"fife" poems
They say, The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain
But I blame, in vain, the rain for the insane, you see
This plain pain hasn't the same name, nor the same game
For the rain's pain is the same sane as they claim
And since the pain's shame resides mainly in Spain,
Neither the rain nor Spain is to blame for the insane, so now
This sane can claim the uneven plane's plain's the name to blame
But the strife of life is held under the knife of a wife
Where strife runs rife throughout the wife's life
The knife, learning from the fife, plays with the life
While the fife excites life, the knife excites strife
The wife with the knife is at fault, fact or fake?
Is the knife to blame for the strife of the wife's life?
Or the fife for teaching the knife to play with strife?
This just goes to show that no one knows the real rose
For the rose, in it's thorny clothes, just shows the nose
The smell, a pose, so close, tingles the nose till it glows
But the finger, too close, chose to trust the nose's prose
Blame the rose who proposed the show and showed the pose?
Or the nose, whose clothes glowed from the smell of the rose?
The finger couldn't 'ave known the true pose of prose from the rose to the nose.
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 7:20 PM UTC
Precarious Life
Migration in the Age of Globalization
Various Strife
Cessation in the wage of translation
Starvation in our under age narration
Is opportunity worth the cost
Bifurcation of our to be nations
Will we make it across
Vicariously rife
Location of our permanent vacation
Hilarious fife
Hesitation in the living wage stagnation
Resignation of our own home nation
Will anything become lost
Frustration in this age of relocation
Will we make it across
Gregarious life
Migration in the age of inflation
Precarious Life
Stagflation been gauged with low expectations
Automation when we enrage damnation
It shall be worth the cost
Fixation on a whole new acclimation
Will we make it across
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
Take a leave from regular life,
Go have some genuine fun,
Play the enjoyment fife,
Eat with a twist the same old bun.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
Come! Supper is ready
Come! Boys and girls now,
For her is fresh milk
From the good molly cow.
Have done with your fife
And your row de dow dow,
And taste this sweet milk
From the good Molly cow
Whoever is fretting
Must clear up his brow,
Or he'll have no milk
From the good molly cow
And here is Miss *****
She means by mee ow,
Give me too some milk
From the good Molly cow
When children are hungry,
Oh who can tell how
They love the fresh milk
From the good Molly cow
So when you meet Molly
Please say, with a bow,
"Thank you for your milk,
Mrs.good Molly cow."
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
Imagine all the things I could have been
And all the places I could have seen
I should have married that girl
From Bethnal Green
A beauty queen
So serene
Until the day alcohol ruined my life
Imagine all the books I could have read
All those words now left unsaid
I went out and got ****** instead
Fell down the stairs and broke my leg
10 pints and I’m ready for bed
The day alcohol ruined my life
Mad for it Mondays
Two for one Tuesdays
Wet your whistle Wednesdays
Thirsty Thursdays
Back on the razz on Friday
Just some of the days
Alcohol ruined my life
I could have been professional footballer
One of the greats
And the League’s top scorer
Up there with Bobby Zamora
Sponsored by Adidas and Diadora
Scored an overhead kick
From a ******* corner
Until the day alcohol ruined my life
I should have been a movie star
Champagne and caviar
Me and Arnie in the Terminator
Sunset strip and the boulevard
******* hookers and fast cars
Enough money to fly to Mars
Until the day alcohol ruined my life
The day alcohol ruined my life
I lost my kids
And lost my wife
I woke up in East Fife
On the day
Alcohol ruined my life
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 3:04 PM UTC
Saturday I was the happiest knight in your kingdom
Sunday I extinguished loves burning embers with mere chewing gum
Monday I answered your call..... to muster arms, your period enemy.
Tuesday I saw my purple sky fall around me like attacking dragons.
Wednesday I cried bitterly making my own wailing wall.
Thursday I built a trebuchet, to catapult me back into your life.
