Quotes about squeal, page 4
Morality is indispensable: but the Divine Life, which gives itself to us and which calls us to be gods, intends for us something in which morality will be swallowed up. We are to be remade. All the rabbit in us is to disappear-the worried, conscientious, ethical rabbit as well as the cowardly and sensual rabbit. We shall bleed and squeal as the handfuls of fur come out; and then, surprisingly, we shall find underneath it all a thing we have never yet imagined: a real man, an ageless god, a son of God, strong, radiant, wise, beautiful, and drenched in joy.
C.S. Lewis in The Grand Miracle
Added by Rebeca Bucur
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2 Cute 2 Poot
Put your right hand under your left arm pit,
And flap your arm up and down just a bit.
It will sound just like you are breaking wind,
So take what you learn and go show a friend!
Try it in class, teach it to your teachers,
Do it as you run up and down bleachers.
Right smack dab in the middle of dinner,
Make your guests laugh with this sure fired winner,
And if they should happen to scream or squeal,
Explain to them that the poot wasn't real!
With practice you'll soon get the hang of it...
Put your right hand under your left arm pit!
poem by ToddMichael St. Pierre
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An accident
Here is a short story that made me worry.
When I was in a hurry crossing the street
I didn’t notice what the traffic light showed.
When I realized the situation
I was shocked and terribly frightened
Hearing the squeal of tires.
I looked at the driver,
His face had a desire to say the words of humiliation,
I had no time for deliberation
So I blew him kisses
And it was my salvation as he gave me…
You know what? A smile!
And I began to cry like a crocodile.
After that accident I know
What a weapon a smile can be
And a kiss can be a fee.
Larisa R (Odessa, Ukraine)
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Fight to a Finish
The boys came back. Bands played and flags were flying,
And Yellow-Pressmen thronged the sunlit street
To cheer the soldiers who’d refrained from dying,
And hear the music of returning feet.
‘Of all the thrills and ardours War has brought,
This moment is the finest.’ (So they thought.)
Snapping their bayonets on to charge the mob,
Grim Fusiliers broke ranks with glint of steel,
At last the boys had found a cushy job.
. . . .
I heard the Yellow-Pressmen grunt and squeal;
And with my trusty bombers turned and went
To clear those Junkers out of Parliament.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Voices Of The Wind
Wind chimes and tree leaves
Voices of the wind
Bulrushes, birdwings
Rattling roofs of tin
Howling zephyrs, soughing breezes
Atlantic gales, explosive sneezes…
All voices of the wind….
Rattle of windows, Bang of shutters,
Whisper of curtains, puff of summer gusts
Snapping of canvas from towering mastheads
Squeal of windmills as they adjust
Whispered messages from pinions of birds
Flapping of laundered linens
[...] Read more
poem by David Whalen
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Pour Prendre Conge
I'm sick of embarking in dories
Upon an emotional sea.
I'm wearied of playing Dolores
(A role never written for me).
I'll never again like a cub lick
My wounds while I squeal at the hurt.
No more I'll go walking in public,
My heart hanging out of my shirt.
I'm tired of entwining me garlands
Of weather-worn hemlock and bay.
I'm over my longing for far lands-
I wouldn't give that for Cathay.
I'm through with performing the ballet
Of love unrequited and told.
Euterpe, I tender you vale;
Good-by, and take care of that cold.
[...] Read more
poem by Dorothy Parker
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Schroeder the Fisherman
I sat on the bank above Bernadotte
And dropped crumbs in the water,
Just to see the minnows bump each other,
Until the strongest got the prize.
Or I went to my little pasture,
Where the peaceful swine were asleep in the wallow,
Or nosing each other lovingly,
And emptied a basket of yellow corn,
And watched them push and squeal and bite,
And trample each other to get the corn.
And I saw how Christian Dallman's farm,
Of more than three thousand acres,
Swallowed the patch of Felix Schmidt,
As a bass will swallow a minnow
And I say if there's anything in man --
Spirit, or conscience, or breath of God
That makes him different from fishes or hogs,
I'd like to see it work!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Beauty And Character
As graces fade, and praise speaks oft no more,
To mirrors, dimmed for face, of erstwhile glow;
Beholders now belie, the sight before,
Which they were known, to have professed to know;
For Charm would ebb, as seawards flow the tide,
Where stony coast, would show its dried up coves,
When marks of Time, it no longer could hide,
And what frailty, that beauty is, it proves.
But Character accumulates with time;
Though fools fussed over looks Time stole, the wise
Seeks no ambrosia to prolong his prime,
Or shun wrinkles that etch Beauty's demise;
...Should Wrinkles squeal: 'Time's the thief! Time's the thief! '
...Character would say: 'Time farms in my fief.'
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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The Pride Of Men
Field works dimly camouflage attrition
These pomegranate hands who cultivate
Trenches of dusk squeal to those lesser seen
In Labyrinths of detachment
We feed upon this which but only grows
These pomegranate hands who cultivate
Our strength is swoon but stars do also rise
From our hands we pass on to daybreaks next
We feed upon this which but only grows
Our march is marsh, to scavenge the land
And when demised the green for moments
From our hands we pass on to daybreaks next
And in that moment of such starry watch
Thus bares the seeds to that of all we strive
Though strength still meek through stripe of strife
We stature ourselves upon what we heap
poem by Scott J. Shepard
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Cold As It Goes By
my o my
another day gone by
one more out the window
one more out the door
one time left to hit the floor
and find this time it is no show
this is real
no need to squeal
you have felt the pain
you have known since your life began to wain
black figure dashing out of the house
bodies with blood and one dead mouse
something that just got in
the way...... black and red... here
and there almost everywhere
like retribution for a sin
something has happened now
they on the outside may only ask the witness how
but he is dead
before they even came with lead
[...] Read more
poem by David Knox
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