mrs. Selley and Mr. Fox, well, they must rate a mention.

Adrian me mate, he fits in with the go, he had a “Cat” moored in Clareville Bay, no surf on Avalon, not a problem, rig the cat and sailen’ down the Pittwater, gees, what more is there to say.

The ‘Targets”, was there three of them, like bastions I supposes, ‘borrow’ a rowboat of the beach, ‘cause there was a fish that lingered underneath, a name something just like Moses.

For many years the base existed nestling in foreshores oh so pretty, to denigrate such a place was, well, was a bureaucratic pity.

Just before the air was blown, sending “Big Fish” down the bay, crash boats raced, hither and yon, we’re Navy blokes, and we jest you not we have the very, very last say.

[...] Read more

poem by John D. Farley
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Bloke from Mullumbimby

You won’t know this fella, till I get on with me prose.
But I’ll tell ya this my friends, I think he’s one of those.

Now before you howl me down and question my social status.
My job here blokes is to tell a story, not just how johnfarls rates us.

They stuck him in the navy, he used to box for sport.
Adds were placed upon his soles you would see these adds quite often, with the gloves my friends he wasn’t good, he should have stuck to golfin.

Milkin cows he tried, roamin from wide and far, his hands will bear the evidence,5 thirty shows the scar.
He has a friend, and, boy is she a cutie, beats me folks how a bloke like him ends with such a beauty.

So that’s a little yarn about this bloke, and not much have you gleans. His place in life aren’t nothing much, that’s as a bloke I means.

But let me tell just how much he makes the AUSSIE bloke, yeah golf’s the go, he didn’t have a clue, played off 87, his goals were for the dough.

Well Bruce and me were average, Ross was good at golf, THE BLOKE had a problem though, his putting, well, was off.

His wallet bulged with ego and one day he laid the claim, you and Bruce and Ross and me will play the noble game.

[...] Read more

poem by John D. Farley
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Ballad Of Lenin's Tomb

This is the yarn he told me
As we sat in Casey's Bar,
That Rooshun mug who scammed from the jug
In the Land of the Crimson Star;
That Soviet guy with the single eye,
And the face like a flaming scar.

Where Lenin lies the red flag flies, and the rat-grey workers wait
To tread the gloom of Lenin's Tomb, where the Comrade lies in state.
With lagging pace they scan his face, so weary yet so firm;
For years a score they've laboured sore to save him from the worm.
The Kremlin walls are grimly grey, but Lenin's Tomb is red,
And pilgrims from the Sour Lands say: "He sleeps and is not dead."
Before their eyes in peace he lies, a symbol and a sign,
And as they pass that dome of glass they see - a God Divine.
So Doctors plug him full of dope, for if he drops to dust,
So will collapse their faith and hope, the whole combine will bust.
But say, Tovarich; hark to me . . . a secret I'll disclose,
For I did see what none did see; I know what no one knows.

[...] Read more

poem by Robert William Service
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Jonah’s Luck

OUT OF LUCK, mate? Have a liquor. Hang it, where’s the use complaining?
Take your fancy, I’m in funds now—I can stand the racket, Dan.
Dump your bluey in the corner; camp here for the night, it’s raining;
Bet your life I’m glad to see you—glad to see a Daylesford man.
Swell? Correct, Dan. Spot the get up; and I own this blooming shanty,
Me the fellows christened ‘Jonah’ at Jim Crow and Blanket Flat,
’Cause my luck was so infernal—you remember me and Canty?
Rough times, those—the very memory keeps a chap from getting fat.

Where’d I strike it? That’s a yarn. The fire’s a comfort—sit up nearer.
Hoist your heels, man; take it easy till Kate’s ready with the stew.
Yes, I’ll tell my little story; ’tain’t a long one, but it’s queerer
Than those lies that Tullock pitched us on The Flat in ’52.
Fancy Phil a parson now! He’s smug as grease, the Reverend Tullock.
Yes, he’s big—his wife and fam’ly are a high and mighty lot.
Didn’t I say his jaw would keep him when he tired of punching mullock?
Well, it has—he’s made his pile here. How d’you like your whisky—hot?

Luck! Well, now, I like your cheek, Dan. You had luck, there’s no denying.
I in thirty years had averaged just a wage of twenty bob—

[...] Read more

poem by Edward George Dyson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Amber Whale

WE were down in the Indian Ocean, after sperm, and three years out;
The last six months in the tropics, and looking in vain for a spout,—
Five men up on the royal yards, weary of straining their sight;
And every day like its brother,—just morning and noon and night—
Nothing to break the sameness: water and wind and sun
Motionless, gentle, and blazing,—never a change in one.
Every day like its brother: when the noonday eight-bells came,
'Twas like yesterday; and we seemed to know that to-morrow would be the same.
The foremast hands had a lazy time: there was never a thing to do;
The ship was painted, tarred down, and scraped; and the mates had nothing new.
We'd worked at sinnet and ratline till there wasn't a yarn to use,
And all we could do was watch and pray for a sperm whale's spout—or news.
It was whaler's luck of the vilest sort; and, though many a volunteer
Spent his watch below on the look-out, never a whale came near,—
At least of the kind we wanted: there were lots of whales of a sort,—
Killers and finbacks, and such like, as if they enjoyed the sport
Of seeing a whale-ship idle; but we never lowered a boat
For less than a blackfish, —there's no oil in a killer's or finback's coat.
There was rich reward for the look-out men,—tobacco for even a sail,
And a barrel of oil for the lucky dog who'd be first to 'raise' a whale.

[...] Read more

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Joseph’s Dreams and Reuben's Brethren [A Recital in Six Chapters]

CHAPTER I

I cannot blame old Israel yet,
For I am not a sage—
I shall not know until I get
The son of my old age.
The mysteries of this Vale of Tears
We will perchance explain
When we have lived a thousand years
And died and come again.

No doubt old Jacob acted mean
Towards his father’s son;
But other hands were none too clean,
When all is said and done.
There were some things that had to be
In those old days, ’tis true—
But with old Jacob’s history
This tale has nought to do.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Irrational minds
Knit by transcendental 'yarn'
Un[ac]countable.

haiku by Diane Hine
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Our Lives of Yarn

Our lives of yarn, the fortunes we've amassed
Unravel fast,
And the wisest ones end up the same as fools—
Stringless spools.

poem by Joshua Dinkin
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

I still have a problem with nuns. I follow them around like a kitten with a ball of yarn. After a while, all my characters become very close friends.

quote by Meg Tilly
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!