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Death Serves In The Wars

death serves on the front line
he is on no one side
and he dose not care who or why
death serves on your side of the front line
death serves on the other side of the front line
he dose not care who or why
he will tack a soil like a soldier tack a life
he dose not care who or why
he has no regret not like a soldier who has the regret
he dose not care who or why
the soldier says to the life he has tacks sorry for what ive done
the soldier says what have i done
the soldier says who are you and why did i do this
the soldier cares who or why
who should tack the blame at the end of the day for tacking a life
the soldier who cares who or why
or
death who dose not care who or why

poem by Richard O'Connor
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The Lepracaun or Fairy Shoemaker

Little Cowboy, what have you heard,
Up on the lonely rath's green mound?
Only the plaintive yellow bird
Sighing in sultry fields around,
Chary, chary, chary, chee-ee! -
Only the grasshopper and the bee? -
'Tip-tap, rip-rap,
Tick-a-tack-too!
Scarlet leather, sewn together,
This will make a shoe.
Left, right, pull it tight;
Summer days are warm;
Underground in winter,
Laughing at the storm! '
Lay your ear close to the hill.
Do you not catch th etiny clamour,
Busy click of an elfin hammer.
Voice of the Lepracaun singing shrill
As he merrily plies his trade?
He's a span

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poem by William Allingham
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The Leprechaun; or Fairy Shoemaker

I.

Little Cowboy, what have you heard,
Up on the lonely rath's green mound?
Only the plaintive yellow bird
Sighing in sultry fields around,
Chary, chary, chary, chee-ee!--
Only the grasshopper and the bee?--
"Tip-tap, rip-rap,
Tick-a-tack-too!
Scarlet leather, sewn together,
This will make a shoe.
Left, right, pull it tight;
Summer days are warm;
Underground in winter,
Laughing at the storm!
Lay your ear close to the hill.
Do you not catch the tiny clamour,
Busy click of an elfin hammer,
Voice of the Lepracaun singing shrill

[...] Read more

poem by William Allingham
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Annus Mirabilis, The Year Of Wonders, 1666

1
In thriving arts long time had Holland grown,
Crouching at home and cruel when abroad:
Scarce leaving us the means to claim our own;
Our King they courted, and our merchants awed.

2
Trade, which, like blood, should circularly flow,
Stopp'd in their channels, found its freedom lost:
Thither the wealth of all the world did go,
And seem'd but shipwreck'd on so base a coast.

3
For them alone the heavens had kindly heat;
In eastern quarries ripening precious dew:
For them the Idumaean balm did sweat,
And in hot Ceylon spicy forests grew.

4
The sun but seem'd the labourer of the year;

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poem by John Dryden
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High Or Low

death you do us a part
death you have no heart
tack them high or low
death why do you do so
we tack them back
death you are no mach
to the love that i have
so death go high or low
but leave us so

poem by Dani Moore
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Changed Tack

Got home, explained heat in the office
hubby angry, how DARE I disturb his
ambiance, happy atmosphere at home
immediately I tried to change tack-did
not work - I am in the dog-box

Everything I say is wrong – it would have
been bad if I did not know how good it is
for me to suffer – whenever suffering is
going on, I change into the little Calvinist
I was born to be – pain, suffering

Is good for me, I was BORN into suffering –
I convince myself that pain is good, enjoy the
masochism involved – which leads to sadism
how good that is – Machiavelli justified – wait
we were talking about Calvinism

Too late, I have already changed tack…

poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Only If I Could

I've made a lot of mistakes throughout my life
there are many things in life I regret I didn't do earlier
there are choices I've made in my life
I wish I could take them back
but, now it's too late cause I'm getting older
tick-Tack Tick-Tack
The clock won't stop
The time is slipping away
Only if I could
I would go back in the past
and change the mistakes I've made
and do everything I didn't do
Now, I'm about to die
there's no much time to have fun
to share one last kiss with the loves one
oh, that's life
enjoy it now my friend
love as long as can
do what you want to do
like what you do

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poem by Guenael Oristel
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The Valor of Honor.....

the decisive decision may switch off or lead
our mighty strength down to the ground and powder
the castle to the mouth of the canon

horrified to face the mountain that drain every
dots of stone, into the realm of click and tick tack of
the clock; siphon every sweat to waste until, the
sacrifice gain its pain

refresh not to fade, react not over act a complete
sense, that hold ever defense to face and to cease the
reigning Queen, in the kingdom with the King
power

come always forward for every encounter, wounded
soldiers never leave nor surrender but only
close their eyes and say that 'i shall return ' above
the turmoil clouds of hope

as the victor wait the witnessing ground and the

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poem by Antonio Liao
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Flow need not 'know

FLOW NEED NOT 'KNOW'

Abstract seems role-reversal, wrong
tack, off the tracks, emotions vented,
sore, flawed, unscored or scorning song,
cacophany to be prevented.
Flow need not 'know', for verse glows strong
with dream domain's home-truths presented.
Blank rant is rarely found among
felicities that Chance has scented,
blooming spontaneously along
lightwaves braving represented
barriers, blocks, constraints headstrong.
Brain's hard disc must be defragmented.
Talent - too misrepresented -
mistrusts far edge bars implemented.

18 February 2010

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Merchantmen

King Solomon drew merchantmen,
Because of his desire
For peacocks, apes, and ivory,
From Tarshish unto Tyre:
With cedars out of Lebanon
Which Hiram rafted down,
But we be only sailormen
That use in London Town.

Coastwise -- cross-seas -- round the world and back again --
Where the flaw shall head us or the full Trade suits --
Plain-sail -- storm-sail -- lay your board and tack again --
And that's the way we'll pay Paddy Doyle for his boots!

We bring no store of ingots,
Of spice or precious stones,
But that we have we gathered
With sweat and aching bones:
In flame beneath the tropics,
In frost upon the floe,

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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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