JOE POEWHIT Poems

Hit Title Date Added
81.
Gods Tears

May I cry for a silent minute.
Lost feelings have found space.
Gone to the winds last song.
Meadow larks fly to a lost place.
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82.
Circus Rain

A wooded song sang to me.
Beyond the freshness of the sea.
Blessed rain upon the ground.
The last drop, a silence profound.
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83.
Tiny Bird

There on the misty log.
That spot, between the fog.
Sits a bird with tired wing.
Only a chirp, a note to sing.
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84.
The Day We Forgot God

The day we forgot GOD.
Tears fell upon shaken sod.
Only to find myself alone.
Empty it was, a hollow home.
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85.
Poison World

I sit by the open window.
Air flows, yet not so simple.
Days of old seem like forgotten lore.
Maybe only, if I open the door.
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86.
My Young Life

Here I am a young new teen.
All my friends, they are so keen.
They give me dope every day.
I'll take more, it is the cool way.
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87.
The Ship Rocks$$$$copper

Copper is my slave name.
Brought from my home land.
Chained in the bowls of this ship.
Along with my fractured hip.
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88.
Beer Pot Bowl School

The bell just rings.
One more hit - for the ping.
Stuffs really the thing.
Fast drink this and sing.
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89.
Y - Hole- 1

LATE NIGHT POEM - HOLES # 1

Just like that life goes.
Flat nose - pull down hose.
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90.
Money & Times

A paragraph from a book by - Washington Irving - The History of New York - about the fortunes of money, that I am presently reading. I hope it will share some wisdom.

' If we could get a peep at the tally of dame fortune, where, like a notable landlady, she regularly chalks up the debtor and creditor accounts of mankind, we should find that, upon the whole, good and evil are pretty nearly balanced in this world; and that though we may for a long while revel in the very lap pf prosperity, the time will at length come, when we must pay off the reckoning. Fortune, in fact, is a pestilent shrew, and withal a most inexorable creditor; for though she may indulge her favourites in long credits, and overwhelm them with her favours; yet sooner or later, she brings up her arrears, with the rigour of an experienced publican, and washes out her scores with their tears. 'SINCE', says good old Boetius in his consolations of philosophy, 'since no man can retain her at his pleasure, and since her flight is so deeply lamented, what are her favours but sure prognostications of approaching trouble and calamity.'
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