Pet poems
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The Finger Puppets in the Attic Dollhouse
© Reibetanz John
If they, more petite than the mice whose flittings have pillaged their robes' sparkled trim,
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)
A Word From a Petitioner
© Pierpont John
What! our petitions spurned! The prayerOf thousands, -- tens of thousands, -- castUnheard, beneath your Speaker's chair!But ye will hear us, first or last
A White Rose
© O'Reilly John Boyle
The red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose breathes of love;Oh, the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove.
Living
© O'Reilly John Boyle
To toil all day and lie worn-out at night;To rise for all the years to slave and sleep,And breed new broods to do no other thingIn toiling, bearing, breeding -- life is thisTo myriad men, too base for man or brute
A Regular Sort of a Guy
© O'Neill Eugene
He fights where the fighting is thickest And keeps his high honor clean;From finish to start, he is sturdy of heart, Shunning the petty and mean;With his friends in their travail and sorrow, He is ever there to stand by,And hark to their plea, for they all know that he Is a regular sort of a guy
Darwin
© Robert Norwood
Eternal night and solitude of space;Breath as of vapour crimsoning to flame;Far constellations moving in the sameInvariable order and the paceThat times the sun, or earth's elliptic raceAmong the planets: Life--dumb, blind and lame--Creeping from form to form, until her shameBlends with the beauty of a human face!
Death can not claim what Life so hardly wonOut of her ancient warfare with the Void--O Man! whose day is only now begun,Go forth with her and do what she hath done;Till thy last enemy--Death--be destroyed,And earth outshine the splendour of the sun
Your Idea of Embracing Horror
© Moritz Albert Frank
Your idea of embracing horrorwas overwhelmed by the horror:
Paradise Regain'd: Book IV (1671)
© John Milton
PErplex'd and troubl'd at his bad successThe Tempter stood, nor had what to reply,Discover'd in his fraud, thrown from his hope,So oft, and the perswasive RhetoricThat sleek't his tongue, and won so much on Eve,So little here, nay lost; but Eve was Eve,This far his over-match, who self deceiv'dAnd rash, before-hand had no better weigh'dThe strength he was to cope with, or his own:But as a man who had been matchless heldIn cunning, over-reach't where least he thought,To salve his credit, and for very spightStill will be tempting him who foyls him still,And never cease, though to his shame the more;Or as a swarm of flies in vintage time,About the wine-press where sweet moust is powr'd,Beat off, returns as oft with humming sound;Or surging waves against a solid rock,Though all to shivers dash't, the assault renew,Vain battry, and in froth or bubbles end;So Satan, whom repulse upon repulseMet ever; and to shameful silence brought,Yet gives not o're though desperate of success,And his vain importunity pursues
Sunday, January 16, 2005
© Meyer Bruce
Say you managed just one word more on a sheet as paper-white as snow; a footprint, a miracle, it pointed ahead and others followed dutifully as pets stopping only to look forward and seize unfolding years perched on blue lines, wires carrying voices from eternity, never faltering for phrases, life, or song
Tom Deadlight (1810)
© Herman Melville
During a tempest encountered homeward-bound from the Mediterranean, a grizzled petty-officer, one of the two captains of the forecastle, dying at night in his hammock, swung in the sick-bay under the tiered gun-decks of the British Dreadnought, 98, wandering in his mind, though with glimpses of sanity, and starting up at whiles, sings by snatches his good-bye and last injunctions to two messmates, his watchers, one of whom fans the fevered tar with the flap of his old sou'-wester
Reunion
© McGimpsey David
What is my news? Well, since graduating,I've raked it in and I've tossed it off,I've plucked the green peach and sodded the pitch
