"troop" poems - Hello Poetry

"troop" poems

I SAY that Roger Casement Did what he had to do. He died upon the gallows, But that is nothing new. Afraid they might be beaten Before the bench of Time, They turned a trick by forgery And blackened his good name. A perjurer stood ready To prove their forgery true; They gave it out to all the world, And that is something new; For Spring Rice had to whisper it, Being their Ambassador, And then the speakers got it And writers by the score. Come Tom and **** come all the troop That cried it far and wide, Come from the forger and his desk, Desert the perjurer's side; Come speak your bit in public That some amends be made To this most gallant gentleman That is in quicklime laid.

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14.6k

William Butler Yeats

I SAY that Roger Casement Did what he had to do. He died upon the gallows, But that is nothing new. Afraid they might be beaten Before the bench of Time, They turned a trick by forgery And blackened his good name. A perjurer stood ready To prove their forgery true; They gave it out to all the world, And that is something new; For Spring Rice had to whisper it, Being their Ambassador, And then the speakers got it And writers by the score. Come Tom and **** come all the troop That cried it far and wide, Come from the forger and his desk, Desert the perjurer's side; Come speak your bit in public That some amends be made To this most gallant gentleman That is in quicklime laid.

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Mankind began as a troop animal. Living amongst its own kind. Stepping out of the trees onto the Savanna. Mankind became a wander, small family bands bound by blood. Millenia past, mankind developed farming and the wanderer settled down. Small wandering groups became small farming villages. Small farming villages became larger farming villages, then small towns. Small towns became larger towns inhabited by hundreds. Larger towns grew to small cities inhabited by thousands. Agriculture and technology developed to sustain and enhance such growth. Cities evolved into city states, then becoming small countries inhabited by hundreds of thousands. Finally today we have countries inhabited by hundreds of millions. All along this path battles and wars, killing millions along the way, till today we have weapons that can wipe out us all. The salvation of mankind and the natural progression of things is global organization, global integration. The globe is being wired with its own global neural net, a global brain if you will. One world controlling itself. One world that will not nuke itself! The salvation of us all.

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Dec 2, 2016

Dec 2, 2016 at 8:17 AM UTC

Mankind began as a troop animal. Living amongst its own kind. Stepping out of the trees onto the Savanna. Mankind became a wander, small family bands bound by blood. Millenia past, mankind developed farming and the wanderer settled down. Small wandering groups became small farming villages. Small farming villages became larger farming villages, then small towns. Small towns became larger towns inhabited by hundreds. Larger towns grew to small cities inhabited by thousands. Agriculture and technology developed to sustain and enhance such growth. Cities evolved into city states, then becoming small countries inhabited by hundreds of thousands. Finally today we have countries inhabited by hundreds of millions. All along this path battles and wars, killing millions along the way, till today we have weapons that can wipe out us all. The salvation of mankind and the natural progression of things is global organization, global integration. The globe is being wired with its own global neural net, a global brain if you will. One world controlling itself. One world that will not nuke itself! The salvation of us all.

Continue reading...

All those laughters Are not always real All those faces in a park, Wrinkled and weary, Laugh in a circle, Devoid of happiness, No sign of a crinkle, Eyes without light, Devoid of life. Their happy sadness echoes, On the streets, in apartements, The dismal vibes reach us Yet they emanate the fake sentiments. Stoop a little and evesdrop that circle, They deceive emotions, black and purple, All you hear is a shouting troop, We know the truth of a laughing group.

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Jun 6, 2015

Jun 6, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC

All those laughters Are not always real All those faces in a park, Wrinkled and weary, Laugh in a circle, Devoid of happiness, No sign of a crinkle, Eyes without light, Devoid of life. Their happy sadness echoes, On the streets, in apartements, The dismal vibes reach us Yet they emanate the fake sentiments. Stoop a little and evesdrop that circle, They deceive emotions, black and purple, All you hear is a shouting troop, We know the truth of a laughing group.

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Up and lead the dance of Fate! Lift the song that mortals hate! Tell what rights are ours on earth, Over all of human birth. Swift of foot to avenge are we! He whose hands are clean and pure, Naught our wrath to dread hath he; Calm his cloudless days endure. But the man that seeks to hide Like him (1), his gore-bedewèd hands, Witnesses to them that died, The blood avengers at his side, The Furies' troop forever stands. O'er our victim come begin! Come, the incantation sing, Frantic all and maddening, To the heart a brand of fire, The Furies' hymn, That which claims the senses dim, Tuneless to the gentle lyre, Withering the soul within. The pride of all of human birth, All glorious in the eye of day, Dishonored slowly melts away, Trod down and trampled to the earth, Whene'er our dark-stoled troop advances, Whene'er our feet lead on the dismal dances. For light our footsteps are, And perfect is our might, Awful remembrances of guilt and crime, Implacable to mortal prayer, Far from the gods, unhonored, and heaven's light, We hold our voiceless dwellings dread, All unapproached by living or by dead. What mortal feels not awe, Nor trembles at our name, Hearing our fate-appointed power sublime, Fixed by the eternal law. For old our office, and our fame, Might never yet of its due honors fail, Though 'neath the earth our realm in unsunned regions pale.

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7.6k

Song Of The Furies

Up and lead the dance of Fate! Lift the song that mortals hate! Tell what rights are ours on earth, Over all of human birth. Swift of foot to avenge are we! He whose hands are clean and pure, Naught our wrath to dread hath he; Calm his cloudless days endure. But the man that seeks to hide Like him (1), his gore-bedewèd hands, Witnesses to them that died, The blood avengers at his side, The Furies' troop forever stands. O'er our victim come begin! Come, the incantation sing, Frantic all and maddening, To the heart a brand of fire, The Furies' hymn, That which claims the senses dim, Tuneless to the gentle lyre, Withering the soul within. The pride of all of human birth, All glorious in the eye of day, Dishonored slowly melts away, Trod down and trampled to the earth, Whene'er our dark-stoled troop advances, Whene'er our feet lead on the dismal dances. For light our footsteps are, And perfect is our might, Awful remembrances of guilt and crime, Implacable to mortal prayer, Far from the gods, unhonored, and heaven's light, We hold our voiceless dwellings dread, All unapproached by living or by dead. What mortal feels not awe, Nor trembles at our name, Hearing our fate-appointed power sublime, Fixed by the eternal law. For old our office, and our fame, Might never yet of its due honors fail, Though 'neath the earth our realm in unsunned regions pale.

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Let the bird of loudest lay On the sole Arabian tree, Herald sad and trumpet be, To whose sound chaste wings obey. But thou shrieking harbinger, Foul precurrer of the fiend, Augur of the fever’s end, To this troop come thou not near. From this session interdict Every fowl of tyrant wing Save the eagle, feather’d king: Keep the obsequy so strict. Let the priest in surplice white That defunctive music can, Be the death-divining swan, Lest the requiem lack his right. And thou, treble-dated crow, That thy sable gender mak’st With the breath thou giv’st and tak’st, ‘Mongst our mourners shalt thou go. Here the anthem doth commence:— Love and constancy is dead; Phoenix and the turtle fled In a mutual flame from hence. So they loved, as love in twain Had the essence but in one; Two distincts, division none; Number there in love was slain. Hearts remote, yet not asunder; Distance, and no space was seen ‘Twixt the turtle and his queen: But in them it were a wonder. So between them love did shine, That the turtle saw his right Flaming in the phoenix’ sight; Either was the other’s mine. Property was thus appall’d, That the self was not the same; Single nature’s double name Neither two nor one was call’d. Reason, in itself confounded, Saw division grow together; To themselves yet either neither; Simple were so well compounded, That it cried, ‘How true a twain Seemeth this concordant one! Love hath reason, reason none If what parts can so remain.’ Whereupon it made this threne To the phoenix and the dove, Co-supremes and stars of love, As chorus to their tragic scene. THRENOS Beauty, truth, and rarity, Grace in all simplicity, Here enclosed in cinders lie. Death is now the phoenix’ nest; And the turtle’s loyal breast To eternity doth rest, Leaving no posterity: ’Twas not their infirmity, It was married chastity. Truth may seem, but cannot be; Beauty brag, but ’tis not she; Truth and beauty buried be. To this urn let those repair That are either true or fair; For these dead birds sigh a prayer.

