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A dancing Bear grotesque and funny
Earned for his master heaps of money,
Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey,
And cheerful if the day was sunny.
Past hedge and ditch, past pond and wood
He tramped, and on some common stood;
There, cottage children circling gaily,
He in their midmost footed daily.
Pandean pipes and drum and muzzle
Were quite enough his brain to puzzle:
But like a philosophic bear
He let alone extraneous care
And danced contented anywhere.

Still, year on year, and wear and tear,
Age even the gruffest, bluffest bear.
A day came when he scarce could prance,
And when his master looked askance
On dancing Bear who would not dance.

To looks succeeded blows; hard blows
Battered his ears and poor old nose.
From bluff and gruff he waxed curmudgeon;
He danced indeed, but danced in dudgeon,
Capered in fury fast and faster.
Ah, could he once but hug his master
And perish in one joint disaster!
But deafness, blindness, weakness growing,
Not fury's self could keep him going.
One dark day when the snow was snowing
His cup was brimmed to overflowing:
He tottered, toppled on one side,
Growled once, and shook his head, and died.
The master kicked and struck in vain,
The weary drudge had distanced pain
And never now would wince again.
The master growled; he might have howled
Or coaxed,--that slave's last growl was growled.
So gnawed by rancor and chagrin
One thing remained: he sold the skin.

What next the man did is not worth
Your notice or my setting forth,
But hearken what befell at last.
His idle working days gone past,
And not one friend and not one penny
Stored up (if ever he had any
Friends; but his coppers had been many),
All doors stood shut against him but
The workhouse door, which cannot shut.
There he droned on,--a grim old sinner,
Toothless, and grumbling for his dinner,
Unpitied quite, uncared for much
(The rate-payers not favoring such),
Hungry and gaunt, with time to spare;
Perhaps the hungry, gaunt old Bear
Danced back, a haunting memory.
Indeed, I hope so, for you see
If once the hard old heart relented,
The hard old man may have repented.
Mike Jewett Feb 2015
For Theresa. Rest in peace.*

Every star shines on you
Tonight.

Polaris, the North Star,
Will be your guide,

Reflecting your aura
In the smile

Of the Atlantic’s waves.
The silent forest

Looks to the skies
Where Ursa Major twinkles back

The light held in your eyes.
Sleeping bruins dream

About ice and glowing
Blues and greens

Dancing above;
The Northern Lights.

Every star will shine on you
Tonight.

The North Star, Polaris,
Will be your guide.
A wild-bear chace, didst never see?
    Then hast thou lived in vain.
Thy richest bump of glorious glee,
    Lies desert in thy brain.

When first my father settled here,
    ’Twas then the frontier line:
The panther’s scream, filled night with fear
    And bears preyed on the swine.

But woe for Bruin’s short lived fun,
    When rose the squealing cry;
Now man and horse, with dog and gun,
    For vengeance, at him fly.

A sound of danger strikes his ear;
    He gives the breeze a *****;
Away he bounds, with little fear,
    And seeks the tangled rough.

On press his foes, and reach the ground,
    Where’s left his half munched meal;
The dogs, in circles, scent around,
    And find his fresh made trail.

With instant cry, away they dash,
    And men as fast pursue;
O’er logs they leap, through water splash,
    And shout the brisk halloo.

Now to elude the eager pack,
    Bear shuns the open ground;
Through matted vines, he shapes his track
    And runs it, round and round.

The tall fleet cur, with deep-mouthed voice,
    Now speeds him, as the wind;
While half-grown pup, and short-legged ****,
    Are yelping far behind.

And fresh recruits are dropping in
    To join the merry corps:
With yelp and yell,—a mingled din—
    The woods are in a roar.

And round, and round the chace now goes,
    The world’s alive with fun;
Nick Carter’s horse, his rider throws,
    And more, Hill drops his gun.

Now sorely pressed, bear glances back,
    And lolls his tired tongue;
When as, to force him from his track,
    An ambush on him sprung.

Across the glade he sweeps for flight,
    And fully is in view.
The dogs, new-fired, by the sight,
    Their cry, and speed, renew.

The foremost ones, now reach his rear,
    He turns, they dash away;
And circling now, the wrathful bear,
    They have him full at bay.

At top of speed, the horse-men come,
    All screaming in a row,
“Whoop! Take him Tiger. Seize him Drum.”
    Bang,—bang—the rifles go.

