"dell" poems
‘To bed! To bed!’
Said Sleepy-head;
‘Tarry awhile,’ said Slow;
‘Put on the pan,’
Said Greedy Nan;
‘We'll sup before we go.’
(from Mother Goose)
They sat at the kitchen table as
The candle flickered low,
And Greedy Nan put on the pan
To indulge her sister, Slow,
While Sleepy Weepy Annabelle
Blotted her book with tears,
And thought of her Beau from long ago
Who she hadn’t seen for years.
‘Why doesn’t Roger notice me,
Why doesn’t Alan Dell?
I’m wearing the dress cut low for me
And I’ve hitched my skirt as well.
I’ve a pretty turn to my ankle, so
You’d think it would drive them wild.’
‘But men are a mystery,’ said Slow,
‘And Alan Dell’s a child.’
While over the pan stood Greedy Nan,
Was cracking a turkey’s egg,
A lump of yeast and a slice of beast
And a single spider’s leg.
With a wing of bat and an ounce of fat
And a toe of frog for the spell,
She needed to turn her sister off
From her crush on Alan Dell.
For Greedy Nan was the eldest girl
And would have to marry first,
The other two would wait in the queue
Or their fortunes be reversed,
The omelette sizzled, and in the pan
She added before they saw,
A piece of some Devil’s Trumpet plant
For the mating game meant war.
She sliced the omelette into half
And she served them up a piece,
‘Didn’t you want?’ said Annabelle
But Slow enjoyed the feast.
‘I’m not that terribly hungry now
I’ve cooked it up in the pan,
I think I’ll just have a slice of bread,’
Said the scheming Greedy Nan.
They finished up and they sat awhile,
And they mused about their fate,
‘If Greedy Nan isn’t married soon,
For us it will be too late.’
‘I’ve set my sights on a country squire,’
Said Nan, without a blink,
Lured them away from her secret fire
To confuse what they might think.
‘The room is woozy, spinning around,
I’d better get me to bed,’
Said Annabelle, while Slow with a frown
Saw Dwarves dancing in her head.
But Greedy Nan was cleaning the pan
To clear all signs of the spell,
Her back was turned to her sisters, spurned
For the sake of Alan Dell.
And when he came in the morning
Greedy Nan was sat by the door,
While Annabelle and her sister Slow
Were lying dead on the floor,
‘I didn’t mean it to **** them, Al,
It was only a simple spell,’
But as he cuffed and led her away
He frowned, did Alan Dell.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
Lo spiraglio dell'alba
respira con la tua bocca
in fondo alle vie vuote.
Luce grigia i tuoi occhi,
dolci gocce dell'alba
sulle colline scure.
Il tuo passo e il tuo fiato
come il vento dell'alba
sommergono le case.
La città abbrividisce,
odorano le pietre
sei la vita, il risveglio.
Stella sperduta
nella luce dell'alba,
cigolio della brezza,
tepore, respiro
è finita la notte.
Sei la luce e il mattino.
7.3k
I'm so tired of scammers!
There are so many around!
For every situation,
A scammer is to be found.
There's the email message
From a "friend" stuck overseas
Whose money has been stolen--
Who needs your help, please.
Have you received the phone call
Saying that you're in big trouble
With the I.R.S. and insisting
That you must pay on the double?
Computer hackers will take
Your PC hostage and say
That you'll lose ALL your computer
Data unless you pay.
What about being a winner
Of a contest? All you must do
Is forward them some money
And they'll send the "winnings" to you.
If you by chance get a call
From "Microsoft" or "Dell"
Saying your account's in danger,
Tell them to go to hell.
Scamming probably reaches
Far back into history.
The demise of the Neanderthals
Might not have been a mystery.
Did early **** sapiens
With carefully planned persistence
Scam neanderthalensis
Out of its earthly existence?
If scammers had put their know-how
In a positive direction,
We could say, "Three cheers
For natural selection!"
But, no, we're stuck with scammers--
A problem that clearly shows
That if we want to survive,
We've got to be on our toes!
- by Bob B
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 8:16 AM UTC
392
Through the Dark Sod—as Education—
The Lily passes sure—
Feels her white foot—no trepidation—
Her faith—no fear—
Afterward—in the Meadow—
Swinging her Beryl Bell—
The Mold-life—all forgotten—now—
In Ecstasy—and Dell—
6.1k
Deep within a leafy dell
There lived a hairy fairy
Who very often cast a spell
That was frightening and scary.
The only friend the fairy had
Was an old green warty toad,
He never thought the fairy bad,
Just lonely and old.
