"gilbert" poems
I'll go along with the thought, 'work makes you strong' just as long as I can
but,
sometimes, I feel pooped and can't jump through the hoops and that's when the dreaming kicks in for this man.
I spin in the frame of life's arcade type game and I'm lost in the wheels,
it feels
like,
riding a bike and not watching the street but meeting the idols I'd most like to meet,
like,
Gulliver,Gilbert and Sullivan,Jimmy Durante,Popeye the sailor and the Tailor of Gloucester,
lost in the throng and unaware of time carrying on,I get older,no wiser,no miser am I,
I give my dreams freely to those I love dearly.
This arcade game plays on though the moment is lost, and reality arrives if only to remind me, that life goes along and in it you'll find me,playing the machines,winning more dreams,sailing through the streams of unconsciousness.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 5:00 AM UTC
Southward with fleet of ice
Sailed the corsair Death;
Wild and gast blew the blast,
And the east-wind was his breath.
His lordly ships of ice
Glisten in the sun;
On each side, like pennons wide,
Flashing crystal streamlets run.
His sails of white sea-mist
Dripped with silver rain;
But where he passed there were cast
Leaden shadows o’er the main.
Eastward from Campobello
Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed;
Three days or more seaward he bore,
Then, alas! the land-wind failed.
Alas! the land-wind failed,
And ice-cold grew the night;
And nevermore, on sea or shore,
Should Sir Humphrey see the light.
He sat upon the deck,
The Book was in his hand;
“Do not fear! Heaven is as near,”
He said, “by water as by land!”
In the first watch of the night,
Without a signal’s sound,
Out of the sea, mysteriously,
The fleet of Death rose all around.
The moon and the evening star
Were hanging in the shrouds;
Every mast, as it passed,
Seemed to rake the passing clouds.
They grappled with their prize,
At midnight black and cold!
As of a rock was the shock;
Heavily the ground-swell rolled.
Southward through day and dark,
They drift in cold embrace,
With mist and rain, o’er the open main;
Yet there seems no change of place.
Southward, forever southward,
They drift through dark and day;
And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream
Sinking, vanish all away.
1.7k
"Have you a working pulse?"
he asks of his petunias.
"...he went away cold as a snowball!"
he tells his gladioli.
They positively beamed at him.
"Oh yes...oh yes. . ."
he pontificates
"Flowers like Shakespeare
best!"
"...especially PERICLES
& other minor plays
rather than the great Dane
or say OTHELLO!"
"The herbs prefer
Gilbert & Sullivan!"
"But, spoken:
not sung!"
"...poor wandering one..."
"Or sometimes a little
dash of Noël Coward!"
"...what compulsion compels them and
who the hell tells them..!"
What could I say?
His voice produced
such a fecundity
such a fertility
that his word
could not be doubted.
"Oh yes...oh yes
plants like to be
spoken to, but:
prefer a little culture.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
i heard your clear deep
voice (singin’)
last year in
evening san antone
bleeding from truckstop P.A.
where i bought cactus burritos &
1 basket
heavensent peaches &
thanked you
for ev’ry one b/c only
someone like you could send a gift
so humble
.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 11:55 AM UTC
President of the Republic of Germany's Presidential
Security Council President 150 (1973) (5) President.
This operation and her long legs in the stomach
of horses. This is very clear, especially
in Latin America, Europe, Russia and Spain,
and in Canada, the prostitutes and dogs
are essential for Mexico. 1, What are you doing?
According to Adam Clark, women in the São Samar
and all the Yogis are women, women
and children in Africa, Asia and South America,
Germany and England, Gilbert and George.
In the United States, Russia is good. Americans
want to live in Canada, and Great Britain.
About two thirds of Catholics in San Francisco,
China, Russia, South Korea, and the USA.
Then I'll enter the dogs. Type of songs not written 1.
Latin American products in Latin America.
Spain, Wales, bull by Alice. From the foundation
of the world, he was born in the largest area
of the world to study and study John's leaders.
I said. Out of control. There is no competition.
France, on the second day. In addition
to the prostitutes and the elderly Muslims,
in the windows they are given comfort
in adultery. Many companies in Jamaica
can express their feelings to Guinea.
These are green geese. His mother Mattie.
So Georgia. (5) It is important to add
the 1292 standard modes in the message,
and a TV show is found. Asian countries
in the Americas and Africa, African and Latin
American prostitutes, from Germany, Yugoslavia,
Denmark, prostitutes and more prostitutes.
Vegetables. In a comedy, Oustiin's family
are prostitutes and prostitutes; Within 150 hours
in the city, United Nations Security Council
(5), 1973 (1973), Executive Director (5).