And furious now, the dogs he tears,
    And crushes in his ire,
Wheels right and left, and upward rears,
    With eyes of burning fire.

But leaden death is at his heart,
    Vain all the strength he plies.
And, spouting blood from every part,
    He reels, and sinks, and dies.

And now a dinsome clamor rose,
    ’Bout who should have his skin;
Who first draws blood, each hunter knows,
    This prize must always win.

But who did this, and how to trace
    What’s true from what’s a lie,
Like lawyers, in a ****** case
    They stoutly argufy.

Aforesaid ****, of blustering mood,
    Behind, and quite forgot,
Just now emerging from the wood,
    Arrives upon the spot.

With grinning teeth, and up-turned hair—
    Brim full of ***** and wrath,
He growls, and seizes on dead bear,
    And shakes for life and death.

And swells as if his skin would tear,
    And growls and shakes again;
And swears, as plain as dog can swear,
    That he has won the skin.

Conceited whelp! we laugh at thee—
    Nor mind, that now a few
Of pompous, two-legged dogs there be,
    Conceited quite as you.
luapharas Mar 2016
I find social networking distorted communication
you hardly see face to face conversations
just excessive clicking on keyboards
n’ anxious minds waiting for replies
no one takes the time to enjoy the company who is present
I can’t decipher true emotions through all this commotion of texts, and private messages.
talking to people who aren’t in the same location is vague
The internet is an addiction widespread like a pelage
my frustration with corrupted socializing starts with facebook
Never again will I sign up for any false friendship making world wide web connections
I give you no other choice.
use your voice,
to say what you need to say,
use your hands,
to paint what you need to convey
use your legs,
to sway your own way
What worries me the most, is its not only teenagers,
adults are getting ****** in too.
TRY logging off, being disconnected is relieving  
I’m notified about the **** that matters when it happens
can count the number of sincere friends I have on one hand
I don’t understand how some people  can spend hours surfing through a news feed filled with constant updates from others.
It took me two years to realize I was wasting my time posting about my journey through existence to people who don’t give a ****
What really make me insane is those people who post every **** detail of their life, as if trying to write an autobiography of ALL their vacations, foods, relations, moods
These posts of so called “picture perfect” lives is none of my business
So instead of sitting in front of a dimly lit screen trying to save battery power, I charge myself up and play this funny game called life
I spend parts of my day with my best friend mary jane
I might even bury my face into a book, which is highly doubtful
but more likely than me posting on social media about what I’m doing at this moment in time.
Now first impressions come from profile pictures,
and number of likes you get on a status.
Think next time you post something personal
cause thats being stashed in cyberspace, not knowing where its stored
posting when you're bored, about how you scored at a party last night
in spite that its your best friends girlfriend,
but you were to drunk to remember.
Even worse sharing photos of underage drinking
not even thinking about who can see the evidence
of your stupidity, not lucidly taking in your actions
but you look at the fraction 9 out of 300 facebook "friends"
liked your status, thinking you've got a stratus
letting it ruin your day,
bruin about how a girl with half her clothes on has
700 likes n’ 5,000 comments from pigs,
because thats what social media is
a popularity contest, with the best updates
sluttiest photos, and juicy drama
log off
doff the social content through technology completely
its easy.
brace yourself,
have to talk to my face
not through the space of miles, through your screen
I'm not an ordinary teen, just wanting to be seen for who I am
not my online profile
which you won't find because
I don't tell facebook what’s on my mind
tweet about what I eat
  instagram my outfit of the day
I am what you see, plus my poetry
my distinctive personality isn't shared
through an internet related source
This isn’t out of force, my own choice in which I rejoice in the fact that I no longer waste my precious time reading about everybody else’s life,
and just living mine
thus giving me more of a voice, rather thinking I need to type everything in my head
instead, I speak my mind aloud for everyone to hear,
bolder than my outfit, shoes, and my hair.
I do this without shedding a tear
you'd realize if you stepped back
you lack the strength
to go a length of time
its not a crime,
its time
to log off.
Knipoog, wink-oog
Loop verby
Hart kyk weg
Om die invloed te vermy

Raak an my hand
Vat mis, raak my siel
Raak ek verlief?
Wat het my besiel?

Knipoog , winkoog
Is dit vir my?
Nee , dis vir haar...
Jy kyk my verby!!

