The Poem thread

marval

New member


Hi CT

No need to appologise, that was really funny.

Maybe I should do a poem, like we have in the stories. I write a verse and someone writes another verse and so on. That could be quite a laugh.

I loved your verse.


Margaret
 

intet_at_tabe

Rear Admiral Appassionata (Ret.)
"Late For School"

I got up late for school today,
And nearly missed the bus!
I hurried down the stairs,
Wolfed my toast, and caused a fuss!

I quickly threw books in my bag,
My pens, my lunch and shorts.
Grabbed my coat from out the cupboard,
Took my bat and ball for sports.

I slid across the kitchen floor,
And hopped around the cat!
Then expertly rolled over,
Jumped back up and grabbed my hat!

I belted out of our front door,
Spun round and swung it shut.
Saw the bus was waiting for me,
I felt I had time to strut!

I climbed aboard and then froze still,
And knew that things weren't right!
My friends fell down in fits of fun,
And pointed with delight!

My face went red, I couldn't breathe,
For in my haste I knew!
I'd forgotten to wear trousers,
Jumper, shirt, my socks and shoes!

©2003 Gareth Lancaster
 

marval

New member
The Last Ride Together



I said---Then, dearest, since 'tis so,
Since now at length my fate I know,
Since nothing all my love avails,
Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails,
Since this was written and needs must be---
My whole heart rises up to bless
Your name in pride and thankfulness!
Take back the hope you gave,---I claim
---Only a memory of the same,
---And this beside, if you will not blame,
Your leave for one more last ride with me.

II.

My mistress bent that brow of hers;
Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs
When pity would be softening through,
Fixed me, a breathing-while or two,
With life or death in the balance: right!
The blood replenished me again;
My last thought was at least not vain:
I and my mistress, side by side
Shall be together, breathe and ride,
So, one day more am I deified.
Who knows but the world may end tonight?

III.

Hush! if you saw some western cloud
All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed
By many benedictions---sun's
And moon's and evening-star's at once---
And so, you, looking and loving best,
Conscious grew, your passion drew
Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,
Down on you, near and yet more near,
Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!---
Thus leant she and lingered---joy and fear!
Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

IV.

Then we began to ride. My soul
Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll
Freshening and fluttering in the wind.
Past hopes already lay behind.
What need to strive with a life awry?
Had I said that, had I done this,
So might I gain, so might I miss.
Might she have loved me? just as well
She might have hated, who can tell!
Where had I been now if the worst befell?
And here we are riding, she and I.

V.

Fail I alone, in words and deeds?
Why, all men strive and who succeeds?
We rode; it seemed my spirit flew,
Saw other regions, cities new,
As the world rushed by on either side.
I thought,---All labour, yet no less
Bear up beneath their unsuccess.
Look at the end of work, contrast
The petty done, the undone vast,
This present of theirs with the hopeful past!
I hoped she would love me; here we ride.

VI.

What hand and brain went ever paired?
What heart alike conceived and dared?
What act proved all its thought had been?
What will but felt the fleshly screen?
We ride and I see her bosom heave.
There's many a crown for who can reach,
Ten lines, a statesman's life in each!
The flag stuck on a heap of bones,
A soldier's doing! what atones?
They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.
My riding is better, by their leave.

VII.

What does it all mean, poet? Well,
Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell
What we felt only; you expressed
You hold things beautiful the best,
And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.
'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then,
Have you yourself what's best for men?
Are you---poor, sick, old ere your time---
Nearer one whit your own sublime
Than we who never have turned a rhyme?
Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.

VIII.

And you, great sculptor---so, you gave
A score of years to Art, her slave,
And that's your Venus, whence we turn
To yonder girl that fords the burn!
You acquiesce, and shall I repine?
What, man of music, you grown grey
With notes and nothing else to say,
Is this your sole praise from a friend,
``Greatly his opera's strains intend,
``Put in music we know how fashions end!''
I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine.

IX.

Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate
Proposed bliss here should sublimate
My being---had I signed the bond---
Still one must lead some life beyond,
Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.
This foot once planted on the goal,
This glory-garland round my soul,
Could I descry such? Try and test!
I sink back shuddering from the quest.
Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?
Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.

X.

And yet---she has not spoke so long!
What if heaven be that, fair and strong
At life's best, with our eyes upturned
Whither life's flower is first discerned,
We, fixed so, ever should so abide?
What if we still ride on, we two
With life for ever old yet new,
Changed not in kind but in degree,
The instant made eternity,---
And heaven just prove that I and she
Ride, ride together, for ever ride?

Robert Browning
(1812-1889)
 

intet_at_tabe

Rear Admiral Appassionata (Ret.)
Here is another one of mine.

Oh to be.


Oh to be a regal swan
How gracefully they swim
Gliding down the rivers
Feathers neat and trim.

Oh to be an eagle
Soaring up on high
Coasting on the wind of life
Master of the sky.

Oh to be a lion
King of the jungle he
Prowling through the undergrowth
Who will his next prey be?

Oh to be a giraffe
With a neck so tall
Surveying all around him
Reaching the high leaves all.

Oh to be a monkey
Swinging in the trees
Eating coconuts and bananas
And playing as they please.

Oh a lovely animal
I would like to be
Living a life of freedom
That will do for me.

Ms. Margaret :tiphat::clap:

You should spend some more time, writing all your poetry down and entering it here. It was very nice Ms. Margaret.
 

intet_at_tabe

Rear Admiral Appassionata (Ret.)
The Last Ride Together


Robert Browning
(1812-1889)

Great poetry Ms. Margaret :tiphat::clap:

Robert Browning - famous like few.

The Weary Blues, by Langston Hughes


Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway . . .
He did a lazy sway . . .
To the tune o' those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man's soul.
O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan--
"Ain't got nobody in all this world,
Ain't got nobody but ma self.
I's gwine to quit ma frownin'
And put ma troubles on the shelf."

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more--
"I got the Weary Blues
And I can't be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can't be satisfied--
I ain't happy no mo'
And I wish that I had died."
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.
 
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marval

New member
Well I have done it, here is the first verse of a poem. Who wants to write the next verse?

I saw a little squirrel
Climbing down the trees
Hunting on the ground for nuts
To nibble with his cheese.
 

methodistgirl

New member
If you listen close at night, you will hear the creatures of the dark, all
of them sacred-the owls, the crickets, the frogs, the night birds and you
will hear beautiful songs. Songs you have never heard before. Listen with
your heart. Never stop listening.-Henry Quick Bear

judy tooley
 

marval

New member
Oh my said the squirrel
With some snorts and some tuts
I have a strange feeling
That I've lost my nuts (Acorns for those with dirty minds)
 

marval

New member
The squirrel went hunting
He could not be late
He needed those acorns
So he could hibernate
 
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