The thread with the Walt Whitman poem got me thinking.

As Bullwinkle J. Moose used to say, "Today's pome is...."



Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.


No Man Is An Island

No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend's
Or of thine own were:
Any man's death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.

John Donne



“Folks, I'm telling you,
birthing is hard
and dying is mean-
so get yourself
a little loving
in between.”

Langston Hughes


Richard Cory

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Edwin Arlington Robinson



The Pasture

By Robert Frost

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too.

I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother. It's so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too.

Eddie Murphy as Tyrone Green, an inmate in the State Pen enrolled in a program sponsored by Norman Mailer called Prose and Cons..............

Kill My Landlord

Dark and lonely on the summer night.
Kill my landlord, kill my landlord.
Watchdog barking - Do he bite?
Kill my landlord, kill my landlord.
Slip in his window,
Break his neck!
Then his house
I start to wreck!
Got no reason --
What the heck!
Kill my landlord, kill my landlord.
C-I-L-L ...
My land - lord

Sea Fever
By John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking,

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

__________________
Freedom isn't free.

This limerick, so help me, was written by Woodrow Wilson:

I sat next to the Duchess at tea.
It was just as I feared it would be,
For her rumblings abdominal
Were truly phenomenal,
And everyone thought it was me.

I do enjoy real poetry too, but am too tired to think of any favorites tonight.

__________________
Oh well, what the hell.

In the 7th grade, we had to recite a poem. The one I did was: "Damn the Torpedoes-and was about David Glasgow Farragut. It was a great one that started as:

"Damn the Torpedoes Bold Farragut Said, Damn the Torpedoes, Full Speed Ahead, And Lashed to the Rigging, Full Speed Ahead." Sorry I cant remember the resy but--I do remember: "The Grass is Green."

The Grass is Green, by: John Wayne.

The Sky is Blue, the Grass is Green, the hell with them, join the Marines.

Duke was on a Laugh-In episode dressed in a pink Bunny suit and said his poem in that episode.

Thank you! Poetry is my passion, aside from Smith & Wesson revolvers, hot babes, old trucks, hot babes, hay barns, hot babes, etc. Did I forget anything? Seriously. Thanks!

__________________
Why, I aughta.....

You forgot to mention the hot babes!!!

I used to sing this (except I'm a tenor)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b4NUJRpxQbY

Goose bump city.

John Masfield was a personal friend to my grandmother. I have several first editions of his books. Each has a hand written note to my grandmother from him.

__________________
Freedom isn't free.

The Cremation of Sam McGee...Robert Service
There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold
The Artic trails have their secret tales that would make your blood run cold
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights but the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee

Robert Service is my favorite too.
I can quote "The shooting of Dan Mcgrew" perfectly.

I am also a pretty good poet. Every card giving occasion Missus Fan gets a card from me with a poem I wrote. A few years ago I gave her a stand up dressing mirror. I had a brass plaque put on it, engraved with the following poem, which I wrote.

"Behold your beauty, charm and grace, the image never lies.
This Magic Mirror beckons you to see you through MY eyes".

I am a hopeless romantic.
Jim

I have a close friend in his 30s, with whom I have lunch once a month. I am in my mid 50s.

The other day we were exchanging emails to set up an appointment for this week, when he decided to wax poetic, speaking of drinking coffee, then being "ready to jump up and pee". My response:

"Those who readily 'jump up and pee'
Obviously have enlarged prostates, you see-
For that is a symptom of advancing age,
And you, my friend, haven't reached that stage.
But if you are wondering just what it's about,
Google "BPH" -for an awakening, no doubt."


Thanks to all who are posting poems -a great thread.

Andy

The Thumbnail
by Henry Gibson

Did you ever stop to figure
Why the thumbnail is so hard?

Well, it hasn't any choice
With all that skin to guard.

It may look fat and pudgy,
But its heart is good and true.