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7.1k

William Shakespeare

The Phoenix And The Turtle

Let the bird of loudest lay On the sole Arabian tree, Herald sad and trumpet be, To whose sound chaste wings obey. But thou shrieking harbinger, Foul precurrer of the fiend, Augur of the fever’s end, To this troop come thou not near. From this session interdict Every fowl of tyrant wing Save the eagle, feather’d king: Keep the obsequy so strict. Let the priest in surplice white That defunctive music can, Be the death-divining swan, Lest the requiem lack his right. And thou, treble-dated crow, That thy sable gender mak’st With the breath thou giv’st and tak’st, ‘Mongst our mourners shalt thou go. Here the anthem doth commence:— Love and constancy is dead; Phoenix and the turtle fled In a mutual flame from hence. So they loved, as love in twain Had the essence but in one; Two distincts, division none; Number there in love was slain. Hearts remote, yet not asunder; Distance, and no space was seen ‘Twixt the turtle and his queen: But in them it were a wonder. So between them love did shine, That the turtle saw his right Flaming in the phoenix’ sight; Either was the other’s mine. Property was thus appall’d, That the self was not the same; Single nature’s double name Neither two nor one was call’d. Reason, in itself confounded, Saw division grow together; To themselves yet either neither; Simple were so well compounded, That it cried, ‘How true a twain Seemeth this concordant one! Love hath reason, reason none If what parts can so remain.’ Whereupon it made this threne To the phoenix and the dove, Co-supremes and stars of love, As chorus to their tragic scene. THRENOS Beauty, truth, and rarity, Grace in all simplicity, Here enclosed in cinders lie. Death is now the phoenix’ nest; And the turtle’s loyal breast To eternity doth rest, Leaving no posterity: ’Twas not their infirmity, It was married chastity. Truth may seem, but cannot be; Beauty brag, but ’tis not she; Truth and beauty buried be. To this urn let those repair That are either true or fair; For these dead birds sigh a prayer.

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Blueberry lemon juice Gangly goose Cruel brew moon Roam Soft lovely Mary Sailor Taylor Your lord, sinking sored Vagon Ford Virginia east coast roast Most test Chest, mess Darling Dublin Idaho, Ioawa Cine noir Lullaby Mistic bee Free my blue at the noon Moaning soon And the ring mostly seen Chase my word Siren fog Heaven myths Lick a lip

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Nov 13, 2012

Nov 13, 2012 at 10:44 PM UTC

The Dublin gangly goose rooster trooper troop

Blueberry lemon juice Gangly goose Cruel brew moon Roam Soft lovely Mary Sailor Taylor Your lord, sinking sored Vagon Ford Virginia east coast roast Most test Chest, mess Darling Dublin Idaho, Ioawa Cine noir Lullaby Mistic bee Free my blue at the noon Moaning soon And the ring mostly seen Chase my word Siren fog Heaven myths Lick a lip

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A ****** of crows, an ostentation of peacocks, a parliament of owls, a knot of frogs, a skulk of foxes, a siege of herons, a paddling of ducks, a charm of finches. This bevy of birds is a vocabulary find, But what can it all mean, In the world of human being? A troop of toddlers, a slurry of students, a gaggle of gentry, a bevy of boys. I am of a mind that in naming of kind Human being is best defined.

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Jul 3, 2012

Jul 3, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC

A Gaggle of Geese

A ****** of crows, an ostentation of peacocks, a parliament of owls, a knot of frogs, a skulk of foxes, a siege of herons, a paddling of ducks, a charm of finches. This bevy of birds is a vocabulary find, But what can it all mean, In the world of human being? A troop of toddlers, a slurry of students, a gaggle of gentry, a bevy of boys. I am of a mind that in naming of kind Human being is best defined.

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today is ****** monday there's one knocking on my front door he is scribbled and bleeding from his forearms, he carries a pigeon on a leash and gets high on hotrod drivers' eyes. i'll give him two pints of hillbilly sugar and a book of voodoo pictures, but he insists upon my daughter and at least 3 lines of coke. instead i hand him a corn on the cob and the number of the girl scout troop up the road, he asks me for one more moose head and although i'm almost out, the sun is still yellow so i pour him a double brandy because today is ****** monday there's one driving naked down a one way street

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Jan 9, 2012

Jan 9, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC

today is ****** monday there's one knocking on my front door he is scribbled and bleeding from his forearms, he carries a pigeon on a leash and gets high on hotrod drivers' eyes. i'll give him two pints of hillbilly sugar and a book of voodoo pictures, but he insists upon my daughter and at least 3 lines of coke. instead i hand him a corn on the cob and the number of the girl scout troop up the road, he asks me for one more moose head and although i'm almost out, the sun is still yellow so i pour him a double brandy because today is ****** monday there's one driving naked down a one way street

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In the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace— Radiant palace—reared its head. In the monarch Thought’s dominion— It stood there! Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair! Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow, (This—all this—was in the olden Time long ago), And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odor went away. Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous windows, saw Spirits moving musically, To a lute’s well-tuned law, Bound about a throne where, sitting (Porphyrogene!) In state his glory well befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen. And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king. But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch’s high estate. (Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow Shall dawn upon him desolate !) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed. And travellers, now, within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms, that move fantastically To a discordant melody, While, like a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh—but smile no more.

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5k

Edgar Allan Poe

The Haunted Palace

In the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace— Radiant palace—reared its head. In the monarch Thought’s dominion— It stood there! Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair! Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow, (This—all this—was in the olden Time long ago), And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odor went away. Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous windows, saw Spirits moving musically, To a lute’s well-tuned law, Bound about a throne where, sitting (Porphyrogene!) In state his glory well befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen. And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king. But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch’s high estate. (Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow Shall dawn upon him desolate !) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed. And travellers, now, within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms, that move fantastically To a discordant melody, While, like a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh—but smile no more.

