"brisker" poems
The classroom window had a clear view of the park
and when the July clouds painted the sky dark
the boy would start to cry!
Why, the teacher exclaimed, why these tears
it's all so pleasant, and there's nothing to fear
the rain is so welcome, it does only good
so why boy it finds you in such bitter mood!
Saying thus, he would walk back to his table
by the rain upon windowpane, I was inconsolable
brisker than rain were the tears in my eyes
in the thought there would be flood, water would rise
the walk back home would be a herculean feat
with the street flooded, hidden manholes beneath
I was haunted by the spectre of how the water rose
crawled past my chest, and reached up the nose
the swelling river would find me an easy victim
the teacher didn't know, I didn't know how to swim!
When the school bell finally rang, they ran joyous in the rain
splashing and soaking merrily, their way was heaven
only I stayed back, as if my feet had grown roots
late evening I reached home, in heavy sodden boots.
May 20, 2024
May 20, 2024 at 9:42 AM UTC
‘TERENCE, this is stupid stuff:
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
It gives a chap the belly-ache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head:
We poor lads, ’tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow.
Pretty friendship ’tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad:
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.’
Why, if ’tis dancing you would be,
There’s brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God’s ways to man.
Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter ***
To see the world as the world’s not.
And faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past:
The mischief is that ’twill not last.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,
And carried half way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I’ve lain,
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 5:30 PM UTC
Her parentage was a thing of considerable comment
Though a good deal less circumspection,
Mama's identity relatively sure, as everyone knew her mama,
Her father one of a laundry list of unpromising gardeners,
Yet she was a child of grace--no, more than that
An outlier in every sense of the word,
The dazzling unintended consequence
Resulting from a series of unwise and unhappy choices.
She sauntered (though there are those romantically inclined sorts
Who would insist she outright floated,
Her feet rarely if ever touching ground)
By the courthouse in Okolona most afternoons,
And though her dress was from the house of Ralston and Purina
And her jewelry courtesy of Sailor Jack and Bingo,
She neither shrunk nor slunk self-consciously
Nor walked with eyes ablaze and fists clenched,
In a manner asking Mebbe you wanna make sumpin' of it?
Simply walked her own walk,
Such things as poverty and pedigree
Trvial matters beneath her concern,
Though she was always provided for, as a seemingly chosen child,
Judge Hibbard giving her a store-bought doll from Jackson
When she turned seven, others providing her pop and bubble gum,
And later Miss Lucille Brisker sewed her a bright-blue silk dress
Plus gave her forty-two dollars for a Greyhound ticket
To Los Angeles via New Orleans
(When she hopped the bus in front of the K &B,
She gave her a peck on the cheek, and said
*Miss Lucille, you take care, but I doubt
I'm much likely to pass this way again.*)
Her whys and wherefores after that were lost to time and tide:
Perhaps she made it in L-A, perhaps she thought else-wise
And hopped off the bus in Hattiesburg or Bogalusa
Though most were of the opinion that it mattered little if at all,
As she allowed them, leastways for a little while,
To be in her orbit while she shone in such a manner as pleased her.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 4:27 PM UTC
Oh, grant me a new song.
A start again afresh with no regrets song.
One with a bridge to a new accord,
a song with which I can get on board.
Something that strikes a stronger chord
with those who like me
long to be
fully
factory
restored.
A song with a fresher melody
(and I definitely need a different harmony),
something that's part of a wider symphony
maybe with an occasional solo part
for me.
A song that I get to sing with gusto,
maybe to a slightly quicker tempo,
a step up from my imposed Adagio,
closer to a brisker Allegretto.
Oh Lord,
you see me.
You see that I long to sing.
Can you please
wipe me clean
and write a new song with me.
Nov 22, 2017
Nov 22, 2017 at 8:40 AM UTC
For My Cat Jeoffrey
For I will consider my Cat Jeoffrey
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For is this done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant
quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his
prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees . . .
For having consider'd God and himself he will consider his neighbor.
For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.
For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it chance.
For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying . . .
For the English cats are the best in Europe.
For he is the cleanest in the use of his fore-paws of any quadrupede.
For the dexterity of his defense is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly.
For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.
For he is tenacious of his point.
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For he knows that God is his Saviour.
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.
For he is the Lord's poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually -- Poor Jeoffrey! poor Jeoffrey! the rat has bit thy throat.
For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffrey is better.
For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in compleat cat.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
The Tree
the nights are colder now
the stars seem much brighter somehow
when the clouds let you peek thru their cover
the days getting a little drearier
as the trees lose their color
and the winds much brisker
won't be long old winter will be here
freezing drizzle and snow
I take a walk thru the woods
find the old stream singing it's song
as it flows slowly over the rocks
there I see the old oak tree looking
so forlorn with its bare branches
wishing spring would return
4 foot off the ground
in the belly of this big old oak
is a carved heart with an arrow
and lettering inside the heart
I run my fingers over the lettering
Glp loves TAS
a tear falls
I wish for spring too
Gomer LePoet ....
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
I leave my room and head outside
To begin my journey
Down the old gravel road
An endless expansion of corn
The coyotes distant howls
The brisk air, I walk at a brisker pace
Past the old-fashioned church
With its white picket graveyard
Beautiful in daylight, eerie at night
Through the woods
Over some hills
Across a stream
The bright reflection of the moon signifies my destination
It's beauty portrayed across the canvas that is the pond
I visit at night, because only then can my thoughts be as clear as the water.
I sit in silence for a moment
Pondering what I came for
Before I turn around and head back
Down the old gravel road
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 9:03 PM UTC