The information is contained in the robot
robot center. Open the next part of the tree.
I also said in Pittsburgh: "You are not listening
to me,
as a ********** 1, a maid and a horse." This list
is incomplete. In the United States, Europe,
Russia, Spain, Canada and European slums,
old and advanced technologies. The items returned
to the Swiss Express Pond were from the port.
Of course, like a dog and others.
Prison or Russian court? There are many
benefits to Giza the Robot and Sarah
Barrow in the Middle Valley 2 to 2, 2.
In the Middle East, there are many benefits
for the team and many others. The fish
in the grass. There are waters in Latin
America, West Africa, Asia, the Congo,
England, Germany, and Assisi, which
are collected on the moon along
with different cultures of different breeds.
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 9:13 PM UTC
Acting like an accident waiting to happen.
They unprotected me and left me for dead while I was napping.
Torchered by their lies.
I can see through their hip disguise.
Again they act like the lying cheats they are.
It is to bad they have beaten up old car.
Trying to help them act to torcher.
In the heat another scorcher.
For *** lies, and video tape.
They can go on “Gilbert’s” grape.
My neighbors lie and so they act self righteous.
Then they then act to destroy my life with no bias.
No one will help.
I am here alone with the enemy about to melt.
That is all I can say.
Maybe one day they will pay!
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 3:34 PM UTC
Dora! People with big noses are beautiful!
Anyway, Dora of the Noble Nose
as a single rose
as a solitary diamond
so brilliantly in love with Gilbert!
Married
and years later...
She kept the paper folded
in her jewelry drawer...
the paper from the hospital
that said...
she was pregnant!
With you!
in her jewelry drawer!
Joan, My friend
It was you
she kept as folded treasure
till her death at 82
I read your Kaddish, Dora
I watch the shovels fly
as stones collect like children of the prayers
upon your grave
Thank God, Joanie!
You have no heir
At grief’s end
there’s no one left...
to die of love’s enfolding
leaving everything
to...
Joanie Treasure!
Joanie Only!
To my friend, her mother, and father
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 10:55 AM UTC
"The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese." — Gilbert K. Chesterton
Weren't meant to be,
you said.
Lame excuse.
Like chocolate and cheese,
you said.
But we get to choose.
We are people,
sure,
and we cannot change
who we are.
But we can change how we are.
Opposites attract and likes repel
but there is covalence,
too,
like things that share.
So you are the chocolate,
for you are sweeter than I,
and I will be the cheese-
of the cream variety,
rich like you,
and spreadable, flexible,
and that way we
can make it work.
There is no need
for this awful silence
between you and me.
Silence is beautiful
but it is neither here nor there.
We do what we like.
We'll break it.
Just like we'll break
the rule
of chocolate and cheese.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
items
title - author - (read / unread)
songs of war
and peace -
afghan women's poetry
edited by sayd bahodine majrouh
(yes)
the cantos of
ezra pound
ezra pound
(pending)
the unbearable
lightness of being
milan kundera
(yes, albeit
given to someone)
the man in the
high castle
philip k. ****
(yes, "
" " ")
do androids dream
of electric sheep
"
men without women
ernest hemingway
(yes)
a moveable feast
ernest "
(yes)
for whom the bell tolls
ernest "
(partially, university
assignment)
a passage to india
e. m. forster
(no, i prefer the actual cuisine,
dash of cinnamon, cumin
cloves, cardamon and i just
read: a short-cut to india)
the outsider
albert camus
(yes, lost the book somewhere)
frankenstein
mary shelley
(yes)
aesop's fables
aesop
(yes, good enough
for zeno to
paradox achilles
with the turtle, i.e.
aesop's fables
were primarily based
on the behaviour of animals)
dr. jeckyl & mr. hyde
r. l. stevenson
(no, a literary
version of the beatles'
yesterday, conjuring
for money anyway)
iron in the soul
jean-paul sartre
(the other two titles
of the human comedy
i don't remember;
i have all respect for
sartre the novelist -
but none as a philosopher)
treasure island
r. l. stevenson
(yes)
i'm the king of the castle
susan hill
(yes)
jane eyre
charlotte brontë
(yes)
on the road
jack kerouac
(yes)
the bell jar
sylvia plath
(yes)
fiesta: the sun also rises
ernest hemingway
(yes)
the ordeal of gilbert pinfold
evelyn waugh
(yes)
five plays
chekov
(stuck to shakespeare
and russian
existential macabre)
the existential imagination
edited by frederick
r. karl & leo hamalian
(yes, esp. the extract
about socrates)
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
Mr Dodd paid a visit
to the man in the tree;
he asked the man to tell
of the sights he could see.