It's prettier than a toenail
And easier to chew.

while hot babes are a dream that I will never know again

I do like old trucks

and I dabble at some poetry from time to time

so here's one about an old truck

DADDY’S OLD TRUCK
By Larry Lile


There is a pickup truck, which sits parked, just out beyond the back barn doors.
Where an old hen is busy building, a nest on its old rusty floor board.

Its old black tires have now rotted, clean off of its rims.
And there’s a tree growing up thru, where that old Oak bed had been.

That old truck has been here, most all of my life,
In Fifty years, it’s never spent more than a day or two, out of my site.

Some people might see it and think , that it is just scrap iron and tin.
But there is a childhood of precious memories, still safely, stored within.

Sometimes when I look at that old truck, you might see a gleam here in my eye.
As it reveals again to me, a vision of a time, long ago gone by.

Like the way that old truck looked, back there on that first day.
When daddy drove it off the lot, and they headed off together down their first highway.

Oh! He was sitting behind the wheel that day, wearing a big wide grin,
The woman he loved, my sisters and I, on that old seat there, next to him.

Or the day that in a farm boys heart, which always delivered a thrill
The first time daddy let me go with him, down to the old feed mill.

Daddy loaded that old truck that morning, until it's rear bumper nearly drug the ground.
Wiped the sweat from his face, looked over at me, and said,” get in, if you want to go to town”

Me in the seat, there on my knees, so I could see out that old windshield,
Wondering it that old truck would rear up, as daddy tried to drive it up, and over the hill.
That led out of our lane, near the mailbox, where our lane, met the old gravel road,
But that old truck did not stutter or spin, as is climbed that hill with its load.

The sights, the sounds, and the smells, of that old feed mill, are still fresh in my memory today
Blocks of yellow, brown and white, molasses in the air, and the roar that hammer mill made,
The farmers sitting around discussing there crops, the heat, the rain, and the wind
My daddy welcomed there among them, with me setting there next to him

Setting on a coke crate, sharing a drink, and a bag of peanuts, from a big glass jar
Staring around at all the stuff on the walls, the shelves, and all those different candy bars.

Watching, as daddy drove the truck, when it became his turn to enter the shed,
As conveyors conveyed, its tail gate let down, and cables lifted its front much higher than my head.

The sounds that were made, as they fed in the hay, and the thump and roar as corn hit the mill,
The sound of the mixer , and how the sacks were tied, are things that I remember still.

Or the day, we were working together, in the tobacco, here on the back of the place
When I heard daddy yell “come running”, with a worried look there upon his face.
That was one trip, this old truck made, when its tires barely touched the ground.
And we pulled in, just in time to see, my uncles burning barn fall down.

There was days of cleanup that followed, and logs to be pulled to the old saw mill
And back with lumber and nails and the other things that were needed to rebuild.

Cows, calves, hogs, pigs, tobacco, hay, and corn from the crib
Rakes, shovels, axes and wire, strings, beans and old flat tires
Seed, feed, balls and bats, shotguns, dogs, and old wooden racks
These, are just a few of the things, which that old truck has hauled on it back.

It also carried it share, of a young boys, hopes and dreams,
Of lessons taught and learned, - forgotten, and taught again
Sometimes it was the scene, of sharp words, that were spoken in hast.
Words that were always tempered in love and never a word of hate,


A junk man stopped by here today, and offered to haul it away
He took out his pencil and figured, on just how much he thought it would weight
And for the place, where I learned how to be a man, he offered me a hundred bucks
I just looked over at him, grinned and said, “Not for my daddy’s old truck”


There is a pickup truck, which sits parked, just out beyond the back barn doors.
Where an old hen has built, a nest, safe within on its old rusty floor board
And like her mother before her, she will lead her chicks out of it, and into the light
Yes that old truck has earned the right to stay here, at least, for the rest of my life!

I enjoyed that as well as any!!!

many thanks

My Boy Jack by Rudyard Kipling

“Have you news of my boy Jack?”
Not this tide.
“When d’you think that he’ll come back?”
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

“Has any one else had word of him?”
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

“Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?”
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind —
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.

Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!