Friday I lost my sanity when I heard only the Pied Pipers fife
I wish there was another day, I need another chance.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
Tonight I’ll go into the copse of firs
Where I last saw her, and love blossomed
I remember lust, a face plastered on hers
And the love that was then awesome.
But those woods are black and empty
So barren now and without life.
Rocks cut my shoes, once just lumpy.
There’s not a bird that chirps a fife.
The sun sets and frost nips my nose
I still remember the vibrant red rose.
The ice beneath, it chills my toes.
And the little brook, it’s now froze.
Without you, I just can’t exist
I still remember that last kiss.
Without you, I count the hours
And I watch the death of flowers.
Without you, My heart cries out
For sadness to be dispelled--
Without you, Life means nothing
And I ache with lack of loving.
Without you, There’s no catharsis
Why was I then so heartless?
Without you, There’s only blackness
No salvation from this sadness.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
1
Awake ye muses nine, sing me a strain divine,
Unwind the solemn twine, and tie my Valentine!
Oh the Earth was made for lovers, for damsel, and hopeless swain,
For sighing, and gentle whispering, and unity made of twain.
All things do go a courting, in earth, or sea, or air,
God hath made nothing single but thee in His world so fair!
The bride, and then the bridegroom, the two, and then the one,
Adam, and Eve, his consort, the moon, and then the sun;
The life doth prove the precept, who obey shall happy be,
Who will not serve the sovereign, be hanged on fatal tree.
The high do seek the lowly, the great do seek the small,
None cannot find who seeketh, on this terrestrial ball;
The bee doth court the flower, the flower his suit receives,
And they make merry wedding, whose guests are hundred leaves;
The wind doth woo the branches, the branches they are won,
And the father fond demandeth the maiden for his son.
The storm doth walk the seashore humming a mournful tune,
The wave with eye so pensive, looketh to see the moon,
Their spirits meet together, they make their solemn vows,
No more he singeth mournful, her sadness she doth lose.
The worm doth woo the mortal, death claims a living bride,
Night unto day is married, morn unto eventide;
Earth is a merry damsel, and heaven a knight so true,
And Earth is quite coquettish, and beseemeth in vain to sue.
Now to the application, to the reading of the roll,
To bringing thee to justice, and marshalling thy soul:
Thou art a human solo, a being cold, and lone,
Wilt have no kind companion, thou reap’st what thou hast sown.
Hast never silent hours, and minutes all too long,
And a deal of sad reflection, and wailing instead of song?
There’s Sarah, and Eliza, and Emeline so fair,
And Harriet, and Susan, and she with curling hair!
Thine eyes are sadly blinded, but yet thou mayest see
Six true, and comely maidens sitting upon the tree;
Approach that tree with caution, then up it boldly climb,
And seize the one thou lovest, nor care for space, or time!
Then bear her to the greenwood, and build for her a bower,
And give her what she asketh, jewel, or bird, or flower—
And bring the fife, and trumpet, and beat upon the drum—
And bid the world Goodmorrow, and go to glory home!
3.6k
In long lasting fortitude is the fight of the astute.
A lot of effort is made towards the war of the moral.
And a race towards life is the route.
Preparing the endless fit of strength of all.
There is he who is choosing his fate.
Working hard despite all opposers’ bait.
There is he who is choosing life.
Working hard despite all opposers’ strife.
Lost in the dirt, seeking out of the ruse.
Forced towards the light, brighter and rife.
No letting up despite the refuse.
Clean is the proud, and happy, the player of the flute.
A rite of passage for all is the praise of the immortal.
War is the only dispute
Death is not fatal.
The renegade does not enter the gate.
He is stuck outside the city, and left without state.
The renegade does not know his wife.
He is stuck at heart and can’t even play a fife.
In the dirt he is and is with a lot of abuse.
He cannot escape the knife.
Cut, cutting up despite the accuse.
Reality is but the face of cute.
