Poets' Corner

[karl]

some may find this interesting:

INVESTIGATIVE JUDGMENT

To inquire of imprecautions and inconsistencies

And improper inclinations and incongruities

And idyllic incantations of incredibilities

And introspective interludes of informalities;

To interrogate the innocent irregularities

And isolate ironic irrationalities

And interpolate internal individualities

And incapsulate impetuous improprieties;

To inspect the invocations of inferiorities

And impulsive inspirations of intangibilities

And intended indications of irrelativities

And incidentally implied impossibilities

Is to imitate infusions of infallibilities

And illustrate iconoclastic ideologies

And instigate ignition of innate impieties

And investigate the judgment of all infinities.

I hope this stuff isn't copywrited.

[Guest]

And if it is?

[oldsailor29]

Everything is protected for fifty years under copyright laws, and so it is.

[Guest]

Nobody's making any money off of it.

[oldsailor29]

Nobody's making any money off of it.

even so, it is illegal to copy or use without permission.

[karl]

Originally Posted By: Richard Holbrook

Nobody's making any money off of it.

even so, it is illegal to copy or use without permission.

None of my rhyme is copywrited

And my machine is floppy blighted.

So just feel free to cut and paste

To demonstrate your lack of taste.

[abelisle]

After the dazzle of Day

After the dazzle of day is gone,

Only the dark dark night shows

to my eyes the stars;

After the clangor of organ majestic,

or chorus, or perfect band,

Silent, athwart my soul, moves the

symphony true.

Walt Whitman

You can hear this to music if you listen to Fred Hersch's interpretation of Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass". I also speak briefly about this in my blog:

http://abelisle.blogspot.com

This brief poem makes me think both literally and figuratively, just what happens to us when "the dazzle of day is done?"

Another poem that comes to mind as I think about this one is this one by Dylan Thomas:

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Alex

[oldsailor29]

None of my rhyme is copywrited

And my machine is floppy blighted.

So just feel free to cut and paste

To demonstrate your lack of taste.

Karl - It is protected by the Copyright Act of 1976, as are all the poems which are published here. But I was just wondering why you would hope they were not.

Copyright law in the U.S. is governed by federal statute, namely the Copyright Act of 1976. The Copyright Act prevents the unauthorized copying of a work of authorship. Copyrights can be registered in the Copyright Office in the Library of Congress, but newly created works do not need to be registered. In fact, it is no longer necessary to even place a copyright notice on a work for it to be protected by copyright law.

[karl]

Originally Posted By: karl

None of my rhyme is copywrited

And my machine is floppy blighted.

So just feel free to cut and paste

To demonstrate your lack of taste.

Karl - It is protected by the Copyright Act of 1976, as are all the poems which are published here. But I was just wondering why you would hope they were not.

Copyright law in the U.S. is governed by federal statute, namely the Copyright Act of 1976. The Copyright Act prevents the unauthorized copying of a work of authorship. Copyrights can be registered in the Copyright Office in the Library of Congress, but newly created works do not need to be registered. In fact, it is no longer necessary to even place a copyright notice on a work for it to be protected by copyright law.

I'm just kidding, long-time aqueous navigator.

Nevertheless, I hereby give anybody permission to copy AND SELL (if someone, by some chance, is willing to pay you for it,) any poetry I post here.

[oldsailor29]

ALEX

THANK you for both poems

dgrimm60

Those are great poems, both public domain Karl, in case you were concerned about copyright protection. Here is one which is not in public domain yet, but it is legal for me to publish. And by the way, anyone who reads my poems and wishes to copy them, has my permission to do so.

SILVER BULLET

If you don't know where you are,

And you don't know where you've been,

And you don't know where to go,

It's silver bullet time again.

If you are building on the sand,

Sinking in the sea of sin,

And you need a helping hand,

It's silver bullet time again.

Looking for the bread of life,

You can tell you're near the end

By the universal strife.

It's silver bullet time again.

The silver bullet is the kiss

That heals the hidden source within

Of mortal pain and emptiness.

It's silver bullet time again.

If confusion takes your day,

And you don't remember when

You didn't feel the need to say,

"It's silver Bullet time again,"

It's silver bullet time again.

Look around yourself, my friend.

Things are getting out of hand.

It's silver bullet time again.

[oldsailor29]

BROKEN HEARTS

"These broken hearts are not for sale," Quietly I said.

"And why would someone want a heart, heavier than lead?"

"I'd think you'd want a cheerful and unblemished heart instead

Of one of these old broken hearts, ripped and stomped, and left for dead."

He said, "I have the balm, to heal the broken hearts.

I'll take away the deadly pain,

And give them sunshine for the rain,

And make them new again."

I said, "I've heard of you before,

Gently knocking at the door

Of any heart within your reach,

To touch and heal, to teach and preach

The Son of man forevermore."