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I hate the beach I'm eighty six and I hate the beach Hate the sand, not a fan of the surf Face it, I hate the beach Last time I went there I had just turned 18 years old June sixth, Nineteen Hundred Forty Four God, I hate the beach I was in the 5th Regiment Régiment de Maisonneuve and I've never been to a beach since I'm from Verdun, Quebec, Canada Not many beaches around there Thank the lord for that I say We'd been training for six months Operation Overlord it was called We were coming in on troop carriers It was to be a beach head landing I'd never seen a beach before At least not for real Never want to see another We arrived early June 6, 1944 I think I said that already You must forgive me, I'm 86 years old and I hate the beach fourteen thousand Canadian Troops Bursting out of armoured troop ships Like, the young, virile, brahma bulls we were Coming in, all I could hear was the waves I was in front, well...close to the front I remember, there were no birds who ever heard of that? A beach with no birds At least not at this beach I could smell the salt in the air And I knew I could hear the surf And my heart, I could **** well hear that But, no birds, I couldn't hear the birds Gunfire, nope...cannons and mortars But birds and guns, not a sound Weird huh? I remember running forward Always forward, past blocks Wood barricades and barbed wire And bodies, lots of bodies I knew that I knew some of them I just didn't have time to stop And say goodbye, I just ran Emptied my weapon at least once I only know this, because it was empty when I hit the beach God, I hate the beach You know in the movies or in those flowery books where they talk about someone being shot and how "there was a bloom or they're chest flowered red where they were hit" I never saw that, never looked back Just ran forward, saw the "bloom" in their backs Don't like red, or flowers or the beach I don't remember much after that Could still hear my heart That's a good thing, I guess I got tore up good with the wire but I never got shot Never, "bloomed" for anyone A few of my buddies were lost I toast them every year Never at the beach though I hate the beach Wife and kids used to go I never did, never will I remember the 50th anniversary though Wife and kids went back Not me, Went into Montreal to see a ball game Montreal Expos 10, Houston Astros 5 I remember Will Cordero hitting a homer It was the sixth inning, I toasted the hit I thought about that day 50 years before And went back to watching the game I hate the beach My name is Gilles Roquefort I'm eight six years old And I can still feel the sand and taste the salt On a bad day.

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Oct 31, 2012

Oct 31, 2012 at 7:06 PM UTC

I hate the beach ...a recollection of war

I hate the beach I'm eighty six and I hate the beach Hate the sand, not a fan of the surf Face it, I hate the beach Last time I went there I had just turned 18 years old June sixth, Nineteen Hundred Forty Four God, I hate the beach I was in the 5th Regiment Régiment de Maisonneuve and I've never been to a beach since I'm from Verdun, Quebec, Canada Not many beaches around there Thank the lord for that I say We'd been training for six months Operation Overlord it was called We were coming in on troop carriers It was to be a beach head landing I'd never seen a beach before At least not for real Never want to see another We arrived early June 6, 1944 I think I said that already You must forgive me, I'm 86 years old and I hate the beach fourteen thousand Canadian Troops Bursting out of armoured troop ships Like, the young, virile, brahma bulls we were Coming in, all I could hear was the waves I was in front, well...close to the front I remember, there were no birds who ever heard of that? A beach with no birds At least not at this beach I could smell the salt in the air And I knew I could hear the surf And my heart, I could **** well hear that But, no birds, I couldn't hear the birds Gunfire, nope...cannons and mortars But birds and guns, not a sound Weird huh? I remember running forward Always forward, past blocks Wood barricades and barbed wire And bodies, lots of bodies I knew that I knew some of them I just didn't have time to stop And say goodbye, I just ran Emptied my weapon at least once I only know this, because it was empty when I hit the beach God, I hate the beach You know in the movies or in those flowery books where they talk about someone being shot and how "there was a bloom or they're chest flowered red where they were hit" I never saw that, never looked back Just ran forward, saw the "bloom" in their backs Don't like red, or flowers or the beach I don't remember much after that Could still hear my heart That's a good thing, I guess I got tore up good with the wire but I never got shot Never, "bloomed" for anyone A few of my buddies were lost I toast them every year Never at the beach though I hate the beach Wife and kids used to go I never did, never will I remember the 50th anniversary though Wife and kids went back Not me, Went into Montreal to see a ball game Montreal Expos 10, Houston Astros 5 I remember Will Cordero hitting a homer It was the sixth inning, I toasted the hit I thought about that day 50 years before And went back to watching the game I hate the beach My name is Gilles Roquefort I'm eight six years old And I can still feel the sand and taste the salt On a bad day.

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I wanna taste ya, I wanna take you away girl..(away from all the **** shit*2)...all the **** shit..that you gotta (deal wit2)...me girl Yeah..(I wanna taste2)..I wanna (take you away girl*2).(away from all the **** shit*2)..all the **** shit..that you gotta (deal wit 2)...me girl Yeah..Just (deal wit me girl Yeah2)..(just deal wit me2)..(deal wit me2)..(just deal wit me*2)..Shawty.. Yeah.. Deal with me girl so what's the deal girl, what is real girl..what is real love girl,..What is true...What's happening..What's up..wit you..baby me & you..that's what's good.. Uhh, Young Ston Babygirl you need a soulja baby I'll be the whole troop for you if you want me to..girl, I'm willing to do whatever I need to do for you, Yeah baby so..(you believe Dat*2)..Imma be there whenever you need me, best believe Dat Imma treat ya, how you supposed to be treated..(Yeah You best believe girl2)..best believe Yeah..you best believe me. Yeah believe Dat..Uhh Aye..best believe girl..you best believe girl, you best believe Yeah..you best believe me....(best believe Dat, Yeah you best believe girl2)..believe dat.. I won't tell you no lies baby..I will never cheat on ya..(you best believe Dat*2)...believe me..Aye..Baby Yeah.. (I wanna taste you, I wanna take you away girl*2)..away..(from all the **** shit,yeah*2)...that you gotta deal wit..Uhh..,just (deal wit girl 2)...Yeah,.. You (best believe girl2)..I wanna taste you,..I wanna take you away girl..(away from all the **** shit2)..,that you gotta (deal wit2) me girl..(just deal wit me Yeah*2)..Deal wit me girl... I'll protect you like you my Louis Lane boo, baby Yeah believe dat, believe in me, Dat your heart won't be in pieces no more baby & if it is already baby I'll be a mechanic & fix it..forget them other worthless man, that you have been wit, I'll put them in their place, if you need me to, Babygirl Aye..Imma keep it real, Imma keep it gangsta wit you..You gone need me, best believe Dat, yeah best believe girl, baby Imma put it down on you daily,..every chance I get..Imma give you love baby..Yeah true love girl..Imma have you screaming, Imma have you moaning, like "Young Ston you the man, like **** Daddy you the best ..I ever had".. Uhh..Yeah I know dat already baby..girl just take this **** yeah, take it all in like some good kush babygirl, don't exhale it, just let the good smoke marinate in yo mind & yo lungs for 30 seconds, then cough it all out.. Aye Shawty being wit me..is like being in another dimension baby being wit me is a new reality, Aye..Its another universal feeling being wit me girl , you (best believe Dat..*2)..I ain't like another man, they so regular that's so unoriginal, & I ain't even tryna spitt no player **** to you baby..boo, I'm rhyming from my heart girl, Yeah this song was written deep down from my soul girl..I really love you girl..This song is only dedicated to (you2), know who you are , You my (boo,2)..You so sweet, you my favorite candy, girl..Oo..Oo.., (best believe Dat*2)..you my only woman too..Oo..Oo. It's just (you2)..the only one dat I think about girl...boo, its just (you2)..the one when I fall asleep, I dream about (you2..)..Aye & when I wake up Im still thinking about (you2)..(just you*2).. I lust after you..& only (you2)..is all I really care for girl.. (Yeah you2)..(just you,Yeah*2).. I adore..(you2)..girl Yeah..Yeah..just (you2)..baby..Yeah..Yeah.. Best believe it's just..(you2)..(just you2)..be on my mind so much Shawty..,I'm so crazy in love wit you..shit, I gotta put a ring on you soon, when I find ya best believe dat..(you best believe girl2)...you best believe.. (Yeah2)..Best believe me, best believe (Dat*2).. I wanna taste you..Yeah..I wanna take you (away girl2)..(away from all the fucc shit2)..Yeah..from...(all the **** shit2)..that you gotta (deal wit2)..me girl..deal wit me girl..deal wit me Yeah...just (deal wit me,girl2)..(deal wit me2)..,you best believe girl..,(deal wit me girl2)..(deal wit me2)..,you best believe girl..,(deal wit me3)..girl, Yeah you best believe girl, you best believe, (deal wit me..3)

