Examination At The Womb-Door
Who owns those scrawny little feet? Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs? Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles? Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts? Death.
Who owns these questionable brains? Death.
All this messy blood? Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes? Death.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
Stop bleeding said the knife
I would if I could said the cut.
Stop bleeding you make me messy with the blood.
I'm sorry said the cut.
Stop or I will sink in farther said the knife.
Don't said the cut.
The knife did not say it couldn't help it but
it sank in farther.
If only you didn't bleed said the knife I wouldn't
have to do this.
Welcome to the silly, comforting poem.
It is not the sunrise,
which is a red rinse,
which is flaring all over the eastern sky;
it is not the rain falling out of the purse of God;
Trust yourself and have faith in you
Bullies can't hurt you, they are few!
Why fear! Be smart and take my note
Nobody ever sees you when you vote!
Don't disclose it and protect privacy
Nakedness is a shame and messy!
Do not discriminate on religion, color
Try keeping your sentiment higher!
Culture, character all are already in you
Born as the human, don't add anything new!
As I was saying . . . (No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea;
Cows weren't allowed in the trenches -- got out of the habit, y'see.)
As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten:
"Come on, lads!" he shouts, "and we'll show 'em," and he sprang to the head of the men.
Then some bally thing seemed to trip him, and he fell on his face with a slam. . . .
Oh, he died like a true British soldier, and the last word he uttered was "Damn!"
And hang it! I loved the old fellow, and something just burst in my brain,
Sir Raymond Of The Castle
[The following little Poems are written after the Model of the Old English Ballads, and are inscribed to those who admire the simplicity of that kind of versification.]
NEAR GLARIS, on a mountain's side,
Beneath a shad'wy wood,
With walls of ivy compass'd round,
An ancient Castle stood.
By all rever'd, by all ador'd,
There dwelt a wealthy dame;
! ! A Graceful Octogenarian
She smiled as we passed her table -
a nod of politeness, rather than recognition.
She was lunching with her husband -
and thinly clad in the summer heat.
She must have been in her eighties,
but remarkably elegant and self-assured.
Her hair was swept up in a messy chignon,
Her voice was cultured without being posh.
She reminded me of mum -
What a beauty there
In your vermillion smeared face
When your nose and eyes
From the smoke of firewood
Billowing from Katha Chullah(Hearth)
You were busy
In tidying the house
The Ride To Melrose, From The Lay Of The Last Minstrel.
The Lady sought the lofty hall,
Where many a bold retainer lay,
And with jocund din among them all,
Her son pursued his infant play.
A fancied moss-trooper, the boy
The truncheon of a spear bestrode,
And round the hall right merrily
In mimic foray rode.
Even bearded knights, in arms grown old,
A State Of Depression
Speak out my dear
Why hath thou in a state of depression?
Speak out my dear
I stand here waiting for thy confession
Depression is not a sign of weakness
Neither an indication of madness
I stand here not to judge you
Simply to take heed to what is true
(Mobile Columns of the Boer War)
Out o' the wilderness, dusty an' dry
(Time, an' 'igh time to be trekkin' again!)
Oo is it 'eads to the Detail Supply?
A sectioin, a pompom, an' six 'undred men.
'Ere comes the clerk with 'is lantern an' keys
(Time, an 'igh time to be trekkin 'again!)
Ainsi Va Le Monde
[As a Tribute of Esteem and Admiration this Poem is inscribed to ROBERT MERRY, Esq. A. M. Member of the Royal Academy at Florence, and Author of the Laurel of Liberty, and the Della Crusca Poems.]
O THOU, to whom superior worth's allied,
Thy Country's honourand the MUSES' pride;
Whose pen gives polish to the varying line
That blends instruction with the song divine;
Whose fancy, glancing o'er the hostile plain,
Plants a fond trophy o'er the mighty slain; I
Or to the daisied lawn directs its way,
' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' Bang...Bang...Bang! '(For Helen)
Tilly wants to wear
her yellow shoes
with her yellow socks.
as she calls them
but there is only
one yellow sock around
Soul Tells All
My voice, the ink for this write
If just u ever wonder how SOUL sounds like
Not written this as another fairytale story
For real this is about you and me
In short met we made series
Each series we make beautiful stories
Friendship proven generates strong histories
At least it sails trusty and kills worries
A Square Deal
Pardon me, my Pakistan!
land of hopes and finest dreams!
where gently flow the shining streams
and youthful rivers...
I know...that i am miserable...
I promised much to do for you
a lot of work...
but i admit
i could not do
the least of it.
I woke to the beaming rays
Of dawn's early golden light
Birds flew singing across the sky
Breeze whizzed past telling all is right
I thought it would be a lovely day
With many bonuses on my way
But sad it turned to be a doom's day
With misfortune in succession coming to slay
A Tale Of Elsinore
A little child stood thinking, sorrowfully and ill at ease,
In a forest beneath the branches of the tall pine trees -
And his big brown eyes with tears seemed dim,
While one soft arm rested on a huge dog close by him.
And only four summers had passed o'er his baby head,
And, poor little child, his twin brother was dead,
Who had died but a few days before,
And now he must play alone, for he'd see him no more.
As I walked
to see the red sun
slip into the ocean blue
my heart sighed
and pains multiplied
as I little know
that there will be another day.
My stick of faith
0050 Margaret B.
You knew her better than I – you’d
looked after her when her splendid
eccentricity which the English do so well
went beyond the bounds that others set…
I only write obituaries, dear Margaret,
when asked; somehow the others can be messy;
but now of course, I wish I’d known enough…for
how do we know, when we’re so busy
enjoying their company, their joyously,