Subjected to falsified doctrine and the immoral.
It is callous and as rotten fruit.
Moxie exists with everyone no matter how small.
Can the one who is happy learn to hate?
Only he or she can solve this debate.
Finally the long absent sky above the Alewife.
Can’t say that I have seen such teeming wildlife...
Swimming in a sea of its Muse.
The lowly continue their sighs
But I do proudly diffuse.
.This plight of mine is hard to toot.
Exemplified by my emphasis on the astral.
With which I dress in an armoured suit.
So my enemies do not mute my oral.
and the skies do tell in high rate,
How esteemed they are on time and ne’er late.
But giving ever virtuous despite
All those dead or dying, without prospect of afterlife.
It is their way to choose:
The dark abyss of guise,
(or) The gentle river of blue
For now I do keep silent, But still I commute,
With those of higher propositions and goal,
So I do instill thyself a deeper root.
In the waterbed truly formal.
Those who truth ‘I do navigate’
and those of lies ‘I do alienate’
At a loss O’ man or mesmerize,
Work harder on thoughts than just plagiarize.
The foes of old are still and sleuth
I show them love and they in lies are baptized
Tradition is there with purpose, don’t misuse.
I see to it the wise stay wise,
For better they will strategize.
And the unwise, wisdom they will pursue.
Giving them their much needed paradise.
And the lost I will use.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:53 AM UTC
He thought he saw an Elephant
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
"At length I realize," he said,
"The bitterness of life!"
He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister's Husband's Niece.
"Unless you leave this house," he said,
"I'll send for the police!"
he thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
"The one thing I regret," he said,
"Is that it cannot speak!"
He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk
Descending from the bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus.
"If this should stay to dine," he said,
"There won't be much for us!"
He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a Coffee-mill:
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
"Were I to swallow this," he said,
"I should be very ill!"
He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
"Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing!
It's waiting to be fed!"
3.2k
There was a vicar from Fife
Who never took a wife
Instead he toyed
With a choir boy
And buggered him up for life
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
He thought he saw an Elephant,
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
'At length I realise,' he said,
The bitterness of Life!'
He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister's Husband's Niece.
'Unless you leave this house,' he said,
"I'll send for the Police!'
He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
'The one thing I regret,' he said,
'Is that it cannot speak!'
He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk
Descending from the bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus.
'If this should stay to dine,' he said,
'There won't be much for us!'
He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a coffee-mill:
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
'Were I to swallow this,' he said,
'I should be very ill!'
He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
'Poor thing,' he said, 'poor silly thing!
It's waiting to be fed!'
He thought he saw an Albatross
That fluttered round the lamp:
He looked again, and found it was
A Penny-Postage Stamp.
'You'd best be getting home,' he said:
'The nights are very damp!'
He thought he saw a Garden-Door
That opened with a key:
He looked again, and found it was
A Double Rule of Three:
'And all its mystery,' he said,
'Is clear as day to me!'
He thought he saw a Argument
That proved he was the Pope:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bar of Mottled Soap.
'A fact so dread,' he faintly said,
'Extinguishes all hope!'
2.8k
The world is resting without sound or motion,
Behind the apple tree the sun goes down
Painting with fire the spires and the windows
In the elm-shaded town.
Beyond the calm Connecticut the hills lie
Silvered with haze as fruits still fresh with bloom,
The swallows weave in flight across the zenith
On an aerial loom.
Into the garden peace comes back with twilight,
Peace that since noon had left the purple phlox,
The heavy-headed asters, the late roses
And swaying hollyhocks.
For at high-noon I heard from this same garden
The far-off murmur as when many come;
Up from the village surged the blind and beating
Red music of a drum;
And the hysterical sharp fife that shattered
The brittle autumn air,
While they came, the young men marching
Past the village square. . . .
Across the calm Connecticut the hills change
To violet, the veils of dusk are deep —
Earth takes her children’s many sorrows calmly
And stills herself to sleep.