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Dec 28, 2015

Dec 28, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC

Ston Poet - Deal With Me

I wanna taste ya, I wanna take you away girl..(away from all the **** shit*2)...all the **** shit..that you gotta (deal wit2)...me girl Yeah..(I wanna taste2)..I wanna (take you away girl*2).(away from all the **** shit*2)..all the **** shit..that you gotta (deal wit 2)...me girl Yeah..Just (deal wit me girl Yeah2)..(just deal wit me2)..(deal wit me2)..(just deal wit me*2)..Shawty.. Yeah.. Deal with me girl so what's the deal girl, what is real girl..what is real love girl,..What is true...What's happening..What's up..wit you..baby me & you..that's what's good.. Uhh, Young Ston Babygirl you need a soulja baby I'll be the whole troop for you if you want me to..girl, I'm willing to do whatever I need to do for you, Yeah baby so..(you believe Dat*2)..Imma be there whenever you need me, best believe Dat Imma treat ya, how you supposed to be treated..(Yeah You best believe girl2)..best believe Yeah..you best believe me. Yeah believe Dat..Uhh Aye..best believe girl..you best believe girl, you best believe Yeah..you best believe me....(best believe Dat, Yeah you best believe girl2)..believe dat.. I won't tell you no lies baby..I will never cheat on ya..(you best believe Dat*2)...believe me..Aye..Baby Yeah.. (I wanna taste you, I wanna take you away girl*2)..away..(from all the **** shit,yeah*2)...that you gotta deal wit..Uhh..,just (deal wit girl 2)...Yeah,.. You (best believe girl2)..I wanna taste you,..I wanna take you away girl..(away from all the **** shit2)..,that you gotta (deal wit2) me girl..(just deal wit me Yeah*2)..Deal wit me girl... I'll protect you like you my Louis Lane boo, baby Yeah believe dat, believe in me, Dat your heart won't be in pieces no more baby & if it is already baby I'll be a mechanic & fix it..forget them other worthless man, that you have been wit, I'll put them in their place, if you need me to, Babygirl Aye..Imma keep it real, Imma keep it gangsta wit you..You gone need me, best believe Dat, yeah best believe girl, baby Imma put it down on you daily,..every chance I get..Imma give you love baby..Yeah true love girl..Imma have you screaming, Imma have you moaning, like "Young Ston you the man, like **** Daddy you the best ..I ever had".. Uhh..Yeah I know dat already baby..girl just take this **** yeah, take it all in like some good kush babygirl, don't exhale it, just let the good smoke marinate in yo mind & yo lungs for 30 seconds, then cough it all out.. Aye Shawty being wit me..is like being in another dimension baby being wit me is a new reality, Aye..Its another universal feeling being wit me girl , you (best believe Dat..*2)..I ain't like another man, they so regular that's so unoriginal, & I ain't even tryna spitt no player **** to you baby..boo, I'm rhyming from my heart girl, Yeah this song was written deep down from my soul girl..I really love you girl..This song is only dedicated to (you2), know who you are , You my (boo,2)..You so sweet, you my favorite candy, girl..Oo..Oo.., (best believe Dat*2)..you my only woman too..Oo..Oo. It's just (you2)..the only one dat I think about girl...boo, its just (you2)..the one when I fall asleep, I dream about (you2..)..Aye & when I wake up Im still thinking about (you2)..(just you*2).. I lust after you..& only (you2)..is all I really care for girl.. (Yeah you2)..(just you,Yeah*2).. I adore..(you2)..girl Yeah..Yeah..just (you2)..baby..Yeah..Yeah.. Best believe it's just..(you2)..(just you2)..be on my mind so much Shawty..,I'm so crazy in love wit you..shit, I gotta put a ring on you soon, when I find ya best believe dat..(you best believe girl2)...you best believe.. (Yeah2)..Best believe me, best believe (Dat*2).. I wanna taste you..Yeah..I wanna take you (away girl2)..(away from all the fucc shit2)..Yeah..from...(all the **** shit2)..that you gotta (deal wit2)..me girl..deal wit me girl..deal wit me Yeah...just (deal wit me,girl2)..(deal wit me2)..,you best believe girl..,(deal wit me girl2)..(deal wit me2)..,you best believe girl..,(deal wit me3)..girl, Yeah you best believe girl, you best believe, (deal wit me..3)

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Gates climb News and paraphernalia Modern communication Internet on vacation Today, rural Australia Goes awol in valleys, hills As seeking when hiding Frustration biding Trees, various pitfalls An Insufficient population Say Cannot build towers Excuses bely hours Trying, for connection Work with what's known Try cavalier solutions It's the execution When, creativity shown First try computer waving Above head I'm shaking Signal not taking Despite, the swaying Next option lying on floor Hint of access, fleeting Patchy greeting So slow, won't store Then stand on top of bed Try to reach high ceiling Wobbly feeling Response, still lead Despite heat, go outside The temperature violent Connection silent If Home far, just beside Time past, similarly stung Found access best rate The paddock gate Balancing, top rung Troop to gate hopes keen As Searing heat, metal Stand and settle Tightly, cradle machine Process long, time lost A Connection success Finally access But who, counts cost? Eventually, its loaded mail As Balancing hold keen Humorous scene As Sway, in light pale Internet access by Gates Not Bill, Steve, Microsoft Hung steel aloft So basic, surely debates Climbing for a signal now Is the practical response Sadly ensconced As Rural, area know how But surely it must be time When access essential Internet critical Yet today, gates climb

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Jan 17, 2015

Jan 17, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC

Gates climb News and paraphernalia Modern communication Internet on vacation Today, rural Australia Goes awol in valleys, hills As seeking when hiding Frustration biding Trees, various pitfalls An Insufficient population Say Cannot build towers Excuses bely hours Trying, for connection Work with what's known Try cavalier solutions It's the execution When, creativity shown First try computer waving Above head I'm shaking Signal not taking Despite, the swaying Next option lying on floor Hint of access, fleeting Patchy greeting So slow, won't store Then stand on top of bed Try to reach high ceiling Wobbly feeling Response, still lead Despite heat, go outside The temperature violent Connection silent If Home far, just beside Time past, similarly stung Found access best rate The paddock gate Balancing, top rung Troop to gate hopes keen As Searing heat, metal Stand and settle Tightly, cradle machine Process long, time lost A Connection success Finally access But who, counts cost? Eventually, its loaded mail As Balancing hold keen Humorous scene As Sway, in light pale Internet access by Gates Not Bill, Steve, Microsoft Hung steel aloft So basic, surely debates Climbing for a signal now Is the practical response Sadly ensconced As Rural, area know how But surely it must be time When access essential Internet critical Yet today, gates climb

