There is a lot reading (and writing 😀 ) among this group of people!
Does anybody else appreciate poetry?
Throughout school, poetry remained a ambivalent form of reading to me!
But in my asphasia classes a grad student got me interested in this form of communication! The rhyme and rhythem is very interesting, and seems to be very difficult.
Anybody have an interest in poetry, and know of any related to firearms and/or related subjects?

__________________
Wherever my mind isn't
Jim

I've always been interested in poetry and prose in English, French, and Latin. As a high school student, I read Latin poetry and prose as it was meant to be heard - in iambic pentameter. While the subject matter was never firearms per se, as they didn't exist, the struggle of good over evil was routinely featured.


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

I like poetry.

There once was a girl from Nantucket.

__________________
Don

Iambic Pentameter.

__________________
Still Running Against the Wind

You may find some gun-related poetry in the works of Rudyard Kipling. Graphic descriptions of violence; parental discretion advised.

__________________
de minimus non curat lex

I like Kipling.

Though we beat you and we flayed you
By the living God that made you
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din


When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains
And the women come out to cut up the remains
Just roll to your rifle and blow out you brains
And go to your God like a soldier


For he shot a comrade sleeping, he shot him in his face
And we're hanging Danny Deever in the morning

__________________
I always take precautions

I've never heard THAT one!

The limerick is my favorite form of poetry. When I first got on the internet, I got an email message from the Nantucket Limerick Society, out of the blue, asking for my best. I figured what the heck, and let rip with my most graphic. Well, it was my sister, who was bored at the time, who sent me the request! She was horrified but laughing!

My second favorite form is the Haiku, preferably if it's about Spam.

Mary had a little watch
She swallowed it one day
So Mary took a laxative
To pass the time away

The laxative it didn't work
The time it would not pass
So if you want to know the time
Just look up Mary's



Uncle, 'cause he has a watch too.

__________________
Keep on Chooglin'

As I suspect many here appreciate there are fates worse than death... And sometimes it's better to die with dignity than live without the ability to soar.

Hurt Hawk--Robinson Jeffers

I

The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,
The wing trails like a banner in defeat,

No more to use the sky forever but live with famine
And pain a few days: cat nor coyote
Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons.

He stands under the oak-bush and waits
The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom
And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.

He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.
The curs of the day come and torment him
At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head,

The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.
The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those
That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant.

You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him;
Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him;
Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him.

II

I'd sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk;
but the great redtail
Had nothing left but unable misery
From the bone too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved.

We had fed him six weeks, I gave him freedom,
He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death,
Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old
Implacable arrogance.

I gave him the lead gift in the twilight.
What fell was relaxed, Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but what
Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its rising
Before it was quite unsheathed from reality.

__________________
No school like the old school.

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion – put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection

__________________
No school like the old school.

There is a similarity between writing a poem and writing a proof in mathematics, not only in the physical form (rhyme scheme, format) but how each is written step-by-step.
Succinctness, efficiency, lack of redundancy, validity, choice of words, flow are important in each.

Reading a well-written poem is as exciting to me as reading a well-written, valid mathematical argument.

As a previous poster remarked, Limericks are among my favorites too................here's one I've posted before.........

A giddy young trollop from Yale
Had her prices tattooed on her tail.
And on her behind, for the sake of the blind,
Another list printed in braille.

Dave

Thanks BigCityChief, Iambic pentameter, is a new term for me. New words and concepts help me with my asphasia. Way back when, you know just after the Romans, I had to take Latin for multiple years in grade school, but must have been drifting the days that was discussed in class. Sort of like the Visgoths or better known as the Goths learning a new language, but remaining hidden in the forest? I do not remember the term, Iambic pentameter, but could conjugate verbs pretty good. Too bad a lot of that was lost with the asphasia? 😞 Do much better with pictures, but words are sometimes missing! 😖

__________________
Wherever my mind isn't
Jim

You're a poet
and didn't know it
but your feet show it;
they're Longfellows.

My Dad was very much into poems and could recite most any one of them from memory. He also had a command of the entire English language.
One of his favorites was this, which I recited over his burial. (He was buried under a really nice big tree.)


Trees - Poem by Joyce Kilmer



I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.