So he’d sit with her and croak
And watch her practice magic.
She very rarely often spoke,
This to him was tragic.
The fairy dress; the fairy wore
Had seen better days.
It was ***** tattered, creased and tore
The hem hung loose in frays.
Her head seemed always in a cloud,
He never saw her smile,
Her wand no longer taut and proud
But still she was not vile.
Somewhere inside he saw her love;
He longed to be her mate,
So he prayed to God above
And asked her for a date.
She thought he saw her as a joke.
He was playing with her heart.
Up she went, in a puff of smoke,
That gave the toad a start.
Never having seen this done before
He had a mixed-up feeling.
His warts and looks she must abhor
And she found him unappealing.
For days he waited there for her
Because he was alarmed;
A toad and fairy love was rare
He thought she might be charmed.
If she would only hear him out,
That he may just explain.
Then she, he felt, could have no doubt
His love just would not wane.
But if his looks she hated so,
Then this he’d have to take.
He’d just hop-off; away he’d go,
Take bravely his mistake.
He realised, ‘how sad it is,
I never asked her name.’
With one loud bang and mighty ****
Back to his side she came.
“It occurred to me, you might be kind,
My name is Nuff,” the fairy cried,
“And I can read your mind.”
“Fairy Nuff,” the toad replied.
Then she kissed him on his cheek
A shock that made him wince.
Before he had a chance to speak
He was a fairy Prince.
She was beautiful and young,
Like his clothes, hers were new.
A love that’s ‘Magic’ is not wrong
Especially for these two.
Dec 7, 2009
Dec 7, 2009 at 11:13 AM UTC
They are flocking from the East
And the West,
They are flocking from the North
And the South,
Every moment setting forth
From realm of snake or lion,
Swamp or sand,
Ice or burning;
Greatest and least,
Palm in hand
And praise in mouth,
They are flocking up the path
To their rest,
Up the path that hath
No returning.
Up the steeps of Zion
They are mounting,
Coming, coming,
Throngs beyond man's counting;
With a sound
Like innumerable bees
Swarming, humming
Where flowering trees
Many-tinted,
Many-scented,
All alike abound
With honey,--
With a swell
Like a blast upswaying unrestrainable
From a shadowed dell
To the hill-tops sunny,--
With a thunder
Like the ocean when in strength
Breadth and length
It sets to shore;
More and more
Waves on waves redoubled pour
Leaping flashing to the shore
(Unlike the under
Drain of ebb that loseth ground
For all its roar.)
They are thronging
From the East and West,
From the North and South,
Saints are thronging, loving, longing,
To their land
Of rest,
Palm in hand
And praise in mouth.
5.5k
Dorme la corriera
dorme la farfalla
dormono le mucche
nella stalla
il cane nel canile
il ***** nel bimbile
il fuco nel fucile
e nella notte nera
dorme la pula
dentro la pantera
dormono i rappresentanti
nei motel dell'Esso
dormono negli Hilton
i cantanti di successo
dorme il barbone
dorme il vagone
dorme il contino
nel baldacchino
dorme a Betlemme
Gesù bambino
un po' di paglia
come cuscino
dorme Pilato
tutto agitato
dorme il bufalo
nella savana
e dorme il verme
nella banana
dorme il rondone
nel campanile
russa la seppia
sul'arenile
dorme il maiale
all'Hotel Nazionale
e sull'amaca
sta la lumaca
addormentata
dorme la mamma
dorme il figlio
dorme la lepre
dorme il coniglio
e sotto i camion
nelle autostazioni
dormono stretti
i copertoni
dormono i monti
dormono i mari
dorme quel porco
di Scandellari
che m'ha rubato
la mia Liù
per cui io solo
porcamadonna
non dormo più.