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I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots; Her coat is of the tabby kind, with tiger stripes and leopard spots. All day she sits upon the stair or on the steps or on the mat; She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat! But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done, Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun. And when all the family’s in bed and asleep, She tucks up her skirts to the basement to creep. She is deeply concerned with the ways of the mice— Their behaviour’s not good and their manners not nice; So when she has got them lined up on the matting, She teachs them music, crocheting and tatting. I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots; Her equal would be hard to find, she likes the warm and sunny spots. All day she sits beside the hearth or on the bed or on my hat: She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat! But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done, Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun. As she finds that the mice will not ever keep quiet, She is sure it is due to irregular diet; And believing that nothing is done without trying, She sets right to work with her baking and frying. She makes them a mouse—cake of bread and dried peas, And a beautiful fry of lean bacon and cheese. I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots; The curtain-cord she likes to wind, and tie it into sailor-knots. She sits upon the window-sill, or anything that’s smooth and flat: She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat! But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done, Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun. She thinks that the cockroaches just need employment To prevent them from idle and wanton destroyment. So she’s formed, from that lot of disorderly louts, A troop of well-disciplined helpful boy-scouts, With a purpose in life and a good deed to do— And she’s even created a Beetles’ Tattoo. So for Old Gumbie Cats let us now give three cheers— On whom well-ordered households depend, it appears.

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4.2k

The Old Gumbie Cat

I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots; Her coat is of the tabby kind, with tiger stripes and leopard spots. All day she sits upon the stair or on the steps or on the mat; She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat! But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done, Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun. And when all the family’s in bed and asleep, She tucks up her skirts to the basement to creep. She is deeply concerned with the ways of the mice— Their behaviour’s not good and their manners not nice; So when she has got them lined up on the matting, She teachs them music, crocheting and tatting. I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots; Her equal would be hard to find, she likes the warm and sunny spots. All day she sits beside the hearth or on the bed or on my hat: She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat! But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done, Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun. As she finds that the mice will not ever keep quiet, She is sure it is due to irregular diet; And believing that nothing is done without trying, She sets right to work with her baking and frying. She makes them a mouse—cake of bread and dried peas, And a beautiful fry of lean bacon and cheese. I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots; The curtain-cord she likes to wind, and tie it into sailor-knots. She sits upon the window-sill, or anything that’s smooth and flat: She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat! But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done, Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun. She thinks that the cockroaches just need employment To prevent them from idle and wanton destroyment. So she’s formed, from that lot of disorderly louts, A troop of well-disciplined helpful boy-scouts, With a purpose in life and a good deed to do— And she’s even created a Beetles’ Tattoo. So for Old Gumbie Cats let us now give three cheers— On whom well-ordered households depend, it appears.

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I stood and watched from a safe distance, A fabulous Silverback strides around, The strong body and rippling muscles, He dominates and leads his troop, He makes the decisions, He's old, mature and protective, He's the leader of the pack, He is respected.

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Aug 28, 2012

Aug 28, 2012 at 6:11 AM UTC

I stood and watched from a safe distance, A fabulous Silverback strides around, The strong body and rippling muscles, He dominates and leads his troop, He makes the decisions, He's old, mature and protective, He's the leader of the pack, He is respected.

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It’s possible to speak too much to remember what your words mean. And so is the two-fold danger faced by writers. Danger is to pace a hole in the floor. Danger is to stand until you can’t move anymore like when shallow waves **** your feet into the sand.  So I try not to stand when I write.  I keep a narrow tack without too many big words which pedants use to dig great holes in the ground –moats to keep others out– or make you think they think big. But anyone who reads knows about Icarus and anyone with aims must beware: to shoot directly upwards is to strike your own head when like fate the arrow returns to source. You’re only as good as your mind, your characters only as strong as you are. —at least, this is true in so far as you know. True in so far as they speak. For to test them you must torque them and twist at their cores, and make opposing forces meet– but only as hard as you can. This makes writing a hill slick with oil. Insecure. Potential energy. Potential failure seated in all of that grime that cakes your toes like grease that coats the teeth of great industrial gears. So I try not to stand when I write. But whether the better take comes when you plunge and you slide and dissolve like so much ice, I must say I don’t know, the thought seems nice. But the same It seems like those who let go Are the ones with the least to say. I can't decide either which way. All I know about writing is most sentences are punctuated wrongly. The period is certain, but writing is undecided. It is the figuring-out, a quest-bound troop that moves with all its own fanfare. Question marks curl up— invisible smoke on a summer coal fire: heat twisting the air like irons in stoke giving sign of the transformations there withheld. For fire mediates matter, so writing stands ever-between. But I’ve spoken too much and I don’t know what these words mean. And so I fold like there’s danger in writing, while danger is imagined like borders on a continent. Danger is thinking I'm dangerous enough to keep silent. Like shallow waves, given way to sand. So avoid letting voids form where the mind dismisses confrontation to more capable smiths. Writing is –at best– an attempt. Even with shallow structures in rhythmic din, the silent breaks by force of pen, and all because of the simple fact that quiet refuses to bend. All I can hope is my writing upholds these unknowns while I try not to stand. But you ask about writing?

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Apr 29, 2018

Apr 29, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC

It’s possible to speak too much to remember what your words mean. And so is the two-fold danger faced by writers. Danger is to pace a hole in the floor. Danger is to stand until you can’t move anymore like when shallow waves **** your feet into the sand.  So I try not to stand when I write.  I keep a narrow tack without too many big words which pedants use to dig great holes in the ground –moats to keep others out– or make you think they think big. But anyone who reads knows about Icarus and anyone with aims must beware: to shoot directly upwards is to strike your own head when like fate the arrow returns to source. You’re only as good as your mind, your characters only as strong as you are. —at least, this is true in so far as you know. True in so far as they speak. For to test them you must torque them and twist at their cores, and make opposing forces meet– but only as hard as you can. This makes writing a hill slick with oil. Insecure. Potential energy. Potential failure seated in all of that grime that cakes your toes like grease that coats the teeth of great industrial gears. So I try not to stand when I write. But whether the better take comes when you plunge and you slide and dissolve like so much ice, I must say I don’t know, the thought seems nice. But the same It seems like those who let go Are the ones with the least to say. I can't decide either which way. All I know about writing is most sentences are punctuated wrongly. The period is certain, but writing is undecided. It is the figuring-out, a quest-bound troop that moves with all its own fanfare. Question marks curl up— invisible smoke on a summer coal fire: heat twisting the air like irons in stoke giving sign of the transformations there withheld. For fire mediates matter, so writing stands ever-between. But I’ve spoken too much and I don’t know what these words mean. And so I fold like there’s danger in writing, while danger is imagined like borders on a continent. Danger is thinking I'm dangerous enough to keep silent. Like shallow waves, given way to sand. So avoid letting voids form where the mind dismisses confrontation to more capable smiths. Writing is –at best– an attempt. Even with shallow structures in rhythmic din, the silent breaks by force of pen, and all because of the simple fact that quiet refuses to bend. All I can hope is my writing upholds these unknowns while I try not to stand. But you ask about writing?

