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Ma Terre

I taste the Still
of hibernating beasts
the bristled fir
that clings to jagged claws
the ragged claws
that groan for guttered caves
the lonely howl of wolves
convulsed to find
the orphan whelp nursing
at clicking berries
cracked from winter's eyes
and I
the Mother of these howling pleas
split silently
within my twisted need.

poem by Ann Creer
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Ch 03 On The Excellence Of Contentment Story 05

A man often made vows of repentance but broke them again till one of the sheikhs said to him: ‘I think thou art in the habit of eating a great deal and that thy power of restraining appetite is more slender than a hair, whilst an appetite such as thou nourishest would rupture a chain and a day may come when it will tear thee up.’

A man brought up a wolf’s whelp.
When it was brought up it tore him up.

poem by Sa di
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Godmother

The day that I was christened-
It's a hundred years, and more!-
A hag came and listened
At the white church door,
A-hearing her that bore me
And all my kith and kin
Considerately, for me,
Renouncing sin.
While some gave me corals,
And some gave me gold,
And porringers, with morals
Agreeably scrolled,
The hag stood, buckled
In a dim gray cloak;
Stood there and chuckled,
Spat, and spoke:
"There's few enough in life'll
Be needing my help,
But I've got a trifle
For your fine young whelp.

[...] Read more

poem by Dorothy Parker
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Rest My Darling

Time is such a small thimble
I always thought I wanted more
Now I wonder?
Eternity is a membrane away

Your flesh is hungry like a whelp
Wit feeds your perspicacious thighs
You always were hidden sorrow
You need chocolate ego

We trace our sheets like divorce
Lovers sometimes fear being friends
Wind and rain on your lips
The burning bush lights the world

Obsequious wine no longer works
I see you want time more than love
Museums have lethargic ghosts
The west wall by the large window

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poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Epistle iii

What if the notions of leisure
and entertainment were defunct?
Celibacy, vegetarianism, tee-totality-
the Shavian trilogy, our game:
we'd certainly get more plays written.
In the new republic
the only sin will be to fail to see
that everything's just a point in a spectrum:
male-female; birth-death; darkness-light;
and the value traditionally given each point
a vestige: silly, feudal, invalid, agricultural,
and that we needn't work.
'No', say the 1%,
you must work and whelp!
the wages of wages are....more wages-
happiness consists in the accumulation of goods!
Happiness means-
(don't tell us, we'll tell you)
more soldiers. More workers.
The more of them, the cheaper the labor for us,

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poem by Morgan Michaels
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The Brewer's Dog

The brewer's dog is abroad, boys,
Be careful where you stray,
His teeth are coated with poison,
And he's on the watch for prey.
The brewery is his kennel,
But he lurks on every hand,
And he seeks for easy victims
The children of the land.

His eyes gleam through the windows
Of the gay saloon at night,
And in many a first-class 'drug-store'
He is hiding out of sight.
Be careful where you enter,
And, if you smell his breath,
Flee as you would from a viper,
For its fumes are the fumes of death.

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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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W. Lloyd Garrison Standard

Vegetarian, non-resistant, free-thinker, in ethics a Christian;
Orator apt at the rhine-stone rhythm of Ingersoll.
Carnivorous, avenger, believer and pagan.
Continent, promiscuous, changeable, treacherous, vain,
Proud, with the pride that makes struggle a thing for laughter;
With heart cored out by the worm of theatric despair;
Wearing the coat of indifference to hide the shame of defeat;
I, child of the abolitionist idealism --
A sort of Brand in a birth of half-and-half.
What other thing could happen when I defended
The patriot scamps who burned the court house,
That Spoon River might have a new one,
Than plead them guilty? When Kinsey Keene drove through
The card-board mask of my life with a spear of light,
What could I do but slink away, like the beast of myself
Which I raised from a whelp, to a corner and growl?
The pyramid of my life was nought but a dune,
Barren and formless, spoiled at last by the storm.

poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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An Elegy On The Death Of A Mad Dog

Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran—
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad—
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

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poem by Oliver Goldsmith
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The Rosetta Stone

The Rosetta Stone,
The mother tongue,
Logue, longue, league;
Ghetto queen!
Colleague, tongue, rogue, brogue;
But, i am inspired by your works.

Floor, flour, four, fair, far!
Like a letter from my beloved one;
Farm, form, from, film, firm!
Whiff,
Whey,
Fill, full, foil, fell, fail, free!
Wheeze,
Whelp,
Fee, face, fence, fight, flight, freedom!

Ghetto king!
Argue, morgue, rogue, drogue;
Wheezy,

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poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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An Art Critic

Ira P. Rankin, you've a nasal name
I'll sound it through 'the speaking-trump of fame,'
And wondering nations, hearing from afar
The brazen twang of its resounding jar,
Shall say: 'These bards are an uncommon class
They blow their noses with a tube of brass!'
Rankin! ye gods! if Influenza pick
Our names at christening, and such names stick,
Let's all be born when summer suns withstand
Her prevalence and chase her from the land,
And healing breezes generously help
To shield from death each ailing human whelp!
'What's in a name?' There's much at least in yours
That the pained ear unwillingly endures,
And much to make the suffering soul, I fear,
Envy the lesser anguish of the ear.

So you object to Cytherea! Do,
The picture was not painted, sir, for you!
Your_ mind to gratify and taste address,

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poem by Ambrose Bierce
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