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The Sleeping Beauty

“Call that a yarn!” said old Tom Pugh,
“What rot! I’ll lay my hat
I’ll sling you a yarn worth more nor two
Such pumped-up yarns as that.”
And thereupon old Tommy “slew”
A yarn of Lambing Flat.

“When Lambing Flat broke out,” he said,
“’Mongst others there I knew
A lanky, orkard, Lunnon-bred
Young chap named Johnny Drew,
And nicknamed for his love of bed,
The ‘Sleeping Beauty’ too.

“He sunk a duffer on the Flat,
In comp’ny with three more,
And makin’ room for this and that
They was a tidy four,
Save when the eldest, Dublin Pat,
Got drunk and raved for gore.

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poem by Henry Lawson
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While The Bannock Bakes

Light up your pipe again, old chum, and sit awhile with me;
I've got to watch the bannock bake -- how restful is the air!
You'd little think that we were somewhere north of Sixty-three,
Though where I don't exactly know, and don't precisely care.
The man-size mountains palisade us round on every side;
The river is a-flop with fish, and ripples silver-clear;
The midnight sunshine brims yon cleft -- we think it's the Divide;
We'll get there in a month, maybe, or maybe in a year.

It doesn't matter, does it, pal? We're of that breed of men
With whom the world of wine and cards and women disagree;
Your trouble was a roofless game of poker now and then,
And "raising up my elbow", that's what got away with me.
We're merely "Undesirables", artistic more or less;
My horny hands are Chopin-wise; you quote your Browning well;
And yet we're fooling round for gold in this damned wilderness:
The joke is, if we found it, we would both go straight to hell.

Well, maybe we won't find it -- and at least we've got the "life".
We're both as brown as berries, and could wrestle with a bear:

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poem by Robert William Service
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The Flower Boat

The fisherman's swapping a yarn for a yarn
Under the hand of the village barber,
And her in the angle of house and barn
His deep-sea dory has found a harbor.

At anchor she rides the sunny sod
As full to the gunnel of flowers growing
As ever she turned her home with cod
From George's bank when winds were blowing.

And I judge from that elysian freight
That all they ask is rougher weather,
And dory and master will sail by fate
To seek the Happy Isles together.

poem by Robert Frost
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Help! !

During the night whilst I was asleep
a spider has spun it’s yarn around me.
Since I woke up I’ve struggled and fought,
in vain to get my body free.

All’s not lost, I can still move my eyes
and I can see the window and door.
Help! Please someone it’s coming again,
to bind me some more.

It’s now moving over my tightened chest
as it spins its thread from left to right.
A dull humming sound comes from its jaws
whilst I struggle with all my might.

My senses warn me that it’s coming again
this time beneath my chin.
I can feel its feet and hear its breath,
as it cocoons me in.

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poem by Orlando Belo
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Huswifery

Make me, O Lord, Thy spinning-wheel complete.
Thy holy word my distaff make for me.
Make mine affections Thy swift flyers neat
And make my soul Thy holy spool to be.
My conversation make to be Thy reel
And reel thy yarn thereon spun of Thy wheel.

Make me Thy loom then, knit therein this twine:
And make Thy Holy Spirit, Lord, wind quills:
Then weave the web Thyself. Thy yarn is fine.
Thine ordinances make my fulling-mills.
Then dye the same in heavenly colors choice,
All pinked with varnished flowers of paradise.

Then clothe therewith mine understanding, will,
Affections, judgement, conscience, memory,
My words and actions, that their shine may fill
My ways with glory and Thee glorify.
Then mine apparel shall display before Ye
That I am clothed in holy robes for glory.

poem by Edward Taylor
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The Spider Yarn

The spider spins his magic web,
With dexterous skill too hard to beat,
Each yarn so carefully knit,
In crisscross fashion, amazing to view.

Like a fabric buoyant in the air,
His gossamer kingdom hangs afloat,
Supported on leaves, twigs or walls,
It stays intact, never crumbling down.

At the centre, he proudly dwells,
Like the monarch of a vast empire,
With discreet vigil, he keeps alert,
To trap the spies that cross the bounds.

The arrogant despot never allows,
Intrusion from anyone around,
Those who dare to trespass his terrain,
Are meted out with the penalty of death.

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poem by Valsa George
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Alphabet A Was Once An Apple

A was once an apple pie, apple apply papply
B was once bouncy ball, bally bally bouncy ball
C was once a little cat, catty couty catty little cat
D was once little dog, doggy dagy doogy little dog
E was once soaring eagle, eagly giggly soaring eagle
F was once littlel fox, foxy faxy little fox
G was once little goat, goaty gooty little goat
H was once a litlle hen, heeny hanny little hen
I was once black ink, inky inniky black ink
J was once funny jester, jestary jesteery funny jester
K was once little kitten, kitty katty little kitten
L was once a little lama, aama leemy a little lama
M was once wild moose, moosy masa wild moose
N was once tiny nut, nutty natty tiny nut
O was once orange, rangy rongy little orange
P was once panda, panny pandy little panda
Q was once sweet queen, queeny neeny sweet queen
R was once a rabbit, rabbity battity little rabbit
S was once a snake naky naky sneaky snake
T was once a turtle, tuttly tattly little turtle

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poem by Sherif Monem
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Oh! Can it be?

Oh! Can it be? Said the blue bird to the bee,

That you are poking holes in the air is what I do see;

No! Said the bee, It's just my warning alarm to let you know,

Come too close, and you will get the point, that is so.

Oh! Can it be, said the bird to the cat below?

You have such claws, they look to sharp, you know,

Said the cat, to the bluebird on the fence just near,

These claws are sharp, for birds who show no fear;

Oh can it be? Said the cat, to the large bulldog there,

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poem by Margaret Haig
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As Good as New

OH, this is a song of the old lights, that came to my heart like a hymn;
And this is a song for the old lights—the lights that we thought grew dim,
That came to my heart to comfort me, and I pass it along to you;
And here is a hand to the good old friend who turns up as good as new.
And this is a song for the camp-fire out west where the stars shine bright—
Oh, this is a song for the camp-fire where the old mates yarn to-night;
Where the old mates yarn of the old days, and their numbers are all too few,
And this is a song for the good old times that will turn up as good as new.

Oh, this is a song for the old foe—we have both grown wiser now,
And this is a song for the old foe, and we’re sorry we had that row;
And this is a song for the old love—the love that we thought untrue—
Oh, this is a song of the dear old love that comes back as good as new.

Oh, this is a song for the black sheep, for the black sheep that fled from town,
And this is a song for the brave heart, for the brave heart that lived it down;
And this is a song for the battler, for the battler who sees it through—
And this is a song for the broken heart that turns up as good as new.

Ah, this is a song for the brave mate, be he Bushman, Scot, or Russ,

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poem by Henry Lawson
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Alphabetical Mirrored Phantom Quest For Infinity

Although beliefs creating dream existence fan great hopes'
infinity, judge! Knelled linchpin only, permanence quivering,
resurrection seems thesis untenable, verity's xylem yarn zapped..

Age blasts choice despite early force,
grief here in jail knots life's momentary nirvana opening,
pleasure quits room so that vanishing willpower xeroxes yesterday's zone.

Anguish, bleeding, cries dimly, evidence fades, ghostly halo iridescent jeopardized, knocked like mirage nuance, opportunity passed, quintessential role's stream terminated, unviable vision, wasted XY zoom.

All below clears,
dust embalms fears,
glad hearts ice.
Just karmic lice,
Mother Nature or
phantom quest's roar?
Soon tale's undone,
venture wide xenon.
Youthful zoon
after brief cycle,

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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