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A pretty blonde researcher was observing, from a “blind”, some Silverback Gorillas- among the final of their kind. The senior of the silverbacks, his back turned towards the” blind”, was communicating with his troop with gestures much like sign. “She who is observing us is a member of that tribe who fell from grace with Heaven and was banished far and wide.” “They were banished from this Eden, and confounded in their speech. They then made war upon each other and have never once known peace” “Observe, in them, their arrogance, they think themselves evolved, Yet they are apes that practice war and ****** their own kind” “A gorilla child knows not but love and tenderness in kind. Where there is many a human child left neglected on the vine.” From elsewhere in the Jungle came the shouts of evil men. Poachers of the coarsest sort with Silverbacks in mind. “Disperse my sons and daughters. It’s time to flee and hide from those who seek our hides and meat to sanctuary, hie.” The silverback then beat his chest and, to buy the others time, charged against those evil men and, for his children, died. Time passed before the searchers came upon the blind where the murdered Dian Fossey lay where the Silverback had died. Poachers want no witnesses to their theft of meat and hide They left with her the severed hands of one not kin but kind.

0

Mar 18, 2012

Mar 18, 2012 at 6:00 PM UTC

john-f-mccullagh

Gorillas in the Myst

A pretty blonde researcher was observing, from a “blind”, some Silverback Gorillas- among the final of their kind. The senior of the silverbacks, his back turned towards the” blind”, was communicating with his troop with gestures much like sign. “She who is observing us is a member of that tribe who fell from grace with Heaven and was banished far and wide.” “They were banished from this Eden, and confounded in their speech. They then made war upon each other and have never once known peace” “Observe, in them, their arrogance, they think themselves evolved, Yet they are apes that practice war and ****** their own kind” “A gorilla child knows not but love and tenderness in kind. Where there is many a human child left neglected on the vine.” From elsewhere in the Jungle came the shouts of evil men. Poachers of the coarsest sort with Silverbacks in mind. “Disperse my sons and daughters. It’s time to flee and hide from those who seek our hides and meat to sanctuary, hie.” The silverback then beat his chest and, to buy the others time, charged against those evil men and, for his children, died. Time passed before the searchers came upon the blind where the murdered Dian Fossey lay where the Silverback had died. Poachers want no witnesses to their theft of meat and hide They left with her the severed hands of one not kin but kind.

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Father, grandfather, father's grandfather, all died by the blade. Father's grandfather fell fighting one hundred. Grandfather fell fighting too. Father fell fighting as well, while protecting his wounded troop. All these men put up a fight, they did what they had to do It runs in our veins, we stay the same, destined to do what we do. Our grandmothers hug our grandchildren, while they still can widows tell their sons when they're old enough to use a blade so one day, whenever my son asks where father went off to tell him it runs in our veins tell him I will see him soon.

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Mar 28, 2015

Mar 28, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC

A Warrior Lays Dying

Father, grandfather, father's grandfather, all died by the blade. Father's grandfather fell fighting one hundred. Grandfather fell fighting too. Father fell fighting as well, while protecting his wounded troop. All these men put up a fight, they did what they had to do It runs in our veins, we stay the same, destined to do what we do. Our grandmothers hug our grandchildren, while they still can widows tell their sons when they're old enough to use a blade so one day, whenever my son asks where father went off to tell him it runs in our veins tell him I will see him soon.

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Hello Poetry Yearned. Ached. For so long, for a community, That values the ineffable wonder Of a wordsmith's creations, intended to Repair himself and the world with bullets of Verses. And here you are. Like/Dislike, matters not, So long as we value each others work, And the the heart echoes within What the eyes read and the mouth whispers. The array and disparity of your names, A delight, Each name a poem In its own right. So I resubmit a question for your consideration, The answer is now known, The answer is all of us. May 2013 --------------------------------------------------------- Who's Who In Poetry T'is a curious thing, these verbal peddlers, tribal members, famously well known to no one, perhaps at best, a kindred few, fellow-travelers. Each a troop, bloodied, purple hearted, word-wounded, anonymous unto each other, yet all bonded intimates, in solitary struggle united, yet sea-parted by the very nature of the solitude of composition. All poets are Cain scar-marked, purposed for everyone to see, a warning to rabbled boors, imagination suppressors! World: cherish these flawed ones, gentle these frail but gritty, the Lord has tasked them to be prophets in one tongue untied, undo the strife of Babel's division. Poets! Be the harpooners of the unexamined life, with unfettered rhapsody, comfort caress us, exhort the loopy to light their illusionary candles, turn the sad eyed lowlanders into crinkly eye-lined smilers. With clinical observation, dense and demanding, make us laugh at the comedy of our situation, teach us our free-to-see peep show, reveal, unseal us with **** empathy! For who's who in poetry is all of us! saviors and failures, recorders and decoders, night writers of the oohs and aahs of dreams and nightmares. When this poet cannot, no longer, anymore, tastes his poems upon your lips, keep your poems within his heart, then he breathes no more, and becomes one who was, yet is, because of you, in poetry. --------------- Postscript (1/25/17) Even more true today, than four years ago. Thank You.

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May 22, 2013

May 22, 2013 at 1:40 PM UTC

Hello Poetry! Who's Who In Poetry (May 2013)

Hello Poetry Yearned. Ached. For so long, for a community, That values the ineffable wonder Of a wordsmith's creations, intended to Repair himself and the world with bullets of Verses. And here you are. Like/Dislike, matters not, So long as we value each others work, And the the heart echoes within What the eyes read and the mouth whispers. The array and disparity of your names, A delight, Each name a poem In its own right. So I resubmit a question for your consideration, The answer is now known, The answer is all of us. May 2013 --------------------------------------------------------- Who's Who In Poetry T'is a curious thing, these verbal peddlers, tribal members, famously well known to no one, perhaps at best, a kindred few, fellow-travelers. Each a troop, bloodied, purple hearted, word-wounded, anonymous unto each other, yet all bonded intimates, in solitary struggle united, yet sea-parted by the very nature of the solitude of composition. All poets are Cain scar-marked, purposed for everyone to see, a warning to rabbled boors, imagination suppressors! World: cherish these flawed ones, gentle these frail but gritty, the Lord has tasked them to be prophets in one tongue untied, undo the strife of Babel's division. Poets! Be the harpooners of the unexamined life, with unfettered rhapsody, comfort caress us, exhort the loopy to light their illusionary candles, turn the sad eyed lowlanders into crinkly eye-lined smilers. With clinical observation, dense and demanding, make us laugh at the comedy of our situation, teach us our free-to-see peep show, reveal, unseal us with **** empathy! For who's who in poetry is all of us! saviors and failures, recorders and decoders, night writers of the oohs and aahs of dreams and nightmares. When this poet cannot, no longer, anymore, tastes his poems upon your lips, keep your poems within his heart, then he breathes no more, and becomes one who was, yet is, because of you, in poetry. --------------- Postscript (1/25/17) Even more true today, than four years ago. Thank You.