Joyce Kilmer

__________________
Still Running Against the Wind

In stillness...my mind swirls chaos.
In chaos...thoughts are stilled.
Contentment foments. Resentment complements.
I am a stranger in familiar surroundings--a familiar face among alien throngs.
I am as transparent as morning mist, yet no one sees through me, knows me...not even I.
For when I think I am known, what was me is gone, and what I shall be remains unknown.

__________________
Just pretend this is witty.

Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

Beans, beans, the musical fruit

The House by the Side of the Road


There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the peace of their self-content;
There are souls, like stars, that swell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze their 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,
Or 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 nor their tears
Both parts of an infinite plan;
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
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.


Sam Walter Foss

... and well written prose that resembles poetry. I like to hear reading aloud. This is a nearly lost part of our culture. My wife and I used read to each other before we sleep, not as much lately as our schedules conflict, but we still do it.

Shakespeare, Robert Frost is up there, John Donne, Lewis Carroll, Shel Silverstein. I really like the way Philip Glass sets Alan Ginsberg's poetry to music.


For light reading I even enjoy doggerel. (Ogden Nash is great)

I've always liked this:

Humorous Poems: III. Parodies: Imitations
The Modern Hiawatha
Anonymous

He killed the noble Mudjokivis.
Of the skin he made him mittens,
Made them with the fur side inside,
Made them with the skin side outside.
He, to get the warm side inside,
Put the inside skin side outside;
He, to get the cold side outside,
Put the warm side fur side inside.
That ’s why he put the fur side inside,
Why he put the skin side outside,
Why he turned them inside outside.

__________________
"He was kinda funny lookin'"

Chef
Church
Christmas
No wonder the English language screws with people's minds.

I suppose that is one freeing element of poetry.

If you want to play by the rules, feel free Mr. Iambic Pentameter.

If you want
ignore the rules
feel free
like e.e.

Personally, I think the shef should go to church at Kristmas.

Just pretend this is witty.

__________________
Just pretend this is witty.

A firearm plays a prominent role in Richard Corey.

Children's poetry. And it has S&W in it!

Attached Images

Pearls SW.jpg (78.9 KB, 36 views)

CHEF is French, not English.

__________________
I always take precautions

"Chef" is indeed French in origin. Most Americanized "English" words find their origin in foreign languages. However, if you look in an "English" dictionary, you will find the word "chef". Even Webster has acknowledged its assimilation into English. The manner in which I used the word was utilized within the context of the English language. I can assure you that I do not speak French.

Now excuse me while I put my wellies in the boot and drive to the theatre.

Just pretend this is witty.

__________________
Just pretend this is witty.

[Buffalo Bill 's]
BY E. E. CUMMINGS

Buffalo Bill ’s
defunct
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
Jesus

he was a handsome man
and what i want to know is
how do you like your blue-eyed boy
Mister Death

__________________
No school like the old school.

You should've used "Chief" as an example!


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

I was afraid you would start in with more math.

Just pretend this is witty.

__________________
Just pretend this is witty.

That was my mother's absolutely favorite poem. I have heard her recite it many, many times. She passed in 2009. Thanks for the memories, buddy.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
I'm schizophrenic,
And so am I.

A very minor character, who has been treating Lady Macbeth's mental disturbances, realizes that it's time to get out of there:

Were I from Dunsinane away and clear,
Profit again should hardly draw me here.

A two line poem speaks volumes.

__________________
"He was kinda funny lookin'"

This is my absolute favorite.

John

The Cremation of Sam McGee

By Robert W. Service

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic 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.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic 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.

__________________
- Cogito, ergo armatus sum -

John: I was privileged to read "The Cremation of Sam McGee" to my wife while actually on the shore of Lake Lebarge. The only aspect of this that could have been better is if it had been the dead of winter, alas instead it was the peak of summer. Well, it was still good. And after all we had already experienced two winters in Alaska, so we knew good and well just how old Sam felt. .............. :-)

In middle and high school we had to memorize a few. Up until a few years ago I wrote pretty regularly. I had found it a great outlet for creativity, and stress. I had started to number them but between a few job changes and the moves, they've been stored and separated. Maybe one day I'll get back to writing regularly..