2.6k
I shall return again; I shall return
To laugh and love and watch with wonder-eyes
At golden noon the forest fires burn,
Wafting their blue-black smoke to sapphire skies.
I shall return to loiter by the streams
That bathe the brown blades of the bending grasses,
And realize once more my thousand dreams
Of waters rushing down the mountain passes.
I shall return to hear the fiddle and fife
Of village dances, dear delicious tunes
That stir the hidden depths of native life,
Stray melodies of dim remembered runes.
I shall return, I shall return again,
To ease my mind of long, long years of pain.
2.5k
Soup should be heralded with a mellow horn,
Blowing clear notes of gold against the stars;
Strange entrees with a jangle of glass bars
Fantastically alive with subtle scorn;
Fish, by a plopping, gurgling rush of waters,
Clear, vibrant waters, beautifully austere;
Roast, with a thunder of drums to stun the ear,
A screaming fife, a voice from ancient slaughters!
Over the salad let the woodwinds moan;
Then the green silence of many watercresses;
Dessert, a balalaika, strummed alone;
Coffee, a slow, low singing no passion stresses;
Such are my thoughts as -- clang! crash! bang! -- I brood
And gorge the sticky mess these fools call food!
2.3k
Mark this spot on the sun. Do it now.
You have your east minus west and the dead skin from mummified snow...
you must be one of those
Ancient stones, I skip across the altar.
Would you now be altered -
to call forth the fifth drum, the first fife and the long drone ?
If not, do this... shift your weight
to your better angels
and hum -
Some lung-free dirge
in the Demi-corona
of your obstinate
tongue ?
Your purple transcendental flying cow...bovine divine and howitzer quiet -
Shuns the fundamental hopscotch,
the thatch latch and the Kumquat
So surely
there is time enough to
thumb dots
Where your third eye
was last caught
seeming.
Mark my words, or become lost. Do it now.
Or Knot.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
the girl in room five fifteen
the royal roach motel
sitting with her box of crackers
in the setting sun
most of the time shes focused on the path
to the next drama free dream
but tonight shes putting on that red dress
and fixing up a confused face to put on
and picking up the keys to the kingdom
she strolls out the door
and up on the avenue
shes a smile to thouse she endears
shes a shadow to thouse who dont
remember the first lesson of the road
you cant succeed till you have utterly failed
so i play her a soft song cause i know it must hurt
to be on that bitter betrayal with no way home
she toils into the night hunched over the table
to create a boxer to fight her demons for her
she makes him out of cardboard
and pictures pasted from magazines
but she is quick to judge
and kicks him out before he can say a word
so he sits quietly at the greyhound station
and crumbles slowly into his pretend memories
the girl in fife fifteen
royal roach motel
up on colorado boulevard
eating her crackers in the setting sun
waiting for her prince to rescue her
but he caught a train
and now hes in the california mountains
trying to be a better hippy
she knows she has nothing left but
the crackers
and the setting sun
i think thats a terrible way to live
but im not the one looking for perfection
in the baubles from the gutters
of colfax avenue
so glad left all that misery behind
goodnight my spanish bride of the winter
fare thee well
hope you find your kingdom
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
There was an old person of Fife,
Who was greatly disgusted with life;
They sang him a ballad,
And fed him on salad,
Which cured that old person of Fife.
2.2k
"The thane of fife had a wife,
And where is she now?"
...She's dead,
...She's dead,
...She's dead,
And now she's in heaven or hell,
Probably hell.
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 2:01 PM UTC
Familial connectedness once again balances upon the brink of severed reconciliation.
I regret those detachments of which I had no accurate knowledge, and I have come to realise that those precious smells of nocturnal celebration far surpass the Scottish occasion of Hogmanay.
The East coast of Scotland will never cast aside her conscious awareness of masonic peculiarity.