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One clove a day health eternal I pray that it is not true, for I am well short of the twenty two thousand to have been eaten by this date one plant if it were new to enter anywhere, would not pass inspection as a common garden vegetable, it would take decades and investigation, to give the nod to forty garlic chicken or even to transport one clove. some say it is the taste, to others it is the waft, of air in advance of the consumer, knowing it does the body good, but if one eats garlic and your mate must too, or there may be a break in that allure each cluster is a toxin buster, if you can muster the appetite. each group can raise a whoop, from a troop of the healthy. eat it raw to digest your will to resist, that all will cease and desist, to disagree. eat it cooked, make it good, that it would deliver all the benefits your friends will understand even from across the room

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Jan 9, 2014

Jan 9, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC

On Garlic - One misunderstood vegetable

One clove a day health eternal I pray that it is not true, for I am well short of the twenty two thousand to have been eaten by this date one plant if it were new to enter anywhere, would not pass inspection as a common garden vegetable, it would take decades and investigation, to give the nod to forty garlic chicken or even to transport one clove. some say it is the taste, to others it is the waft, of air in advance of the consumer, knowing it does the body good, but if one eats garlic and your mate must too, or there may be a break in that allure each cluster is a toxin buster, if you can muster the appetite. each group can raise a whoop, from a troop of the healthy. eat it raw to digest your will to resist, that all will cease and desist, to disagree. eat it cooked, make it good, that it would deliver all the benefits your friends will understand even from across the room

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*Do you hear the music? Does it give you ease? Hold my hands and lean far back Look up into the trees. The answers there That no one sees, Imaginings to anyone who believes. That magic Can’t be deceived, Open arms to be relieved. Move with me And be believed, Cherished, loved And well received. Just dancing with the trees. Sunlight flickering through a canopy of incandescent leaves A gentle cool wind blowing to a background of confident blue. All around me are the dancing trees. Rejoicing it seems in their bright prancing hues. Oak, hemlock, cottonwood, spruce and pine All swaying together in perfect time. I walk the path in awe of it all Listening to the spreading news. The earth it seems Has reached the dawning of a new day Reproducing itself along the way. I wonder if that’s really true A year – can it be just a day? If it is then I’m a part and so are you. As we pass through this earthly delight Another day of romance is on the way. All the trees are out dancing tonight Having put on their Sunday best. Tonight they too can find this life's zest. (Now move your body with the rhythm of the wind blown trees) Let’s dance with them just for a little while. Listen to the music of the air. You move right – I’ll follow with a smile. Then move left – the movement in your hair. Living life with but one care Taking this time to be aware. Open your heart – no fear to share Should or shouldn’t we dare? This wonderful evening we are there. Move again, I’ll take your hand To and fro we say – isn’t it grand? Waltzing – can you feel the breeze In with a troop of trees? I bow straight to my knees, You follow and begin to see Life and love and harmony Peace of mind be seized. Now holding on tight – still on your knees Still moving to and fro I ask you please Do you hear the music – does it give you ease? Hold my hands and lean far back And look up into the trees. The answers there that no one sees Imaginings to anyone who believes That magic can’t be deceived Open arms to be relieved Move with me and be believed, Cherished, loved and well received Just dancing with the trees.*

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Jun 3, 2017

Jun 3, 2017 at 4:14 AM UTC

willy-shakysphere

Dancing With The Trees

*Do you hear the music? Does it give you ease? Hold my hands and lean far back Look up into the trees. The answers there That no one sees, Imaginings to anyone who believes. That magic Can’t be deceived, Open arms to be relieved. Move with me And be believed, Cherished, loved And well received. Just dancing with the trees. Sunlight flickering through a canopy of incandescent leaves A gentle cool wind blowing to a background of confident blue. All around me are the dancing trees. Rejoicing it seems in their bright prancing hues. Oak, hemlock, cottonwood, spruce and pine All swaying together in perfect time. I walk the path in awe of it all Listening to the spreading news. The earth it seems Has reached the dawning of a new day Reproducing itself along the way. I wonder if that’s really true A year – can it be just a day? If it is then I’m a part and so are you. As we pass through this earthly delight Another day of romance is on the way. All the trees are out dancing tonight Having put on their Sunday best. Tonight they too can find this life's zest. (Now move your body with the rhythm of the wind blown trees) Let’s dance with them just for a little while. Listen to the music of the air. You move right – I’ll follow with a smile. Then move left – the movement in your hair. Living life with but one care Taking this time to be aware. Open your heart – no fear to share Should or shouldn’t we dare? This wonderful evening we are there. Move again, I’ll take your hand To and fro we say – isn’t it grand? Waltzing – can you feel the breeze In with a troop of trees? I bow straight to my knees, You follow and begin to see Life and love and harmony Peace of mind be seized. Now holding on tight – still on your knees Still moving to and fro I ask you please Do you hear the music – does it give you ease? Hold my hands and lean far back And look up into the trees. The answers there that no one sees Imaginings to anyone who believes That magic can’t be deceived Open arms to be relieved Move with me and be believed, Cherished, loved and well received Just dancing with the trees.*

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An immigrant from County Clare brought to this harsher clime- Phoebe Prince, an Irish lass, a gentle heart and mind. First used, and then discarded by one boy, then another.- Object of the mean girl’s scorn the consummate "outsider" On her last day alive They hounded her from school. The girl they called the “Irish **** disgraced and played the fool. Her sister, Lauren, found her body hanging lifeless in the hall. Befriended by nobody Phoebe chose to end it all And on the day they held her wake Those monsters held their dance A debutante cotillion for a troop of soulless tramps. She’s buried here in County Clare because the Ocean's waves protect her from the harpies who drove her to her grave

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Jan 14, 2012

Jan 14, 2012 at 10:56 PM UTC

john-f-mccullagh

A Girl named Phoebe

An immigrant from County Clare brought to this harsher clime- Phoebe Prince, an Irish lass, a gentle heart and mind. First used, and then discarded by one boy, then another.- Object of the mean girl’s scorn the consummate "outsider" On her last day alive They hounded her from school. The girl they called the “Irish **** disgraced and played the fool. Her sister, Lauren, found her body hanging lifeless in the hall. Befriended by nobody Phoebe chose to end it all And on the day they held her wake Those monsters held their dance A debutante cotillion for a troop of soulless tramps. She’s buried here in County Clare because the Ocean's waves protect her from the harpies who drove her to her grave

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And then a year later, the ship sets sail fleeing a year long sorrow, into the tomorrow. Each breath calling out your name a yearning for a last gaze, every ear's thirst for your voice, a desire to quench it all one of these days, on you and me if there may never dawn this tomorrow. From the captain to the cleaner himself, they all yearn for it, before they depart. From the sky to the ocean herself, envy the troop's pining for she who on the port detract's the beauty of this scene for she who in their eyes poses to be better than art. - Diljeev

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Feb 3, 2021

Feb 3, 2021 at 6:29 PM UTC

And then a year later, the ship sets sail fleeing a year long sorrow, into the tomorrow. Each breath calling out your name a yearning for a last gaze, every ear's thirst for your voice, a desire to quench it all one of these days, on you and me if there may never dawn this tomorrow. From the captain to the cleaner himself, they all yearn for it, before they depart. From the sky to the ocean herself, envy the troop's pining for she who on the port detract's the beauty of this scene for she who in their eyes poses to be better than art. - Diljeev

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T'is a curious thing, these verbal peddlers, these tribal members, famously well known to no one, perhaps at best, a kindred few, fellow-travelers. Each a troop, in the army of orphans, bloodied, purple hearted, word-wounded, anonymous unto each other, yet all bonded intimates, in solitary struggle united, yet sea-parted by the very nature of the solitude of composition. All poets are Cain scar-marked, purposed for everyone to see, a warning to the rabbled boors, the imagination suppressors! World: cherish these flawed ones, gentle these frail but gritty, the Lord has tasked them to be prophets in one tongue untied, undo the strife of Babel's division. Poets! Be the harpooners of the unexamined life, with unfettered rhapsody, comfort caress us, exhort the loopy to light their illusionary candles, turn the sad eyed lowlanders into crinkly eye-lined smilers. With clinical observation, dense and demanding, make us laugh at the comedy of our situation, teach us our free-to-see peep show, reveal, unseal us with **** empathy! For who's who in poetry is all of us! saviors and failures, recorders and decoders, night writers of the oohs and aahs of dreams and nightmares. *When this poet cannot, no longer, anymore, taste his poems upon your lips, keep your poems within his heart, then he breathes no more, becoming one who was, yet still is, because of you,* because of poetry.

