POEMS - With Tongue In Cheek

[keithgood838]

SALEROOM IRONY


'Oh, I love that exquisite globe of the Earth,'
the sold-on-it-atheist cried,
'was it made contemporaneously?'

'Not at all,' his believer friend blithely replied,
'it just happened spontaneously.'


Keith Good

[keithgood838]

One hopes the Bard's beloved did not persevere with this piece
and missed the concluding couplet; or perhaps they (scholars
claim many of the sonnets were paeans to a he) did,
consequently Shakespeare had to write a further 153 to make amends:


My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun:
Coral is far more red than her lips' red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun:
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks:
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go -
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.


William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)

[keithgood838]

CHRISTMAS POST

Like welcome snowfall,
the daily flurries brightened our lives
and whitened our hallway
in the Advent of the biggest big day.

Now, post-Epiphany, we wince
at the thudding of financial hailstones
hammering home reckoning dismay:
the funds-depleting price we have to pay.

Curmudgeonly January stays true
to his cold-hearted reputation;
come, Spring, post-haste and drive away
daily delivered skies of grey ...

Keith Good

[keithgood838]

Here's one by our shrinking violet friend, Anon:

SPRING IN THE BRONX

Spring is sprung,
Duh grass is riz,
I wonder where dem boidies is?

Duh little boids is on the wing -
But that's absoid,
Duh little wing is on the boid.

Keith

PS The sooner Spring is sprung, the better.

[keithgood838]

I guess we have all been cornered by a bore at a party
at some time or other:

WISHES OF AN ELDERLY MAN, WISHED
AT A GARDEN PARTY, JUNE 1914

I wish I loved the Human Race;
I wish I loved its silly face;
I wish I loved the way it walks;
I wish I loved the way it talks;
And when I'm introduced to one
I wish I thought What Jolly Fun!

Sir Walter Raleigh (1861-1922)

Keith

PS Ralegh was the original spelling
of the author's name. (Not many people
know that.)

[keithgood838]

For this forum's bonnie wee lass, and the pride
of the Church of Scotland:

YESTREEN I HAD A PINT O' WINE

Testreen I had a pint o'wine,
A place where body saw na';
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine
The gowden locks of Anna.
The hungry Jew in wilderness
Rejoicing o'er his manna,
Was naething to my hinny bliss
Upon the lips of Anna.

Ye monarchs, tak the east and west,
Frae Indus to Savannah!
Gie me within my straining grasp
The melting form of Anna.
There I'll despise imperial charms,
An Empress or Sultana,
While dying raptures in her arms
I give and take my Anna!

Awa, thou flaunting god o' day!
Awa, thou pale Diana!
Ilk star, gae hide thy twinkling ray
When I'm to meet my Anna.
Come, in thy raven plumage, night!
Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a';
And bring an angel pen to write
My transports wi' my Anna.

ANNA, THY CHARMS

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire,
And waste my soul with care;
But ah! How bootless to admire,
When fated to despair!

Yet in thy presence, lovely fair,
To hope may be forgiven;
For sure, 'twere impious to despair
So much in sight of heaven.

ROBERT BURNS (Born 25 January 1759)

[keithgood838]

THE TOURNAMENT TERROR

On that fateful table tennis night
darling Clotho decreed I would win;
in the cauldron of skill called the premier division,
I played, as they say, out of my skin.
Deadly, cobra-strike backhands,
fizzing spins electrifying the ball;
backswing-powered bullet forehands,
and no pimples phobia at all.
The final was the proverbial stroll
courtesy each killer stroke -
on hearing the champion's proud drum-roll,
startled creature, I awoke ...

Keith Good

Note. For the unitiated, long pimples are the scourge
of the game, thankfully soon to be banned.
Because of the weird spin imparted by the rubber
(not the player), it gives its user an unfair advantage.

[keithgood838]

To continue the sporting theme ...
The following is a sad story of misplaced faith and a consequent
misplaced wager on the outcome of a road bowling contest on
the quiet roads of West Cork. A 'sop' is a clump of grass placed
by a bowler's seconds as a marker at which to aim:

BOWLED OVER

The bowl that won the score
just ran and ran ...
It brought a jig from one
far distant fan,
and the symmetry with which
it 'split the sop'
suggested God touched it,
then let it drop.
It made a guard of honour
of each ditch,
and newly slanted the phrase
'perfect pitch',
while the direct way in which
it shot that mile
likened it to a lazer-led missile.
Its passage was proclaimed
with many a shout
and one collective roar
as it petered out ...
And the worst throw in this tale
of road bowling?
I backed the other bowler -
that's the sting!

Keith Good

[keithgood838]

CURTAIN CALL

Life can seem like an audition -
I've done some of those,
I found myself topping the bill
in one of the shows.
So when this engagement is ending,
I pray to God: 'Please,
don't let me feel it would be better
with just one reprise!'

Keith Good

[keithgood838]

Here our old friend, Anon, is beating the drum
for harassed housewives everyhere:

ON A TIRED HOUSEWIFE

Here lies a poor woman who was always tired,
She lived in a house where help wasn't hired:
Her last words on Earth were: 'Dear friends, I am going
To where there's no cooking, or washing or sewing,
For everything there is exact to my wishes
For where they don't eat there's no washing of dishes.
I'll be where loud anthems will always be ringing,
But having no voice I'll be quit of the singing.
Don't mourn for me now, don't mourn for me never,
I am going to do nothing for ever and ever.'

Keith

[keithgood838]

Today we pay a visit to the the cliche bank,
to deposit 'tongue in cheek' and draw out
'love is in the air'.

TOGETHERNESS TIME

It is at the feast of Saint Valentine
where our winter-cold world uplifts;
when toasts are proposed in love-red wine
followed by an exchange of gifts.

Keith Good

[keithgood838]

Appearances notwithstanding, there is nothing
tongue in cheek about this profound love poem
whose appeal remains undiminished by the attritional
attentions of Old Father Time:

I do not love thee

I do not love thee! - No! I do not love thee!
And yet when thou are absent I am sad;
And envy even the bright blue sky above thee
Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.

I do not love thee! - Yet, I know not why
What'er thou dost seems still well done, to me;
And often in my solitude I sigh
That those I do love are not more like thee!

I do not love thee! - Yet, when thou art gone
I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear),
Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone
Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.

I do not love thee! - Yet thy speaking eyes
With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue,
Between me and the midnight heaven arise
Oftener that any eyes I ever knew.

I know I do not love thee! - Yet alas!
Others will scarcely trust my candid heart;
And oft I catch them smiling as they pass
Because they see me gazing where thou art.

CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON (1808-1876)

Keith

[mariana44]

I have never read that one before , Keith-it is lovely. Thanks for bringing it to us.

[Gray]

I haven't read that before either, Keith.

It's lovely, thanks.

[keithgood838]

Thanks Mariana and Gray.
It is my favourite love poem;
I guess I can put you both down
as a couple of romantics, like myself.
Keith