The squat little man—
who spent his life behind leaves—
shook a bough by Mr Dodd and said
“You would never believe.”
“But why would you live alone in that tree?”
asked old Dodd, and he began to climb a branch.
But the man in the tree lazily
warned Dodd to stand
Where he stood—
from a high-up limb, the man’s voice
wandered down to Dodd’s ears.
“There is a road that slices
Through miles of fields,
herds of cows and small houses,
and leads to a hulking metal city
where lines of gloomy people trickle out.”
Back in his cottage, Mr Dodd dreamt
of the road and the fields and the cows;
but the city unsettled his sleep,
and he woke at last knowing how
Little he knew.
Then Dodd made breakfast for the millionth time:
a buttery bun and some cornflower tea—
he couldn’t smile at the noise of the kids in the town.
He went through the day in his usual way:
he tapped on his xylophone,
he painted his thousandth self-portrait,
he read from his book in a slow monotone.
After lunch he liked to sit in his garden
and smoke from his chestnut pipe
with the eight-inch hickory handle
and the green green herbs inside.
The sunlight pressed the smoky stink
into the weave of Dodd’s vest
When Gilbert—Dodd’s groundskeep—appeared,
seeming so distressed.
“Your sunflowers’ stems have all broke!” breathed Gil;
“I hit them with the mower—”
Mr Dodd saw the sunless stems
and nervous Gilbert cowered.
But Dodd looked Gil straight in the eye
and asked him a question instead:
“Have you ever seen the city, old Gil?”
“I only heard tell,” the relieved Gil said,
“But what I’ve heard is that they that go
can’t come back alive.”
Dodd sent Gil home, who leaving said:
“I also mowed over a gopher; I think he might have died.”
The next day, Dodd went back
to the man in the tree.
“Hello again, Dodd” drawled the voice from the leaves.
“I’m leaving today for the city,”
Spoke Dodd towards the voice.
“But how much nicer it might be to stay
with me in my tree; you could see everything—
all here for you on display.”
No, Mr Dodd thought better of it—
he threw his pack over his shoulder,
nervous of what's new and unknown
and the thought that his life here was over.
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 12:20 PM UTC
The most painful experience
Isn't losing someone
It's the moment you realize
You've lost yourself
- Elena Gilbert
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 5:02 AM UTC
Ode to My Hero (Me)
to be sung by Donald Trump
with apologies to Gilbert & Sullivan's
H.M.S Pinafore
As a callow youth I served a term
as Senior VP of my Daddy's firm
His moxie and his money so suited me
that now I am the ruler of the Trump fam'ly
When asked a question, my Golden Rule
is to bluster loud and flaunt my cool,
And this evasion so well suits me
that I've become the master of chicanery.
With legal suits, I've made so free
that all my smitten lenders bow down to me
For I pay my lawyers so liberally
that I never lose a dollar on a bankruptcy.
If now and then my luck runs out
I've buckets of money from my TV route,
And since my ******* up name is Gold
the money keeps a 'comin from the young and old.
For my great fame they pay and pay
and their paltry savings they fling away
on Trump U studies they're sure to find, will empty their wallets, not fill their mind.
So listen and learn from my Trumpery
and join white men who hate Hillary
They holler hosannas for their hero DonT, though for Trump adulation they can't beat me!
My heads not troubled by policy woes
'cause I learn all I want at beauty shows
I've put up very well with my three wives,
my yachts & my mansions & my gambling dives.
I've exalted myself unsparingly
and tossed off little lies with impunity
Let fey foes fault me as vain & mean,
their rightful envy leaves me quite serene.
With my big mouth and red regal head
I've clobbered all my rivals until they bled
With frank contempt I dissed Jeb B
bashed Carson & Kasich and Ted's lady.
There's hardly a Republican left to fight
and, in wimpy Dems, I inspire fright
while fearful folks seek my mighty arm
to shield them all from ISIS harm.
Now I've come to the end of this very fine Ode
to march with pride on the Presidential Road
For my boundless bluster's so elevated me
that now I am the ruler of the GOP.
If another Trump you aspire to be,
you must never, never fret about decency.
Just stiff the losers and brag like me,
and you may be the Grand Old Party's nominee.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
Does Queenie love Kingman?
Give it windfury.
Be my magnetic field.
The king and queen are but constructs
Roles they are forced into
Coercion. Co-optation. Join us
Tell us what to think
Tell us - tell them - how to love.