Kipling wrote it after his son Jack was killed early in WW1 in 1915, perhaps with a lot of guilt since he put pressure on him to join the army. He recited it to the King who also had lost a son in the war. It was featured in the PBS movie "My Boy Jack". I admit to shedding a tear watching the movie when he recited the poem to the King.

The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner
by Randall Jarrell

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer
by Walt Whitman

WHEN I heard the learn'd astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns
before me;
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add,
divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he
lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars

Nothing Gold Can Stay
by Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

__________________
Ukraine -- now more than ever

one of my favorites, by Rudyard Kipling

The Young British Soldier

When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier OF the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!

And another of his:
Tommy

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!

Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts
Bob Dylan

The festival was over, the boys were all plannin’ for a fall
The cabaret was quiet except for the drillin’ in the wall
The curfew had been lifted and the gamblin’ wheel shut down
Anyone with any sense had already left town
He was standin’ in the doorway lookin’ like the Jack of Hearts

He moved across the mirrored room, “Set it up for everyone,” he said
Then everyone commenced to do what they were doin’ before he turned their heads
Then he walked up to a stranger and he asked him with a grin
“Could you kindly tell me, friend, what time the show begins?”
Then he moved into the corner, face down like the Jack of Hearts

Backstage the girls were playin’ five-card stud by the stairs
Lily had two queens, she was hopin’ for a third to match her pair
Outside the streets were fillin’ up, the window was open wide
A gentle breeze was blowin’, you could feel it from inside
Lily called another bet and drew up the Jack of Hearts

Big Jim was no one’s fool, he owned the town’s only diamond mine
He made his usual entrance lookin’ so dandy and so fine
With his bodyguards and silver cane and every hair in place
He took whatever he wanted to and he laid it all to waste
But his bodyguards and silver cane were no match for the Jack of Hearts

Rosemary combed her hair and took a carriage into town
She slipped in through the side door lookin’ like a queen without a crown
She fluttered her false eyelashes and whispered in his ear
“Sorry, darlin’, that I’m late,” but he didn’t seem to hear
He was starin’ into space over at the Jack of Hearts

“I know I’ve seen that face before,” Big Jim was thinkin’ to himself
“Maybe down in Mexico or a picture up on somebody’s shelf”
But then the crowd began to stamp their feet and the houselights did dim
And in the darkness of the room there was only Jim and him
Starin’ at the butterfly who just drew the Jack of Hearts

Lily was a princess, she was fair-skinned and precious as a child
She did whatever she had to do, she had that certain flash every time she smiled
She’d come away from a broken home, had lots of strange affairs
With men in every walk of life which took her everywhere
But she’d never met anyone quite like the Jack of Hearts

The hangin’ judge came in unnoticed and was being wined and dined
The drillin’ in the wall kept up but no one seemed to pay it any mind
It was known all around that Lily had Jim’s ring
And nothing would ever come between Lily and the king
No, nothin’ ever would except maybe the Jack of Hearts

Rosemary started drinkin’ hard and seein’ her reflection in the knife
She was tired of the attention, tired of playin’ the role of Big Jim’s wife
She had done a lot of bad things, even once tried suicide
Was lookin’ to do just one good deed before she died
She was gazin’ to the future, riding on the Jack of Hearts

Lily washed her face, took her dress off and buried it away
“Has your luck run out?” she laughed at him, “Well, I guess you must
have known it would someday
Be careful not to touch the wall, there’s a brand-new coat of paint
I’m glad to see you’re still alive, you’re lookin’ like a saint”
Down the hallway footsteps were comin’ for the Jack of Hearts

The backstage manager was pacing all around by his chair
“There’s something funny going on,” he said, “I can just feel it in the air”
He went to get the hangin’ judge, but the hangin’ judge was drunk
As the leading actor hurried by in the costume of a monk
There was no actor anywhere better than the Jack of Hearts

Lily’s arms were locked around the man that she dearly loved to touch
She forgot all about the man she couldn’t stand who hounded her so much
“I’ve missed you so,” she said to him, and he felt she was sincere
But just beyond the door he felt jealousy and fear
Just another night in the life of the Jack of Hearts