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Feb 22, 2016

Feb 22, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC

Orphans and Poets, Peddlers & Members

T'is a curious thing, these verbal peddlers, these tribal members, famously well known to no one, perhaps at best, a kindred few, fellow-travelers. Each a troop, in the army of orphans, bloodied, purple hearted, word-wounded, anonymous unto each other, yet all bonded intimates, in solitary struggle united, yet sea-parted by the very nature of the solitude of composition. All poets are Cain scar-marked, purposed for everyone to see, a warning to the rabbled boors, the imagination suppressors! World: cherish these flawed ones, gentle these frail but gritty, the Lord has tasked them to be prophets in one tongue untied, undo the strife of Babel's division. Poets! Be the harpooners of the unexamined life, with unfettered rhapsody, comfort caress us, exhort the loopy to light their illusionary candles, turn the sad eyed lowlanders into crinkly eye-lined smilers. With clinical observation, dense and demanding, make us laugh at the comedy of our situation, teach us our free-to-see peep show, reveal, unseal us with **** empathy! For who's who in poetry is all of us! saviors and failures, recorders and decoders, night writers of the oohs and aahs of dreams and nightmares. *When this poet cannot, no longer, anymore, taste his poems upon your lips, keep your poems within his heart, then he breathes no more, becoming one who was, yet still is, because of you,* because of poetry.

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The Real Poets Here are small craft sailing between the narrows of crack'd lines, employ the spyglass and luck to you, for them to find their voyages do not widen the chasm of waste, yawning greater now by propped up boasts of ugly shipowners who sin by commission, national ***** crowing of the greatest length of their prow, thinking that is a measure of prowess, their tubs, all but empty wordy new container ships, that are forever lost at sea, even before leaving port they, the real poets, are the quiet lost lot, a troop of forgettable ordinary Marines, the sailors in the engine room toiling, exploring cartographers ***** from the ****** crafting struggle, looking to discover unmapped, invisible poles, East and West opening up new passages, within us, with new passages when called to arms, the real poets spill fresh ***** fluids from within the heart and mind borne, upon the blank spaces, they stain us with the grasping gasps of their sight insided fertile are the pastures where they lay low modest lay thinking, amidst the splendor in the grass of them I proudly will ever boast, hold them close and ever nameless, but deep inscribed inside of me *Ah, the real poets keep me whole within the ever smaller white purity of this narrow space that has lost the struggle to contains the unceasing ever spawning black letter'd oceans and navies of repetitive sad, sadly repetitive, puerile singsong cant that never sings, can't never please, but trends to the masses madly dewdrops of tears, are my own trees felled, an acknowledgement that when I read their unintended homages to humankind, that when realized, they speak with great respect, all quietly scream this whisper... all this, that I have written, and will yet to write, this is all, to give greater glory to all human ability whose sole purposed to fill us, wrench us from our lackadaisical comfort, or urgently comfort us when none else can, these are my friends, the real poets here* god keep you well my trite words insufficient so I gift you some words worthy from Wordsworth

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Jun 12, 2014

Jun 12, 2014 at 3:29 AM UTC

A New Poem: The Real Poets Here

The Real Poets Here are small craft sailing between the narrows of crack'd lines, employ the spyglass and luck to you, for them to find their voyages do not widen the chasm of waste, yawning greater now by propped up boasts of ugly shipowners who sin by commission, national ***** crowing of the greatest length of their prow, thinking that is a measure of prowess, their tubs, all but empty wordy new container ships, that are forever lost at sea, even before leaving port they, the real poets, are the quiet lost lot, a troop of forgettable ordinary Marines, the sailors in the engine room toiling, exploring cartographers ***** from the ****** crafting struggle, looking to discover unmapped, invisible poles, East and West opening up new passages, within us, with new passages when called to arms, the real poets spill fresh ***** fluids from within the heart and mind borne, upon the blank spaces, they stain us with the grasping gasps of their sight insided fertile are the pastures where they lay low modest lay thinking, amidst the splendor in the grass of them I proudly will ever boast, hold them close and ever nameless, but deep inscribed inside of me *Ah, the real poets keep me whole within the ever smaller white purity of this narrow space that has lost the struggle to contains the unceasing ever spawning black letter'd oceans and navies of repetitive sad, sadly repetitive, puerile singsong cant that never sings, can't never please, but trends to the masses madly dewdrops of tears, are my own trees felled, an acknowledgement that when I read their unintended homages to humankind, that when realized, they speak with great respect, all quietly scream this whisper... all this, that I have written, and will yet to write, this is all, to give greater glory to all human ability whose sole purposed to fill us, wrench us from our lackadaisical comfort, or urgently comfort us when none else can, these are my friends, the real poets here* god keep you well my trite words insufficient so I gift you some words worthy from Wordsworth

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I had thanksgiving with my St. Lucian family, my loud, unapologetic, laughs-too-loud, generation-gap homemade *** heads in phones, blasting dancehall music old ladies dancing clap-back talk-back family. "Play us a song", my cousin and I sent to my room to play jazz chords, I finger along clumsily. He's in college and his dark eyes close, fingers sliding up and down the frets, frowning in concentration, cursing quietly at a missed note. My islander family comes over and prompts impromptu drinking games, "I'm not looking, I saw nothing", I lick a bit of vanilla ***** from my mother's shot glass, alcohol becomes a family affair, it takes away the danger and the stigma and throws a friendly, lovely light on a vice. It's raining, it's cold, islanders do not belong on a Kansas porch smoking cigarettes in the dark rain. I light candles on the wall. They all outlast their welcome, between four and a half hours of transition from uncomfortable "i don't remember your name", put on the spot, only-child-becomes-one-of-several to discussing baby names and family gossip, they all wrap up their food slaved over at nine am, they all troop out the door, they take their coats, they leave their wide smiles with us until next time.

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Nov 27, 2015

Nov 27, 2015 at 2:16 AM UTC

St. Lucia Thanksgiving

I had thanksgiving with my St. Lucian family, my loud, unapologetic, laughs-too-loud, generation-gap homemade *** heads in phones, blasting dancehall music old ladies dancing clap-back talk-back family. "Play us a song", my cousin and I sent to my room to play jazz chords, I finger along clumsily. He's in college and his dark eyes close, fingers sliding up and down the frets, frowning in concentration, cursing quietly at a missed note. My islander family comes over and prompts impromptu drinking games, "I'm not looking, I saw nothing", I lick a bit of vanilla ***** from my mother's shot glass, alcohol becomes a family affair, it takes away the danger and the stigma and throws a friendly, lovely light on a vice. It's raining, it's cold, islanders do not belong on a Kansas porch smoking cigarettes in the dark rain. I light candles on the wall. They all outlast their welcome, between four and a half hours of transition from uncomfortable "i don't remember your name", put on the spot, only-child-becomes-one-of-several to discussing baby names and family gossip, they all wrap up their food slaved over at nine am, they all troop out the door, they take their coats, they leave their wide smiles with us until next time.

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