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A lame horse and a cute ass were in love.
For the horse, she was cute, though an ass.
For the ass, he was a horse, though a lame.
Both were in love and their love was in tune.

An old gander and a young duck were in love.
For the gander, she was young,
For the duck, he was a gander.
Both were in love, which was in tune.

Outsiders only view their’s differently.
05.10.2000

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow

Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow
By: Adam M. Snow

My heart does not ache
With every love I take.
Your voice over-shadows
My lame. I repose,
Despite your treachery
Of our love contrary;
Living our unholy masquerade,
Afraid and betrayed.
Your voice does linger still,
Though it be your will;
With every breath I speak,
Though I'm lame and weak-
I speak with my sorrow:
'Will you still love me tomorrow? '

poem by Adam M. Snow
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My Heart is Lame

My heart is lame with running after yours so fast
Such a long way,
Shall we walk slowly home, looking at all the things we passed
Perhaps to-day?

Home down the quiet evening roads under the quiet skies,
Not saying much,
You for a moment giving me your eyes
When you could bear my touch.

But not to-morrow. This has taken all my breath;
Then, though you look the same,
There may be something lovelier in Love's face in death
As your heart sees it, running back the way we came;
My heart is lame.

poem by Charlotte Mary Mew
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Alcide

Walking with Jesus the slow,
behind the beat. Mr. Resistance.
Mr. Ohm, Mr. Exactly Lame.

By some reluctance, some
restraint, if it be a restraint,
by some undertow and stutter,

the halt and lame can strut.
You can hear it yourself. Buy
a few records and think how big

a bass is to a small boy,
his fingers bleeding to grow deft.
Bandages are for amateurs

and they blur the tone, that habit
a bassist and his bass conspire,
the way a couple learns a stride
though the man's taller by a foot.

poem by William Matthews
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Shame

Lame, limpid, weak
Sick morbid meek
My name is lavished in shame
Disgrace splashed
all over my face
disconcert on my soul disconcert lace
the beauty in me, shriveled, as shame mutilate
but did not kill only to humiliate…
my soul with impetuous shame
into my soul in abash
where virtue and vice clash
and ignominy prevail…
I wail, sick and pale
This terrible shame
With whip in hand did mame
But did not tame
My voluptuous heart!
For now its gone
And then I fawn
To gain affection

[...] Read more

poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Football Frenzy

Football is a contact sport;
In short—a “rough” game.
It may leave you dancing,
Or it could leave you lame.

Armed with helmets, jerseys
And spandex tights—
All tough dudes,
Ready for the fight.

Digging in with spiked shoes,
And war paint on their face.
Staring down the adversary—
No mercy and no grace.

Tackles, hits and yard runs.
The scoring of “touchdowns, ”
With each team striving
For the coveted crown.

[...] Read more

poem by Walterrean Salley
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What They Were Looking

what they were looking for
are the answers to their questions
the food for their mouths
the progress of their future
a home for their children
a work that pays them well

what they were looking for
is the cure for their sickness
the lame to walk
the blind to see
the deaf to hear again

what they were looking from God
is their own
sometimes they miss what they should
have been looking to find

but God understands and God compromises
He gave the fish and the bread

[...] Read more

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sonnet 37: As a decrepit father takes delight

As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Entitled in thy parts, do crownèd sit,
I make my love engrafted to this store.
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
That I in thy abundance am sufficed
And by a part of all thy glory live.
Look what is best, that best I wish in thee.
This wish I have; then ten times happy me!

poem by William Shakespeare
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Hooray for May (Sontoum)

December is always so very lame
Compared to May, when flowers bloom again,
Then I just sit and look for one to blame -
The poison Ivy, or bee’s precious pain.

Compared to May, when flowers bloom again
July is sad - abundant, then, they fade:
The poison Ivy or bee’s precious pain
Will soon depart like summertime parade.

July is sad - abundant, then, they fade:
Beach outings, birds and my courageous finds
Will soon depart like summertime parade
As Mother Nature pulls her winter blinds.

December is always so very lame
Then I just sit and look for one to blame.

Copyright © 2010 Leslie Alexis

poem by Leslie Alexis
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Hodge

He plays with other boys when work is done,
But feels too clumsy and too stiff to run,
Yet where there's mischief he can find a way
The first to join and last [to run] away.
What's said or done he never hears or minds
But gets his pence for all the eggs he finds.
He thinks his master's horses far the best,
And always labours longer than the rest.
In frost and cold though lame he's forced to go--
The call's more urgent when he journeys slow.
In surly speed he helps the maids by force
And feeds the cows and hallos till he's hoarse;
And when he's lame they only jest and play
And bid him throw his kiby heels away.

poem by John Clare
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