"I'm glad you came for hearts today,

From places near, and far away.

I have been saving them for you,

And that is why I always say

'These broken hearts are not for sale.'

They're yours for healing anyway."

"I know the pain of a broken heart. I know it well," He said.

"For I have given all my love, and my love was rejected.

My heart was broken on he cross, and by the world neglected.

But from my grave and sabbath rest, nearly undetected

I ascended to a place where hearts are well protected.

And now I'm back for others who were

Ripped and stomped and left for dead.

And many will rejoice when they feel the gentle rain

Of the happy tears of those who find the joy of love again."

I couldn't say another word,

For it is very clear,

I'm in the presence of the Lord,

And all the saints are here.

I pray for His eye salve, that I may see my true condition.

I pray for His purest gold, tried in the fires of hell.

I pray for His pure white robe, to keep me from perdition.

I pray for His love, within my heart to dwell.

I only pray for love, to take my heart and mend it.

I only pray for love, to take my pain and end it.

I only pray for love, and peace, and blessings from above.

To heal my broken heart, I only pray for love. Amen.

[Guest]

Who wrote that one old sailor?

[karl]

Gus is the Cat at the Theatre Door.

His name, as I ought to have told you before,

Is really Asparagus. That's such a fuss

To pronounce, that we usually call him just Gus.

His coat's very shabby, he's thin as a rake,

And he suffers from palsy that makes his paw shake.

Yet he was, in his youth, quite the smartest of Cats--

But no longer a terror to mice and to rats.

For he isn't the Cat that he was in his prime;

Though his name was quite famous, he says, in its time.

And whenever he joins his friends at their club

(Which takes place at the back of the neighbouring pub)

He loves to regale them, if someone else pays,

With anecdotes drawn from his palmiest days.

For he once was a Star of the highest degree--

He has acted with Irving, he's acted with Tree.

And he likes to relate his success on the Halls,

Where the Gallery once gave him seven cat-calls.

But his grandest creation, as he loves to tell,

Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.

"I have played," so he says, "every possible part,

And I used to know seventy speeches by heart.

I'd extemporize back-chat, I knew how to gag,

And I knew how to let the cat out of the bag.

I knew how to act with my back and my tail;

With an hour of rehearsal, I never could fail.

I'd a voice that would soften the hardest of hearts,

Whether I took the lead, or in character parts.

I have sat by the bedside of poor Little Nell;

When the Curfew was rung, then I swung on the bell.

In the Pantomime season I never fell flat,

And I once understudied Dick Whittington's Cat.

But my grandest creation, as history will tell,

Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell."

Then, if someone will give him a toothful of gin,

He will tell how he once played a part in East Lynne.

At a Shakespeare performance he once walked on pat,

When some actor suggested the need for a cat.

He once played a Tiger--could do it again--

Which an Indian Colonel purused down a drain.

And he thinks that he still can, much better than most,

Produce blood-curdling noises to bring on the Ghost.

And he once crossed the stage on a telegraph wire,

To rescue a child when a house was on fire.

And he says: "Now then kittens, they do not get trained

As we did in the days when Victoria reigned.

They never get drilled in a regular troupe,

And they think they are smart, just to jump through a hoop."

And he'll say, as he scratches himself with his claws,

"Well, the Theatre's certainly not what it was.

These modern productions are all very well,

But there's nothing to equal, from what I hear tell,

That moment of mystery

When I made history

As Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell."

[oldsailor29]

Richard - re Broken Hearts, I wrote it, and if you like it, you have my permission to use it.

Karl - I like your poem.

[karl]

Richard - re Broken Hearts, I wrote it, and if you like it, you have my permission to use it.

Karl - I like your poem.

Gus the Theater Cat is by TS Eliot

I'll see if I can find "My Favorite Duchess" and post it here. That's another good TS Eliot poem.

[Guest]

Richard - re Broken Hearts, I wrote it, and if you like it, you have my permission to use it.

Karl - I like your poem.

Thanks oldsailor, your poem is really good.

[oldsailor29]

Originally Posted By: oldsailor29

Karl - I like your poem.

Gus the Theater Cat is by TS Eliot

I'll see if I can find "My Favorite Duchess" and post it here. That's another good TS Eliot poem.

My mistake. Of course I have heard of T. S. Eliot, but never read any of his work, so i didn't recognize it and thought it was yours.

[oldsailor29]

Lots of weird things happen.

O. D.

I was on the road, down on my luck,

When a farmer on tractor picked me up.

It started to shimmy at fifty-five.

I said, "This thing got overdrive?

We did some "T". I shifted gears.

And paranoid with civil fears,

We ripped around the parking lot.

We didn't care if we got caught.

Back on the road, we took the lead.

While shifting gears, we did some speed.

Our heads were hot. We did a lot.