Lok uit suspisie
Gee my die hoop;
Hoeveel ander het
Hul siel aan jou verkoop?

Bruin oog, blink oog
Blink jy vir my?
Lees weer jou rympies
Om my hart te kry!!

Maak gou liefste
Lewe flits verby,
Lees jy jou rympies:
Vir haar...
Of vir my!?
Marisa Bordeaux Jun 2015
No matter what I say
or do

There is a wholesome glow
in his eyes,  
though they are starved
from vaulted schemes

and there’s a dimple
on the side of his mouth
caving in
like a wooly bruin

There is a dire red
in his hair
he thinks a plunder to the gold

and the ground shivers madly
when he walks  
or speaks
or sings

His scent lingers
relentlessly
feasting off
my etiolated heart
until its ridges
die between his teeth
and I look unhinged
inhaling his knitted garments
like limpid air

I love him
no matter what I say
or do
and I’m afraid
because for the first time
the fire stokes itself at night
Jack Trainer Apr 2018
It’s nearly half a month since the equinox
Drenched in the cold among the dead
Anticipatory of any color other than grey
The tree branches disfigured from winter
A lone squirrel zigzags to avoid the quiet killer
The pancake maker
The meandering bruin seeks to devour anything in its path
Leaving a wake of topsy-turvy blue wheeled bins
Spring is that alarm clock with the inviting snooze button
Where is the warmth that was promised?
Where is the rain that is dreaded?

New England’s ravenous ground is ready
For winters waiting cadavers
How long must they wait?
Spring is anticipated with its many preconceptions
It eases in and is hardly noticed
Warm days intermingle with the frigid
Until frost is an intolerable memory
Spring is manic depressive
Trevon Haywood Jan 2019
She is a miserable girl I've ever seen in my own life.
She is friendless and an outcast because of something that happened over the summer.
Also, she has the wrong hair, the wrong clothes, the wrong attitude and she don't have anyone to sit with because she is the only outcast and I'm not.
And she needs to get her act and a better life together before something happens again.
She even had an ex-best friend named Rachel Bruin because she is the only girl she ever met in high school and she always hate her so much.
And the only thing is that being friendless and an outcast is NOT a good thjng here jn Massachusetts and it's very unacceptable. So don't be like Melinda Sordino, be smart and be friends with someone in hjgh school because love and passion is always a #1 priority.

Anonymous. 1/23/2019.
Created a poem about Melinda Sordina from Speak The Graphic Novel.
seethroughme Dec 2018
‘n miljoen bome
se asems beur op
in ‘n groen waas
teen die dwang
van bruin lug
se gewig
the baby shower was tomorrow
the beers were packed,
I was off to LA and the contingency was dancing with some kind of ecstatic zoetic
energy,
In an hour time I will be at UCLA
Bruin territory
possibly drunk
possibly stumbling
picking up a friend,
cheers,
to be in Los Angeles again
the timing was
rite,
the reunion was perfect. -Shane Book
Rew Jan 2021
i'm with the old folks
it's very quiet, round here,
just false teeth, clacking...

crocadiles shed tears
my pet one does, anyway
such a cry baby...


''i can't bear it now''
that's my bruin, always shy
he's such a bug bear...
loaf Apr 2018
A country torn by hands of greed
That loot and pillage without thought or need
Children of Syria cast away in terror
Family lost due to saviors error
And who else to turn to but our country’s diet?
Though you plead and beg, the world is quiet
With voices lost and prayers unheard
Disenfranchised people lose their faith in word
Violence arises, when all hope is lost
A soundless song played by people crossed
Syria, your lands in ruin
Cities demolished, enemies bruin
A hack tyrant yet rules
Takes his people for fools
Even with his failures unmasked
You’ll never have the peace for which you’ve asked
And the world is still quiet
Daan May 2019
De pijn is diep en goed
verspreid, niet zomaar
aan te duiden, onduidelijk,
iets wat je moeilijk onderscheidt.

Zoek voor haar momenten om
nieuwe uren in te luiden.
Laat van tijd een luchtje scheppen,
paarse bloemen, bomen bruin
en uitgestrekte velden links,
rechts, een kinderspeeltuin.