I won't listen as fully as the rest
I make my own definitions.
Succotash. Ketchup. Gluten.
Someone forgot the curds
Mark my words, Gilbert
The bras and kets will multiply tonight
Let's be a scalar
Let's make some sense of
the abstractions
Only
to
be
broken
again?
I crave not sense
I crave the electromagnetic field
Sense is the king
I want the prince
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
My hands, my knees.
Look at it jolting out of me,
Cavemen clubs with nowhere to go.
The passageway now hurts, pushing out
Whatever that went in.
Liquid, solid, knives,
Lies, lies, lies, grievances.
The forcing, the cough, the blow
Right here, into the middle of my stomach.
The stupid things I do sometimes
Just to feed the pressure.
The oil greases over me,
It’s hard enough to breathe in here.
Hear hear, I speak. It is you I want.
Mr. Grape’s hair I gently stroke away in that trailer,
His lips I gently kiss to an ******
Right there, in my neck,
Between the pulsating veins,
The urge hissing on my tongue.
That’s where you must belong always.
Mamma, won’t you get off
Your fat back and your fat haunch,
Off that sweaty couch, off that shaky little house
And get me out of this god-forsaken land?
Shalini Nayar
© 2004
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC
You are the Marshmallow to my Lilipad (How I Met Your Mother’s cutest couple)
You are the Jim to my Pam (The Office’s cutest couple)
You are the Gilbert to my Anne (Anne of Green Gables cutest couple)
You are the Harry to my Ginny (Harry Potter’s cutest couple)
You are the Hans to my Leia (Star Wars’ cutest couple)
You are
mine.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 3:15 AM UTC
I can make two paces forward, one to the side,
must win the day if you're to be my bride,
you gave me a garter on the edge of my lance,
I salute you whilst you watch my horse prance.
The castle alongside me was my refuge,
prizes of victory and esteem were huge,
my adversary glared at me with nasty hate,
I'd surveyed the scene, arrived in the lists late.
Bois - Gilbert looked familiar, reminded me of Justin G,
my pen is my sword, there was an air of finality,
we galloped towards each other, words in hand,
only room for one of us in my fair lady's land.
I will celebrate my victory with a flowing cup,
when I made contact with his body - he didn't get up.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 7:08 AM UTC
I read a poem today by Jack Gilbert. It was called
“Failing and Flying”
and sold me a new paradigm.
He drew an analogy between Icarus’ skyfall
and divorce. Remember Icarus?
He flew with handcrafted wings high into the sky.
His elation was so great it melted his wings
and he tumbled to his death in the sea.
It feels tragic, that he flew only to fall; just like marriage feels tragic
when love takes wing only to crash and burn.
But as Jack Gilbert wrote, “anything worth doing
is worth doing badly….
…Icarus was not failing as he fell, but just coming to the end
of his triumph.”
He described the last fond moments with his wife,
and concluded his marriage was not a mistake.
I often weep for awful events in my marriage; but the marriage itself
is no mistake.
It’s my triumph.
I really don’t want to fly only to fall. But if I must,
our flight was never a mistake.
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 5:41 PM UTC
For best effect, the following piece should be read/sung to the rhythm of the lines “With cat-like tread, Upon our prey we steal” from “With cat-like tread” in Gilbert & Sullivan’s Pirates of Penzance:
With cat-like tread,
Upon a hot tin roof,
Crossing the road,
To see the other side.
No sound at all,
Not even from a mouse,
Searching about,
Without a periscope.
But infrared,
Within our night-time scopes,
Eyeing the wolf,
Howling up to the moon.
Not made of cheese,
But maybe one will see,
The smiling face,
Of Maggie my own cow.
You did not know,
That I once had a cow,
But then she went,
And jumped up on the moon!
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 7:56 PM UTC
I feel like every time I talk about him,
I use the wrong word.
When I say ******
I feel like I'm giving him a paper bag,
Under which he can hide,
And distance himself from what he's done.
It feels like a type of absolution.
His name is Bryan.
He is a six foot and two inches tall monster,
That I wish lived only in my dreams.
He rides a motorcycle,
Has a dog named Gilbert,
And smokes unfiltered camels.
And I was wrong.
He is not a monster,
He is a person.
And he is not just a stupid boy,
He is a man.
And he is not just the generic term ******
He is a human being who is seriously ****** up and I'm not going to give him the privilege of having his name withheld from my story.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
(The poem can be sung to the melody of Gilbert and Sullivan's song "A Policeman's Lot Is Not a Happy One.")