So, I proclaim that our significance and identity transcend steel constructs which span the treacherous marine pathways of The Forth.
Did you happen to see the most beautiful girl amidst the smoky atmosphere in Yoker?
Snowflakes will continue to fall in silence over Fife hills, as the wisdom of Jimmy's grey hair calmly submits to a kaleidoscopic inevitability.
Listen, my friend, because this is important: we will always be related to detachment.
Sit comfortably, with tears in your eyes, because our roots will surprise us in the Great Finale.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
I've been wandering around, like a waltzing matilda.
From Fife in the lowlands, to the cliffs of St. Kilda.
Carrying my life, and all that it wills
Appalachia and plains, to the mighty Black Hills.
Trekking so far, exploring the Earth
Miles away, from the place of my birth.
From the land of the Scots, to the land of the Sioux
From familiar homes, to the places so new.
I'm wandering around, with so much to do.
In the land of the Gaels, to the land of Lakota,
I'm slinging around, like a waltzing matilda.
Oct 14, 2020
Oct 14, 2020 at 12:36 PM UTC
On the idle hill of summer,
Sleepy with the flow of streams,
Far I hear the steady drummer
Drumming like a noise in dreams.
Far and near and low and louder
On the roads of earth go by,
Dear to friends and food for powder,
Soldiers marching, all to die.
East and west on fields forgotten
Bleach the bones of comrades slain,
Lovely lads and dead and rotten;
None that go return again.
Far the calling bugles hollo,
High the screaming fife replies,
Gay the files of scarlet follow:
Woman bore me, I will rise.
1.7k
By Arcassin and Elizabeth
AB:
Flowers blossom,
And sky is bluer than the ocean,
And although it reflects,
We can never witness the motion,
Swimming in the sea of forgotten dreams,
To let go bad memories,
Holy treasons the enemy,
Over lapping actuality,
ES:
Take the beauty of purity,
God's pristine waters,
And cleanse the betrayals trace,
A new beginning for our world,
The dreams of past days again recalled,,
In this our florid wonderland,
Indigo streams bringing,
Divinity unto man,
AB:
Desires to be rulers of the land,
But not enough cargo on the ship,
Tracing footsteps back to endeavors,
Gods creations like wool and leather,
There will be a forever,
Sweat pouring from your head,
And little red slippers,
theres No place like home,
Figures,
ES:
Come together all of planet,
Let one design be in mind,
Share and share alike,
Make of God's realm on Earth,
A perfect reside of care,
Toil for the hearth's fold,
Put to bed the weighty anchor,
Of man's disloyal fife,
AB:
And when it all has reached its peak,
A set to sight on fleek,
If anything , I'd give away my only soul,
Just to save these families,
From the heavens down to the trees,
Everything has means,
Saving purity for one,
Exactly acquired two things,
ES:
To breach the storms,
For good to prevail,
All begin of oneness to other,
Nature's orb configured with man,
Co-existences yielding a field,
Of God's pureness,
The flower's dream retraced,
For our world clan.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
(In Memory of J. W. T. Jr.)
He was a soldier in that fight
Where there is neither flag nor drum,
And without sound of musketry
The stealthy foemen come.
Year in, year out, by day and night
They forced him to a slow retreat,
And for his gallant fight alone
No fife was blown, and no drum beat.
In winter fog, in gathering mist
The gray grim battle had its end—
And at the very last we knew
His enemy had turned his friend.
1.6k
On the idle hill of summer,
Sleepy with the flow of streams,
Far I hear the steady drummer
Drumming like a noise in dreams.
Far and near and low and louder
On the roads of earth go by,
Dear to friends and food for powder,
Soldiers marching, all to die.
East and west on fields forgotten
Bleach the bones of comrades slain,
Lovely lads and dead and rotten;
None that go return again.
Far the calling bugles hollo,
High the screaming fife replies,
Gay the files of scarlet follow:
Woman bore me, I will rise.
1.5k