5.5k
~for Maya, the Persian Canadian farmer in the dell~
your poetic riddling questions without hesitation re
my claim conceptual
refuting with factoids actuarial experiential derived,
that cows need milkshake making daily by sunrise
nonsense
so you wake me up groggy on a Miami Saturday 6:00am
with a reciprocal poetic to a dashed off to contra my
code of conduct poem-mine;
and all that stumbles through my almost reset rested,
main stem cortex is an a ancient hebrew homily:
on Sabbath Saturday, even the cows sleep late
ok;
just tween us rare passes the day that a glancing phrase doesn’t register a stabbing whine “of me, of mine do sing” and your point counterpoint incision demands inspiration instant re-mission
around 10am when the amiable barn aminals sipping cuppa #3,
and the chicken children want a weekend brunch xtra feeding
are done, in the yard, put out to
pack n' peck n’ play
so that’s an intro to this work
that jumps the line of a
hundreds of other’s poems promised and overdue:
insight inside your crafted wake up slam slap was
pretty **** near the makers mark bourbon of this distillers
bourbon barrels bulbous poem’s bibliothèque that
has an impatient waiting list
of poems waiting anointing
each a personage~poem of that day it was birthed inscribed
this particular one for you,
~
my complexity non-Napoleonic
just humanoid each, here are my leaders from and
into a veining so lovely colored
each poem a waving wheat stalk
before these old tired eyes close to closing hear once more
“of me, of mine do sing”
so I follow all of you by dimming yellow light,
for this is the soil of nutriment rich from where my
words grow taller and the yellow infusion feeds my wheats,
the amber, the red hard and soft, the whites, the durums,
and mon préféré, prairie spring white,
which is my secret nickname for a duality woman,
poet and farmer,
posing riddles
that deserve answers*
maybe
—-
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2503650/little-ole-me-a-riddle-of-sorts/
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
You are ember with less orange
You are tree bark true and brook trout at play
You are earthy as the hollow dell in the Catskills still
Turning as the waterways
You are ever moving, always slight
Looking back over those delicate shoulders of yours
To the footprints of me
And in the time spent therein not a day’s older
I don’t know her name
But I know what I see
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 6:55 PM UTC
The moonlight fades from flower and rose
And the stars dim one by one;
The tale is told, the song is sung,
And the Fairy feast is done.
The night-wind rocks the sleeping flowers,
And sings to them, soft and low.
The early birds erelong will wake:
'T is time for the Elves to go.
O'er the sleeping earth we silently pass,
Unseen by mortal eye,
And send sweet dreams, as we lightly float
Through the quiet moonlit sky;--
For the stars' soft eyes alone may see,
And the flowers alone may know,
The feasts we hold, the tales we tell;
So't is time for the Elves to go.
From bird, and blossom, and bee,
We learn the lessons they teach;
And seek, by kindly deeds, to win
A loving friend in each.
And though unseen on earth we dwell,
Sweet voices whisper low,
And gentle hearts most joyously greet
The Elves where'er they go.
When next we meet in the Fairy dell,
May the silver moon's soft light
Shine then on faces gay as now,
And Elfin hearts as light.
Now spread each wing, for the eastern sky
With sunlight soon shall glow.
The morning star shall light us home:
Farewell! for the Elves must go.
4.3k
*The Love Birds
He
Oh where do you nest in what branch above
Whisper to me my angel, tell me my love.
Oh tell where you build your nest
To lay in sweet and gentle rest
She
In the meadow a lonely pine
Is where I mourn until you are mine
Mornings see my lonesome tears
Nighttime breezes my sobbing hears
He
My lonely heart soars in skies of blue
So long I searched and cried for you
Each day I looked in Lee and dell
Each night to the moon my sorrows tell
She
I know you really long for me
And all my love you can see
Loneliness ends as our love starts
We fly as lovers with one heart
He
Together on wings of love we fly
Until we touch the heavens in the sky
Come make your tender home with me
Forever as one we will always be*
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
Oh, I have never looked so good
running in armor thru the woods
Adept with blade or mace
And I know a little magic
which for foes is rather tragic
(it’s a perk for my race)
Be it mountain peak or ocean swell
thru rocky hill and grassy dell
nothing slows my pace
Many Quests I need to finish
there’s Evil I must diminish
(And weapons to replace)
Every belonging I have owned
I have bartered, won or stole
Hording gold just in case
I’m constantly slashed, bashed and burned
by dragons, wildlife and Curs
with no fear on my face
Though I have skills that get me by
There are occasions that I’ve died
Thank god for the last “save”
I will keep right on playing
leveling buy quests and slaying
in my CGI escape
January 2012
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 3:18 AM UTC
Once it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sun-light lazily lay,
Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley’s restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless—
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Unceasingly, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye—
Over the lilies that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave:—from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep:—from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.
3.7k
O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,—
Nature's observatory—whence the dell,
In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,
May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
'Mongst boughs pavilioned, where the deer's swift leap
Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
Whose words are images of thoughts refined,
Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.
3.6k
Every valley drinks,
Every dell and hollow:
Where the kind rain sinks and sinks,
Green of Spring will follow.