I'm actually surprised that no one had brought up, The Charge of the Light Brigade by Tennison

1.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

2.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

3.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

4.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

5.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

6.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.

__________________
John 14:6, Luke 21:11

Paladin beat me to it: The Cremation of Sam McGee.

__________________
So many S&W's, so few funds!!

Rap songs are about as close to poetic as kids get now days. If you call that poetry? I sure don't! But if look at any major Rap Stars bio, it will list poetry?

__________________
Live From Music City USA

Great poem. "There's but to do and die"

I read about the real battle. They were to attack a retreating group of Russian soldiers and artillery but instead were told to ride through a narrow pass into a ring of another thoroughly prepared defensive position. There's a lot more to the story. Worth looking into.

__________________
"He was kinda funny lookin'"

The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner - 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.

High Flight - John Gillespie Magee, Jr

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, --and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of --Wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air...
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark or even eagle flew --
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

I used to stay up to watch this sign off on the TV. Every time I heard it I got chill bumps.

The Eagle - Alfred, Lord Tennyson

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

A little humor

The Bird - Henry Gibson

I saw a little birdie, lying in the snow
His wing was broke, he could not go.
I lured him near with a crust of bread
And then I smashed that birdie's head.

__________________
"He was kinda funny lookin'"

Beautiful poem indeed. And indirectly, it may have killed more people that any other piece of poetry.

The controversy about responsibility immediately afterward, which treated the Charge as the pointless disaster it was, got quickly forgotten. Thanks to Tennyson's brilliance, what people remembered was the grandeur and glory and honor. Generations of Victorians just got drunk on this stuff, this deceptively distorted view of combat. And with this image of war they rushed to the flags in the summer of 1914, to have ice-cream in Berlin in 15 days, only to find themselves ice-cold in no-man's-land in 15 minutes (to quote the immortal Blackadder).

Some fine stuff here. I particularly liked the Berry piece, but he is something of a hero of mine. He lives near here. Amazing character.

The Jeffers piece was moving as well.

So many great ones: Frost, Wilbur, Dickinson, Sandburg, Eliot, and on and on.

My all-time favorite limerick was written, believe it or not, 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.

__________________
Oh well, what the hell.

I read and wrote a lot of poetry in high school. I enjoyed it, but I read and write a lot of law these days and when I get home, this forum has been about all the additional literature that I can stand. Edgar Allan Poe, Wordsworth, Sylvia Plath, Robert Frost, and EE Cummings were among my favorites.

Rudyard Kipling


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!


Also Kipling's "The young British soldier" too long to post, but, look it up,
The verse about Afganistan's Plains was quoted in an earlier post.

"Sea Fever" by John Mansfield
"Charge of the Light Brigade" Alfred Lord Tennyson
In "Flander's Fields"by John McCrea

And "Invictus" by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
William Ernest Henley

There is a lot of great poetry out there, too much to list
Steve W

'The Village Blacksmith' in elementary school.

I remember the smartest kid in the class (now a doctor) recited "Hiawatha" to our amazement"

A big jokester recited "The Owl and the *****cat" in elementary school while we stifled laughter and the progressive young (good looking) teacher tried to look serious.

__________________
"He was kinda funny lookin'"

The more you eat, the more you toot!

I HAVE to mention these:

JABBERWOCKY
Lewis Carroll
(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

`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.


The Walrus and the Carpenter - Lewis Carroll

"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."

I put them out there because I've had people react strongly and want to know more about these fascinating poems. Or 'pomes' as Bullwinkle J. Moose would say.

__________________
"He was kinda funny lookin'"

...the more you toot, the better you feel...

Good stuff here,I shall return!

__________________
Hue 68 noli me tangere

So eat beans, beans for every meal!! (Mamma Rositta's refrieds.)

Invoking General MacArthur, vonn?


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

Or--The more you toot the more you scoot.

I neither like or dislike poems. Every now and then I come across one that makes my fancy.

The Blue Sky, by: John Wayne.

The sky is blue
the grass is green
the hell with them
join the Marines.

One I partially remember is:

Damn the torpedoes bold Farragut said, damn the torpedoes full speed ahead.
And lashed to his rigging with vigor and vim, grapeshot and canister never touched him.

Sadly, ive forgotten the rest.