Wanneer we de tijd weer nemen
om te kijken, zien we meer
dan wanneer
we haar aan het raam laten
zitten.
Geef de kans om haar tuintje om te spitten.
In en uit balans krijgt het groeien
terug een kans en zie die paarse bloemen, in goed licht,
die zich maar al te graag weer komen moeien
met het veld van je gezicht.
Maria vond de paasbloemen mooi. Of zijn het nou sint jeuris bloemen?
Soms graven, soms springt het in het oog.
Andrew Rueter May 2019
I hang out with friends
But I get an empty feeling
When the fun times end
After hitting the ceiling
Silence makes me descend
Until my brain starts peeling
From the heavy rain that's wielding
The emotions my friends were shielding

Life seems pretty hollow
After the friends I follow
Leave me in misery to wallow
With pills that are hard to swallow

There's a fly placed in the ointment
Prescribed to cure my disappointment
That became problem avoidance
Bringing agony's annoyance

Why did I feel so empty
Once they finally left me
In a depression hefty
Blocking the best me
With desperation testing
My desire to start texting
Looking for the next thing
Instead of resting
I keep wrestling
In my nest of stings

Once I go home
To my snow cone
Of a low tone
To throw stones
At ghost phones
I feel most unknown

I need purpose
I need direction
But all my searches
Are to satisfy my *******
For a loneliness deflection
That won't cure my infection
Of aimless dejection

Should I end my life in solitude?
Or would that be viewed
As way too rude?
I tried to summon a druid
To escape these ruins
But you became a bruin
Speaking anguish fluent

Save me from thinking
To save me from sinking
The alcohol I'm drinking
Is to avoid the stinking
Of us not linking

Without you
I lose
Then I use
To disprove
The sense of doom
That only grew
Once you withdrew
Daan Dec 2022
In het vallen van de bladeren,
geel, rood, bruin om in te kaderen,
zie ik stilte en verdriet,
een pluizenbol in't bos
die stiekem er geniet.

In kale takken zie 'k gewicht
dat niet meer hoeft gedragen.
Enerzijds misschien gezwicht
tenander waait het wel in vlagen.

Waaivlagen vliegen om de oren,
het ijs, dat in de lucht hangt,
je kan het bijna horen.

De winter die de herfst vervangt
en langzame zomer in ivoren toren.

We spreken van geluk.

Dat we ooit zelfs groen gezien
(mogen hebben.)
Dat we hebben mogen hebben.
Dat we mogen leven tussen boom en as.
Dat we kunnen zolang we kunnen
Dat we voelen *** de haren dunnen
Zolang we blijven denken
aan *** het vroeger was.
Daan May 2019
Finaal onterecht en uitgefloten
t zijn de besten, 't zijn de groten
die van en slecht en buiten spel
of westen wel wisten binnen tussen
de palen te mikken en te schieten

Hardleerse, bruin gestreept naar
wit en plat en opgepompt
weggestompt wat en split
tussen twee vrachtwagens

Mannen doen gekke dingen
met *** spieren, met *** benen
mannen zonder ringen, tongen
die op *** enkels hingen
of bedelden haast wenen
of ze de bal eens mochten lenen
C Jan 2023
op die eerste oogopslag geweet
jou skewe glimlag gaan my heel insluk
met jou prag bruin oë het jy tot in my siel in gekyk
saam met jou sal ek die teerpaaie plat rits,
want dit maak nie saak in watter een van die vier hoeke van 'n padkaart ek myself bevind nie
jou hart sal altyd my tuiste wees
ek sal die koue asem van die winter aanpak in die vroeë oggendure
net om vir jou grondboontjiesbros te koop as die dag te veel was
op die eerste ontmoeting geweet
jy gaan 'n groot rol in my sprokiesverhaal vertolk
jy is goed vir my
en ek hoop van harte ek is goed genoeg
vir jou
Daan Sep 2020
Stokjes en ballen, jezelf
in een vierkant laten vallen,
groen tegen wit, rood tegen blauw,
mag ik deze dans van jou?

Wit met zwarte stippen,
bruin met rode lippen
en een koppel benen, lang en recht,
waar je u tegen zegt.

Trillende kousen, lange netten
en opletten wie waar zijn voeten zetten
kan en waar je handen moeten.

Je haren vast, je veters strak
en een iemand met een kleine hak.
Alles komt goed als je je hoofd erbij houdt, koel, dan bereik je samen het juiste doel.
Wat zijn jouw doelen in het leven?

— The End —