Yet a lapse of weeks
Buds will burst their edges,
Strip their wool-coats, glue-coats, streaks,
In the woods and hedges;
Weave a bower of love
For birds to meet each other,
Weave a canopy above
Nest and egg and mother.
But for fattening rain
We should have no flowers,
Never a bud or leaf again
But for soaking showers;
Never a mated bird
In the rocking tree-tops,
Never indeed a flock or herd
To graze upon the lea-crops.
Lambs so woolly white,
Sheep the sun-bright leas on,
They could have no grass to bite
But for rain in season.
We should find no moss
In the shadiest places,
Find no waving meadow-grass
Pied with broad-eyed daisies;
But miles of barren sand,
With never a son or daughter,
Not a lily on the land,
Or lily on the water.
3.8k
The bleating of the newborn lambs
As they prance about the fields
Yellow of the rapeseed
Prepare for summers yield
Birds twitter on every bough
While making up their nests
Tapping of the woodpecker
Pointed beak and coloured crest
Gone the snowdrops and daffodils
Now bluebells carpet the floor
Wild garlic with its pungent smell
You may dislike or adore
Seasons change so quickly
As time passes on its way
No beauty can compare
To nature day by day
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
L'anguilla, la sirena
dei mari freddi che lascia il Baltico
per giungere ai nostri mari,
ai nostri estuari, ai fiumi
che risale in profondo, sotto la piena avversa,
di ramo in ramo e poi
di capello in capello, assottigliati,
sempre piú addentro, sempre piú nel cuore
del macigno, filtrando
tra gorielli di melma finché un giorno
una luce scoccata dai castagni
ne accende il guizzo in pozze d'acquamorta,
nei fossi che declinano
dai balzi d'Appennino alla Romagna;
l'anguilla, torcia, frusta,
freccia d'Amore in terra
che solo i nostri botri o i disseccati
ruscelli pirenaici riconducono
a paradisi di fecondazione;
l'anima verde che cerca
vita là dove solo
morde l'arsura e la desolazione,
la scintilla che dice
tutto comincia quando tutto pare
incarbonirsi, bronco seppellito:
l'iride breve, gemella
di quella che incastonano i tuoi cigli
e fai brillare intatta in mezzo ai figli
dell'uomo, immersi nel tuo fango, puoi tu
non crederla sorella?
3.8k
ravens squawked
on that half moon night
the people in the village
were filled with fright
a scary portent lingered
upon the forest dell
the black sorcerer
was mixing a horrid spell
winds whirled
in an agitated manifest
evil twas the potion
prophetic its guest
horror sprung
from the cauldron's brew
atop the hills
smokey fires did spew
eerie groans emanated
inside the sorcerer's chest
the incarnate devil
dwelt in his breast
he opened his mouth
to consume a gnarly toad
as the fleeing villagers
ran along the forest road
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
(Scene by the brook)
He came seeking solace to Heiligenstadt
and walked alone by its crystal stream
welcomed by songs the nightingale taught.
Its cheerful waters made Vienna seem
a distant, cool and forbidding stage
where few would embrace a pastoral dream.
He dotted his sketchbooks on every page
with earthen tones born of peasant heart -
(though fare rich enough for any age) .
He poured from the stream the fiddle part,
and woodwinds sang with the birds in the dell -
all "choired" together by his masterful art.
At Heiligenstadt Beethoven attended well
and bequeathed us his golden 'Pastorale.'
July, 2006
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
Thistledown in prison sings:
Bright shines the summer sun,
Soft is the summer air;
Gayly the wood-birds sing,
Flowers are blooming fair.
But, deep in the dark, cold rock,
Sadly I dwell,
Longing for thee, dear friend,
Lily-Bell! Lily-Bell!
Lily-Bell replies:
Through sunlight and summer air
I have sought for thee long,
Guided by birds and flowers,
And now by thy song.
Thistledown! Thistledown!
O'er hill and dell
Hither to comfort thee
Comes Lily-Bell.
2.8k
I feel so tired
I can barely breathe
My chest is concave
Like the narrow dell
Soaking up the rain
And pulling in the leaves
And though I’m not hollow
I am not whole
And though I’m weary
It is not my soul
Which cries aloud
Unto the the trees
Except for your sound
The sound that is
Of when you sing
And walk beneath
This canvas of leaves
Free as your feet
But the soles of my shoes
And the lids of my eyes
Are now heavy
As my head it lulls
And wants to roll
Back to the ground
So my pillow now
Is underneath
The hooded wood
And as the world
Slowly closes round
It’s you I see
Within the leaves
Beneath the trees
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 9:42 PM UTC
A Tribute
A king takes supper on a creaking deathbed. Featureless, winged creatures zoom by the dark condensed windows. Micro parasites build adobe headquarters in his soft tissue. Reaching for a plate, he groans the terabyting howl that’s prescribed with chemotherapy. Qwerty and light from the drugs, he stares at the apple on his tray. Lost in its curves, he finds himself trapped in a safari of memories. A dream devolves upon his downtrodden mind….