We passed a truck, and I woke up.

This was an actual dream I had. I wrote this poem about it when I awoke. The tractor was one of those old Fords with the tie rod connections down beside the foot pedals. And the parking lot was triangular, at a fork in the road, where a small saloon was located, in New Jersey.

[karl]

Below are the lyrics to a song I wrote twenty years ago.

'TIL HE COMES

There's not a lot more time you know.

There's just a short while left to go

'Til He comes.

'Til He comes.

The wedding feast is all prepared

And we're invited to be there

When He comes.

When He comes.

People of God get ready.

The bride of Christ must shine

With the Son.

Our righteousness has left us bare.

Do you know what you're gonna wear

When He comes?

When He comes.

The wedding feast is now proclaimed.

Will you be dressed and not ashamed

When He comes?

When He comes.

People of God get ready

There isn't much more time

To run the race

To grow in grace

Reflect His glory and shine shine shine.

There's not a lot more time you know

For us to feed on Christ and grow

'Til He comes.

'Til He comes.

People of God get ready.

The bride of Christ must shine

With the Son.

People of God get ready.

The bride of Christ must shine

'Til He comes.

[oldsailor29]

Below are the lyrics to a song I wrote twenty years ago.

'TIL HE COMES

There's not a lot more time you know.

There's just a short while left to go

'Til He comes.

'Til He comes.

The wedding feast is all prepared

And we're invited to be there

When He comes.

When He comes.

People of God get ready.

The bride of Christ must shine

With the Son.

Our righteousness has left us bare.

Do you know what you're gonna wear

When He comes?

When He comes.

The wedding feast is now proclaimed.

Will you be dressed and not ashamed

When He comes?

When He comes.

People of God get ready

There isn't much more time

To run the race

To grow in grace

Reflect His glory and shine shine shine.

There's not a lot more time you know

For us to feed on Christ and grow

'Til He comes.

'Til He comes.

People of God get ready.

The bride of Christ must shine

With the Son.

People of God get ready.

The bride of Christ must shine

'Til He comes.

Karl - This looks like a really good one .

[oldsailor29]

The following contains a message found in "Ecclesiastes," therefore the title.

ECCLESIASTICLE

There is a road, clearly marked, "Highway of The Masses,"

With bridges over rivers and tunnels through the passes.

The highway of the masses is an easy road to trod,

But I'll never smell the roses if I don't get off the road.

I would rather sail the ocean. I would rather climb the mountain.

I would rather raft the river, looking for the magic fountain,

Than to hurry down the highway, I swear by all that's holy,

for if I miss a part of life, I'd rather do it slowly.

Others take the easy way, with fewer hills to climb,

Green pastures for the jungles and badlands of my time.

Sometimes I think myself a fool because of my decisions

To freely choose the way I go, with personal revisions.

When I recall these few words I heard some time ago,

Of going fast and slow and living high and low.

"No matter where we come from, no matter who's to blame,

Though we arrive at different times, our destiny's the same."

But my passions carry me to paths of life I have not tasted.

Whichever way I go, the road taken is not wasted.

And I reserve the right to turn aside and stay

Long enough to see and smell the roses on the way.

[phkrause]

I never knew that we had so many poets on CA, notice I didn't say talented!

You guys know I'm kidding. You are all very talented.

pk

[phkrause]

PKRAUSE

WELL did you know that I have not posted any poems

because I know I am not a poet

dgrimm60

Well give it a try anyway!

pk

[Guest]

There once was a man named dgrimm

who walked every day to stay slim

He slipped on the ice

and fell down twice

so he wished he had gone to the gym

RH

[Guest]

To Flush, My Dog

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Yet, my pretty sportive friend,

Little is't to such an end

That I praise thy rareness!

Other dogs may be thy peers

Haply in these drooping ears,

And this glossy fairness.

But of thee it shall be said,

This dog watched beside a bed

Day and night unweary—

Watched within a curtained room,

Where no sunbeam brake the gloom

Round the sick and dreary.

Roses, gathered for a vase,

In that chamber died apace,

Beam and breeze resigning.

This dog only, waited on,

Knowing that when light is gone

Love remains for shining.

Other dogs in thymy dew

Tracked the hares, and followed through

Sunny moor or meadow.

This dog only, crept and crept

Next a languid cheek that slept,

Sharing in the shadow.

Other dogs of loyal cheer

Bounded at the whistle clear,

Up the woodside hieing.

This dog only, watched in reach

Of a faintly uttered speech,

Or a louder sighing.

And if one or two quick tears

Dropped upon his glossy ears,

Or a sigh came double—

Up he sprang in eager haste,

Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,

In a tender trouble.

And this dog was satisfied

If a pale thin hand would glide

Down his dewlaps sloping—

Which he pushed his nose within,

After—platforming his chin

On the palm left open.