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The Grey-Eyed King
© Anna Akhmatova
Hail! Hail to thee, o, immovable pain!
The young grey-eyed king had been yesterday slain.
Stones from Ashbourn Churchyard
© Reibetanz John
Jesse Quantrill, MillerThe toll taken, the grist drest:Here the bran, the flour with Christ.
Parable
© Reibetanz John
The first time I appreciatedthe story of the prodigal sonand how -- to the chagrinof the righteous brother who'd stayedat home minding his mannersalong with the company store --the father laid on dinnerwith cakes and wine galorewhen the selfish oaf went brokeand came running home for a blessing,instead of giving him a dressing-down, and a swift kick,
was when, a father myself,I tried my hand at bakingangels: thin, delicatemiracles -- performed without breakinga single wing! Forty-six,and then the last two felland shattered
Daily Bread
© Reibetanz John
We have cried often when we have given them the little victualling wehad to give them; we had to shake them, and they have fallen to sleepwith the victuals in their mouths many a time
Ampersand
© Reibetanz John
'He thought it had only been put thereto finish off th' alphabet, like, thoughampus-and (&) would ha' done as well.' (George Eliot: Adam Bede)
On Being Challenged to Write an Epigram in the Manner of Herrick
© Raleigh Walter Alexander
To Griggs, that learned man, in many a bygone session,His kids were his delight, and physics his profession;Now Griggs, grown old and glum, and less intent on knowledge,Physics himself at home, and sends his kids to college
Soliloquy of a Maiden Aunt
© Radford Dollie
The ladies bow, and partners set,And turn around and pirouette And trip the Lancers.
Pack up your Troubles in your Old Kit-bag
© Powell George Henry
Private Perks is a funny little codger With a smile, a funny smile
The Coming of Eve
© Piatt Sarah Morgan Bryan
God gave the world to Man in the Beginning. Alone in Eden there and lord of allHe mused: "There may be one thing worth the winning. (All else is mine.) When will that Apple fall?
The Splendid Shilling
© Philips John
-- -- Sing, Heavenly Muse,Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhime,A Shilling, Breeches, and Chimera's Dire.
Bleinheim, a Poem
© Philips John
From low and abject themes the grov'ling museNow mounts aërial, to sing of armsTriumphant, and emblaze the martial actsOf Britain's hero; may the verse not sinkBeneath his merits, but detain a whileThy ear, O Harley, (though thy country's wealDepends on thee, though mighty Anne requiresThy hourly counsels) since with ev'ry artThy self adorn'd, the mean essays of youthThou wilt not damp, but guide, wherever found,The willing genius to the muses' seat:Therefore thee first, and last, the muse shall sing
A Farewell Entitled to the Famous and Fortunate Generals of our English Forces
© George Peele
Have done with care, my hearts, abord amain,With stretching sail to plow the swelling waves
Song
© John Howard Payne
'Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam,Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home
Come, Let Us Die Like Men
© Patten George Washington
Roll out the banner on the air, And draw your swords of flame,The gathering squadrons fast prepare To take the field of fame!In serried ranks, your columns dun Close up along the glen;If we must die ere set of sun, Come, let us die like men
Portrait of a Poet with a Console TV in Hand
© Ortiz Simon Joseph
I bought that TV at John's TVon College Avenue in San Diegoand lugged it all the way homeon the Greyhound bus.
A Satire, in Imitation of the Third of Juvenal
© John Oldham
Though much concern'd to leave my dear old friend,I must however his design commendOf fixing in the country: for were IAs free to choose my residence, as he;The Peak, the Fens, the Hundreds, or Land's End,I would prefer to Fleet Street, or the Strand
Where the Brumbies Come to Water
© William Henry Ogilvie
There's a lonely grave half hidden where the blue-grass droops above,And the slab is rough that marks it, but we planted it for love;There's a well-worn saddle hanging in the harness-room at homeAnd a good old stock-horse waiting for the steps that never come;There's a mourning rank of riders closing in on either handO'er the vacant place he left us -- he, the best of all the band,Who is lying cold and silent with his hoarded hopes unwonWhere the brumbies come to water at the setting of the sun