No one knew the circumstance but they say that it happened pretty quick
The door to the dressing room burst open and a cold revolver clicked
And Big Jim was standin’ there, ya couldn’t say surprised
Rosemary right beside him, steady in her eyes
She was with Big Jim but she was leanin’ to the Jack of Hearts

Two doors down the boys finally made it through the wall
And cleaned out the bank safe, it’s said that they got off with quite a haul
In the darkness by the riverbed they waited on the ground
For one more member who had business back in town
But they couldn’t go no further without the Jack of Hearts

The next day was hangin’ day, the sky was overcast and black
Big Jim lay covered up, killed by a penknife in the back
And Rosemary on the gallows, she didn’t even blink
The hangin’ judge was sober, he hadn’t had a drink
The only person on the scene missin’ was the Jack of Hearts

The cabaret was empty now, a sign said, “Closed for repair”
Lily had already taken all of the dye out of her hair
She was thinkin’ ’bout her father, who she very rarely saw
Thinkin’ ’bout Rosemary and thinkin’ about the law
But most of all she was thinkin’ ’bout the Jack of Hearts

Most of my poems are written in haste,
and therefore resultantly lacking in taste.
Yet people who read them
and think they are fine,
must surely have taste just as lacking as mine.

-Johnny Hart

Thanks for the Kipling, Stevens. He knew far better than most how to evoke the life of the Tommy of his day.

__________________
Oh well, what the hell.

Spring has sprung
The grass has riz
I wonder where
da boidies is.

__________________
Forum consigliere

here's another that I did a few years back

I thanked God, for this country that I grew up in, here today.
I thanked him, for those who stood, that I might pray here just this way.
I thanked him, for the guns they had, that help feed our fathers-fore.
For when those guns were needed, they helped drive tyrants from our shores.

I thanked him, for those Boston men, who rose so swift that night.
For all who rose when danger neared, took up arms and stood to fight.
For those who stood, and those who fell, upon our many hallowed battlefields.
Especially for those who sacrificed all, while standing there as our shield.

I thanked God for this great country, that stands like a light upon a hill.
Its great light of personnel freedom, penetrates, oppression's darkness still.
But this great light, has begun to falter, from its steadfast beam of hope.
Not from its enemies abroad, but from those, who should cherish it most!

From those who stand and say, that our right's, are not needed here any more.
From those who would surrender our freedoms, to nations from other shore's.
From those who say in our fellow man. we should place our sacred trust.
From those who have forgotten this land was built on.
God, Gun's, and Gut's.


copyright © 2005 Larry A. Lile

My Wife's Father was a North Dakota cowboy who joined the Army in 1940. He fought in No Africa, Italy, and through France and Germany. He received a battlefield commission and was a First Lieutenant when he got out. After the war he returned to No Dakota and bought a ranch. He had passed before I met my wife so I never had the honor of meeting him. During my first visit to the ranch I wrote this.

A RANCH ON THE LITTLE MISSOURI

In the Badlands of North Dakota
on the Nation's northern side,
sits a little cow operation
that taught hard work and pride.

A war-weary hero bought it
right beside the "Little Missouri" stream.
He got right down to a rancher's life
and begin to build his dream.

He worked the hills and coulees
and begin to build his herd.
He built a life and reputation, a man
you could bank on his word.

He was a 'top rail' horseman
and a 'heeler' of renown.
He could rodeo with the best
but look out when he came to town!

He and his school teacher wife
faced life's challenges as they come,
they built a solid ranch operation,
raised three daughters and a son.

Blackie McCutchan is gone now,
like a part of America before.
A Soldier, a Cowboy, a Rancher,
the kind of man they don't make anymore.

He left a ranch operation
and a reputation steeped in pride.
A man from the Badlands of Dakota,
up on America's north side.

frf 9/21/2K8

__________________
Keep Shootin' and check 6

This is a very nice thread, I have enjoyed it. But, of course, publicly, I would deny all such things.