When a president's completely off his rocker
--Off his rocker--
And has no sense of how to right his wrongs,
--Right his wrongs--
The fact that people like him is a shocker,
--Is a shocker--
For they should know he's not where he belongs
--He belongs.
A leader should be honest and insightful
--'Nest insightful--
And not behave as though he is a kid.
--Is a kid--
But when he is delusional and spiteful--
--'Nal and spiteful--
We know that he's completely flipped his lid--
--Flipped his lid.
When a president behaves worse than a kid,
--Than a kid--
We know that he's completely flipped his lid
--Flipped his lid.
When a leader feels that global warming's silly--
--Warming's silly--
And even wants to nuke a hurricane,
--Hurricane--
And everything he does is willy-nilly,
--Willy-nilly--
One questions what's going on inside his brain
--'Nside his brain.
When everything he says is senseless chatter--
--Senseless chatter--
And his super ego's vanquished by his id--
--By his id--
People wonder what the hell's the matter,
--Hell's the matter--
For certainly the man has flipped his lid
--Flipped his lid.
When a president behaves worse than a kid
--Than a kid--
We know that he's completely flipped his lid
--Flipped his lid.
-by Bob B (8-27-19)
Aug 27, 2019
Aug 27, 2019 at 9:38 AM UTC
I’m called Madam Budget Cut, hard-edged Ms. Bludgeon ****
Slashing each piece of the pie.
But still I the budget gut, both guns and butter cut,
Balance the budget or die!
I’ve a tax for tobacco, and (pols think I’m whacko),
I’m slashing their projects with knives.
No ribbons for cutting, no grants for abutting
Old properties owned by their wives.
I’ve cross-the-board fixes, I’ve “no ways” and “nixes”,
I’ve silly assumptions and worse.
I consolidate functions, ignore court injunctions
Protecting the power of the purse.
I’ve early-out options, I propose late adoptions
Of programs designed by the Feds.
I close institutions, slow down restitutions,
And limit the number of beds.
I fire those who sign up
The thousands who line up
For Medicaid, welfare and such.
I’ve April surprises, with merit pay prizes
For staff who don’t argue too much.
So go with my uppercut,
Knock out the sludge, and gut,
Budgets should never be shy.
So we’ll cut, snip and suture,
Then look toward the future,
And pray that the patient won’t die!
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 6:06 PM UTC
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Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 4:19 AM UTC
Spoiled her appetite in the ruins of Italia
Deemed devotion in a town in India
Found balance in the two-thousand-mile-long Indonesia
To heartily ask for Grace and refresh her life's page
That is what Liz Gilbert did
What can I say, it is a brave act indeed
I, too, want to explore this wonderful abode
As to marvel the life from the mighty Above
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 11:18 PM UTC
At Tintern Abbey I set my bait
To fish in the River Wye,
I’d only been an hour, I swear
When the girl came floating by,
Her dress spread out, a fine brocade
And some lace about her hair,
I almost drowned when I reeled her in
And fell in the river there.
I pulled her up on the river bank
And she lay, and softly sighed,
I felt a strange relief, and thanked
The Lord, I thought she’d died.
But her eyelids gave a flutter then
And she looked at me apace,
‘Would you be one of the Abbot’s men?
There’s no mark upon your face.’
‘I only came to fish,’ I said,
‘And I like what I have caught.’
The look she gave me made me blush
For it set my jest at naught.
‘The Abbot Gilbert lies within
By his candle, book and prayer,
The pestilence has found his sin
For he knows, he’s dying there.’
I thought her speech was quaint and old
Like an echo, lost in time,
I thought, ‘I’ve never seen one so fair,
If only she was mine!’
But she sat, and moved away from me
And she said, ‘You mustn’t touch,
For death has stained this fine country,
It may have you in its clutch.’
‘But I only came to fish,’ I said,
And, ‘there’s nothing wrong with me;
Yet you float down the River Wye
And will end up in the sea.’
‘I chose the cleansing waters so
To avoid the pestilence,
The dead lie in the fields about
And it spares no eminence.’
‘My husband, Guy Fitzherbert bleeds
In the Abbey’s ante-room,
His pilgrimage denied his needs
And the Lord will take him soon.’
I stared at Tintern Abbey’s shell
Standing gaunt against the sky,
‘You must be catching a fever,
We must go and get you dry.’
‘I needs must be on my way again,
Good sir, I wish you well,
But leave this place if you’d rather live
Than enter the gates of Hell.’
My mind caught at some thing she said
And a thought, then so sublime,
I asked the girl, ‘What year is this…?’
‘Thirteen forty-nine!’
David Lewis Paget
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 5:37 AM UTC