The canopy is populated with twittering, angry birds. Pools of social blood attract flies to the googolplex degree. He stumbles through the dell, suspicious forest while a tremulous, fiery fox stalks behind his echoing footfalls. Pixar apes swing from trees chased by grisly, disney men with guns and trucks. A large eye tunes the darkness and blinks red upon an aging mountain lion in shadow’s brush.
The sony rays belight foliage in auspicious, plaid-orange hues. This amazon of experience plugs the wanderer into a hard drive of intelligence – a gateway to an encyclopedia of wikis and browsers, expanse enough for any backdrop rooftop audience to be faux-enthralled and eager. There are grumblings in the distance of another engine tromping the scope in search of something new and useless. A rumorous bat upsets the plagiarizing tide of the Atlantic Pea Sea. A snake slinks out of the blossoms clinging to the vines among a macintosh tree and bites the salty flier of the washboard night; cyber venom invades his veins.
The average, homeless, bounding, warrior awakens to find a cold supper on his lap and another syringe in his arm. His remaining gums support his teeth as they bite into the apple. He swallows, sighs, and rests his balding, crescent, once-handsome head on the white pillow. The green fruit tumbles gently out of bed and mutely rolls to the floor.
With that, Steve Jobs is dead.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
Dewey Dell Bundren
Had her baby
And ran off to college
Worked single-mother hours
To keep her ****** apartment
And never missed a class
She married the first theology professor she could find
The kind
With the horn rimmed glasses
Drinking imported scotch
Discussing literature around the fire at night
She got a degree
At Northeastern
High honors in history
She never knew all those books were about her
And the people she came from
The places
Had their stories told
In the pages
Shaped everything she had ever known
She was grateful
For her history
And once a year made the trip
Back to Jefferson
Mississippi
Put flowers on her mother's grave
Still tasting
the bananas
Hearing herself saying
"Hadn't you ruther"
Still hearing Jewel
Cursing softly
******* you, ******* you"
"You sweet sonofabitch"
Still seeing the mules
Swollen
Floating
Bellies up
Past Cash and the coffin
Leg broken
In that biblical spring flood
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
"hello kate ," Jack delleto says and sits down.
"my name isn't kate. it's Kathleen.'" hello Dell. "sue thinks Dell is such a **** name. " what should I call you?"
"how about darling?'
she looks up from the whiskey glass "hello, Jack, DARLIN." her soft deep voice whispers.
Kathleen crosses her legs and the black dress rides up to the middle of her thigh.
Jack glances at the milky white flesh. she is drunk and Dell does not care. he leans forward, ''do you wanna dance ?
"but no one else is dancing."
"Well, we could go to the beach and take a walk on the sand.
"It's twenty degrees outside." she swallows the last of the whiskey. "we'll freeze."
"i' ll keep you warm."
"all right let's dance."
"jack stands up and takes her by the hand. she rises and jack holds her close to him. jack feels her heart thumbing.
she rests her head on his shoulder. "what matters most to you?"
"not giving up."
"what's important to you?" he asks.
Kate lifts her head off his shoulder and looks into his eyes. "I don't want to be on welfare, and I want to be able to send my son to college." she rests her cheek against his. "I lived in foster care homes all my life and I always knew one day I'd have to leave. do you know the difference between a house and a home?"
Her voice is a roaring whisper in his ear. "love."
the song comes to an end. kate takes a cigarette from the pack.
jack strikes a match and the light flickers in her eyes. "maybe someday you'll have a home."
"do you want me to?" she leans forward and puts the cigarette to the flame.
"Yes."
Kate blows out the match.
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
'Bright shines the summer sun,
Soft is the summer air;
Gayly the wood-birds sing,
Flowers are blooming fair.
'But, deep in the dark, cold rock,
Sadly I dwell,
Longing for thee, dear friend,
Lily-Bell! Lily-Bell!'
'Through sunlight and summer air
I have sought for thee long,
Guided by birds and flowers,
And now by thy song.
'Thistledown! Thistledown!
O'er hill and dell
Hither to comfort thee
Comes Lily-Bell.'
2.5k