__________________
Wayne
Torn & Frayed

By Walter Porter Ross

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
where the race of men go by,
the men who are good, the men who are bad,
as good or as bad as I

Hey, chicks dig 'sensitive' guys.

Crossing the Bar

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson


Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea,


But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home.


Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I embark;


For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar.

__________________
Ukraine -- now more than ever

The Long Ride
by David Alan Trabue 9/11/02


He looked much the same as did me & you until you looked deep in his eyes
And there stirred a hint of his inner secret, a mission built up upon lies.
The lies that were told in the name of a god and the promise of future reward,
The lies that stole hope from a young man's life as they told him to pick up the sword.

And all of the people around him would pay as result of his masters who lied.
The plane headed down to the towers below as he pushed it into the long ride.

The day was so bright and so full of the chance for a better life as she began
her first day at work in the heart of the City, her life going well with her plan.
The 81st floor had a view most would envy, she thought as she set to her task.
For a second she saw him before the plane hit, in the cockpit his face like a mask.

As the white light appeared and her spirit departed it seemed so unfair that she died.
And the rumble began as the tumble of towers took her on that final long ride.

They knew it was desperate men that they faced and the chance almost crazy to take.
Yet they sensed in their hearts that to do nothing else was a choice that they just couldn't make.
Not knowing the plan of the men in the front, they had hints of the chaos around
As a phone in the plane told of towers in flame they went forward to see what they found.

In the cockpit the struggle took place in a minute, the details in history will hide.
But brave ones on board saved a nation more grief as they battled into their long ride.

The nation was shaken and outraged and pained, the numbness took hold right away.
Then decisiveness ruled as the battle was joined and the forces were led to the fray.
We were not just a people of softness and plenty as the enemy soon now would find.
We were strong in our anger and just in our cause and we focused as if of one mind.

Yes, the path we've begun is a new one world wide with the ending unknown til it's tried.
But with faith in the justice of right our companion, we'll boldly begin this long ride.

__________________
Made my dog proud

The Village Blacksmith
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

It`s really funny ,I never think twice about poetry, but now heres this post and just yesterday I got into a poem. It actually was a song by Lorrena McKennet called the "Highwayman". I don`t know how to post it here, but you can google it if you wish, and you`ll be very glad you did, IT`s great! The lyrics are displayed as she sings and they need to .

My brother had a female black lab whom he loved so much that he desired to pass on first, rather than have to put down his girl.

In 2004 he passed quietly on his front porch.

I wrote quite a few lines to handle the grief.

Later his wife suggested I write a few lines for the dog.

Gracie's poem

I watched for you today, with my nose against the gate
Where can you be, your truck is here, why are you so late
I need to see you walk to me, I need to lick your face
But you don't come to see me, you've left without a trace
Why have you gone, where can you be, I know you loved me so
We've been together for so long, why did you have to go
My days grow short, my hair is gray,my teeth have turned to yellow
Still I stand here by the gate, looking for my fancy fellow
I was your joy, your favorite dog, we had good times together
Now you're gone, here no more, out in the great forever

I used to write a lot when I was a teenager. I wrote this and hung it in my sons room when he was born.

Attached Images

uploadfromtaptalk1396211773283.jpg (95.4 KB, 13 views)

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

__________________
You're shy a few manners.

Whoa, Jack Flash, how did you get some of those words past the censor?

__________________
Wayne
Torn & Frayed

I gotta say that I don't like most poetry; I'd rather read prose. Kipling is the exception.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

by Lewis Carrol

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

Here's one I wrote years ago:

The Witch Of Packsaddle Hill
(With heartfelt apologies to Robert W. Service)

There are stories told 'round the campfire's gold,
In the creak of the winter's chill,
Of the radiant face and unholy grace
Of the Witch of Packsaddle Hill.
They speak of her powers in the bone-cold hours
From midnight to frozen dawn,
And tell of her skill to bend a man's will
And relentlessly lead him on.
They mimic her voice, which deprives men of choice
And drives them to die, or to kill,
But they can't match the tones that melt human bones
In the darkness on Packsaddle Hill.
As the fire burns lower the stories come slower
And some look around them in fear,
Afraid that they might in the midwinter night
Feel the perilous lady draw near.
Then each looks inside, where the dark secrets hide,
And assesses his weakness of will,
As he asks to be blessed, lest he not stand the test
Of the Witch of Packsaddle Hill.
And what of the witch, that hellhound bitch,
Who burns in men's minds like a flame?
She's long had her fill of Packsaddle Hill--
Now Sarah Lee is her name.

