POEMS - With Tongue In Cheek

[ROBERT M.]

Gray, playing away so often IS a full time hobby

[Gray]

As the number of Tiger's conquests increases, I wonder if any ladies on this forum have something to own up to....?

Come on girls, confession is good for the soul.

PS Keith - loved your last poem.

[keithgood838]

Thanks Gray. Here's a poetic look at the prevailing white stuff.
Revel in the delightful rhythm (like a Matt Monro classic) of
the following by the most-loved American poet:

SNOWFLAKES

Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garment shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)


The following could be interpreted as, to paraphrase,
man's inhumanity to woman. However, that wasn't
the poem's destination when it embarked on its short
seasonal journey:

RURAL WINTER

Helpless before the unrelenting tide
of late December's haste, the countryside
looks up again at winter's frost-bright face
and shivers in his tentacled embrace.

The autumn left the landscape broken-hearted;
he stripped her finery - and then departed.
Recoiling now from freezing winds that blow,
she shudders into winter's gown of snow ...

Keith Good

[Lena & Harry Smith]

Don't know if his notches on the bedpost have any strict age limit Gray, but i suppose I could always offer my services on the golf course and volunteer to search for his ball.s... at a price.

Lena.

[Gray]

[ROBERT M.]

Tigers ball.s should be easy to spot Lena .........arn't they a different colour

[keithgood838]

Here's one for the munchkins, Gray.
It was written as a gift for the author's
children and the original was sold for $280,000 in 2006:

A VISIT FROM ST NICHOLAS

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar plums danced in their heads;
And Mamma in her w'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew in a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of midday to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
'Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!
On Comet! On Cupid! On Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash Away! Dash away all!
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like pedlar just opening his pack.
His eyes - how they twinkled, his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
and the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, I spite of myself.

A wink of his eyes and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight:
'Happy Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight.'

Clement Clarke Moore
(1779-1863, born USA)

[Gray]

Hi Keith

Thanks for taking the trouble posting this, it is a very familiar verse in our household, I've been reading it to Holly and Cate for the last week at bedtime.

[keithgood838]

Hi Gray, I should have known you would be familiar
with the poem. Anyway, my best wishes to you
and your family, and other forum friends,
for a very merry Christmas.
Keith

[keithgood838]

CHRISTMAS SONG

Above the weary waiting world,
Asleep in chill despair,
There breaks a sound of joyous bells
Upon the frosted air.
And o'er the humblest rooftree, lo,
A star is dancing in the snow.

What makes the yellow star to dance
Upon the brink of night?
What makes the breaking dawn to glow
So magically bright,
And all the Earth to be renewed
With infinite beatitude?

The singing bells, the throbbing star,
The sunbeams on the snow,
And the awakening heart that leaps
New ecstasy to know -
They are all dancing in the morn
Because a little child is born.

Bliss (William) Carman (1861-1929)

[keithgood838]

BIPOLARITY

Presenting his commercial countenance,
high profile Time breezily announces
his promises for the year ahead:
'I see your desires looming on the horizon,'
while he hides away the small print of dread.

But Fate's fickle ways make us aware
that round each carefree corner
lurks misery-motivated Despair,
so of our Time-directed dual destiny
we pray Delight continues to hold sway.

Keith Good


FORUM FRIEND

May your days be of delight and not despair
in the upcoming decade, year on year.

Keith

[keithgood838]

Dear Ed sent me this poetically-challenged (sorry Ed) verse,
which may rattle the pillboxes of the more mature citizens
of this parish. I have crowned the unpretentious little piece
with a Beegees-borrowed tin hat title:

STAYING ALIVE

A row of bottle son my shelf
Cause me to analyse myself.
One yellow pill I have to pop
Goes to my heart so it won't stop.
A little white one that I take
Goes to my hands so they won't shake.
The blue ones that I use a lot
Tell me I'm happy when I'm not.
The purple pill goes to my brain
And tells me that I have no pain.
The capsules tell me not to wheeze
Or cough or choke or even sneeze ...
The red ones, smallest of them all,
Go to my blood so I won't fall.
The orange ones, so big and bright,
Prevent my leg cramps in the night.
Such an array of brilliant pills
Helping to ease all kinds of ills.
But what I'd really like to know
Is how they all know where to go.

Keith

[ROBERT M.]

The last bit made me laugh Keith

[keithgood838]

UNDERGRADUATES

We tread on treacherous ice
when we embark upon
illicit affairs of the heart,
but in the current case
of one hapless Mrs Robinson
the upshot is life imitating art.

Keith

[ROBERT M.]

She has now stepped down as an MP after her affair with a ..............teenager