Mike Adkins

__________________
Oh well, what the hell.

I'm a pretty good poet, as noted above, and I love Robert Service's work, but there's another one I have to bring up: Dr. Suess.

When I was a kid my Mom used to read the Pale Green Pants and the Sneeches to me. Still have the book. I read it to my kids hundreds of times. I have both memorized. In a few months my first Grandchild is gonna be born. A boy.

Can't wait to do that all over again.
Jim

I like the whole thread, but maybe the borogroves are just a touch mimsier and the toves slithier than circumstances truly warrant this evening.

Can anybody do a villanelle? I've been trying to write one for 50 years and they all suck.

I didn't have anybody specific in mind, but here's a generic and very short rhyming obituary I wrote about notorious people when I was in high school:

Living, feared.
Dead, revered.

These days I'm short of reverence and long on concern, so I lump both categories of individual together. And the in-betweeners (I prefer the polite British term "incompletely deceased" to "Zombie") are the worst of all.

__________________
David Wilson

Sam Walter Foss
The House by the Side of the Road

THERE are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self-content;
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze the paths
Where highways never ran-
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by-
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat
Nor hurl the cynic's ban-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I see from my house by the side of the road
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife,
But I turn not away from their smiles and tears,
Both parts of an infinite plan-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead,
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
And still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.
Let me live in my house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by-
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish - so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Nobody doesn't like this poem!

You should write a sequel about the witch's younger sister, Little Debbie, and all the fellows she's helped bury over on Saddlebags Hill....

Kidding aside, great stuff, Mike!

__________________
Ukraine -- now more than ever

'THE POWER OF A DOG'
by Rudyard Kipling

THERE IS SORROW enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.



Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie --
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.



When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumors, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find -- it's your own affair --
But . . . you've given your heart to a dog to tear.



When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!);
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone -- wherever it goes -- for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.



We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long --
So why in -- Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

Tommy
by Rudyard Kipling

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees.

__________________
Real men love cats!

This is the one I was looking for last night and couldn't find:


Fuzzy-Wuzzy
by Rudyard Kipling

We've fought with many men acrost the seas,
An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not:
The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese;
But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot.
We never got a ha'porth's change of 'im:
'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses,
'E cut our sentries up at Sua"kim",
An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces.
So 'ere's "to" you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
We gives you your certificate, an' if you want it signed
We'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever you're inclined.

We took our chanst among the Khyber 'ills,
The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,
The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,
An' a Zulu "impi" dished us up in style:
But all we ever got from such as they
Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;
We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say,
But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oller.
Then 'ere's "to" you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and the kid;
Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went an' did.
We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it wasn't 'ardly fair;
But for all the odds agin' you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square.

'E 'asn't got no papers of 'is own,
'E 'asn't got no medals nor rewards,
So we must certify the skill 'e's shown
In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords:
When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush
With 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear,
An 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush
Will last an 'ealthy Tommy for a year.
So 'ere's "to" you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' your friends which are no more,
If we 'adn't lost some messmates we would 'elp you to deplore;
But give an' take's the gospel, an' we'll call the bargain fair,
For if you 'ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square!

'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,
An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead;
'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive,
An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead.
'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e's a lamb!
'E's a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,
'E's the on'y thing that doesn't give a ****
For a Regiment o' British Infantree!
So 'ere's "to" you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
An' 'ere's "to" you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air --
You big black boundin' beggar -- for you broke a British square!

__________________
Real men love cats!