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Poetry by Twebbers

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  • Poetry by Twebbers

    A previous thread on the old site that worked well. I will start with a little humor on cats. The next one on dogs.

    (Huffington Post) Bad news for all you cat lovers: That feline you are obsessed with is a total jerk. Sure, cats are cute, soft, lovable and an endless source of viral GIFs and memes, but in actuality, they kinda suck.

    New Cat in Town

    Hey guys who’s this black cat?
    You new in town?
    Yeah! Slipped in last week
    You’re in time, holiday food abound.

    What’s in a holiday, pray tell?
    Red and Green balls of yarn.
    Ribbons, bows and bells, bells, bells!
    Inky Spoty bite these off my neck

    New guy, what’s your name?
    Name? What’s in a name for me?
    You know, what our servants call you.
    They don’t call, they yell and throw at me.

    They may be your pets
    But it’s not the world for me,
    With forced pets and vets.
    They’re a pain, it’s the loner life for me

    Ya wanna spook the dog?
    Spook a dog why bother?
    Charlie’s the ambush cat, Pounce and scratch
    Jerk and choke end of tether.

    Serious guys dogs are dumb,
    I prefer bash and crash.
    Pisses everyone off, shout and curse
    Eat well and scatter the trash.

    Where do the girls hang out?
    Silence was the answer, tipped.
    Tabby Tubs rolled and cried.
    Don’t tell me you guys been clipped?

    Is it all play a tethered feather?
    Eat fish spam from a can.
    and spook dogs on the leather tether.
    Neat, no competition, howl from the top can.

    Frank A. Doonan
    Glendower: I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
    Hotspur: Why, so can I, or so can any man;
    But will they come when you do call for them? Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part 1, Act III:

    go with the flow the river knows . . .

    Frank

    I do not know, therefore everything is in pencil.

  • #2
    Haiku

    God is not a chess player.
    God is the Sea.
    We are the fishes.
    Glendower: I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
    Hotspur: Why, so can I, or so can any man;
    But will they come when you do call for them? Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part 1, Act III:

    go with the flow the river knows . . .

    Frank

    I do not know, therefore everything is in pencil.

    Comment


    • #3
      I have not written poetry since grade school. Well there was college . . . I am just not a poet.
      Micah 6:8 He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?

      Comment


      • #4
        When trouts eat gerbils
        And gerbils eat trout
        Don't be surprised
        When they both have gout
        "As for my people, children are their oppressors, and women rule over them. O my people, they which lead thee cause thee to err, and destroy the way of thy paths." Isaiah 3:12

        There is no such thing as innocence, only degrees of guilt.

        Comment


        • #5
          One of my favorite poems is "The Race" by Dee Groberg

          The Race

          “Quit! Give up! You’re beaten!
          They shout at me and plead.”
          “There’s just too much against you now.
          This time you can’t succeed.”
          And as I start to hang my head
          In front of failure’s face,
          My downward fall is broken by
          The memory of a race.

          And hope refills my weakened will
          As I recall that scene;

          For just the thought of that short race
          Rejuvenates my being.

          A children’s race–young boys, young men–
          How I remember well.

          Excitement, sure! But also fear;
          it wasn’t hard to tell.

          They all lined up so full of hope;
          Each thought to win that race.
          Or tie for first, or if not that,
          At least take second place.

          And fathers watched from off the side
          Each cheering for his son.
          And each boy hoped to show his dad
          That he would be the one.

          The whistle blew and off they went,
          Young hearts and hopes afire.
          To win and be the hero there
          Was each young boy’s desire.

          And one boy in particular,
          Whose dad was in the crowd,
          Was running near the lead and thought:

          “My dad will be so proud!”

          But as they sped down the field
          Across a shallow dip,

          The little boy who thought to win
          Lost his step and slipped.
          Trying hard to catch himself,
          His hands flew out to brace,
          but mid the laughter of the crowd
          He fell flat on his face.
          So down he fell and with him hope
          He couldn’t win it now–
          Embarrassed, sad, he only wished
          To disappear somehow.
          But as he fell his dad stood up,
          And showed his anxious face,
          Which to the boy so clearly said,
          “Get up and win the race.”

          He quickly rose, no damage done,
          Behind a bit, that’s all–

          And ran with all his mind and might
          To make up for his fall.

          So anxious to restore himself
          To catch up and to win–

          His mind went faster than his legs;
          He slipped and fell again!
          He wished then he had quit before,
          With only one disgrace.
          “I’m hopeless as a runner now;
          I shouldn’t try to race.”

          But in the laughing crowd he searched
          And found his father’s face;
          That steady look which said again:
          “Get up and win the race!”

          So up he jumped to try again
          Ten yards behind the last–
          “If I’m to gain those yards,” he thought,
          “I’ve got to move real fast.”
          Exerting everything he had
          He regained eight or ten,
          But trying so hard to catch the lead
          He slipped and fell again!
          Defeat! He lay there silently
          A tear dropped from his eye–
          “There is no sense in running more;
          Three strikes: I’m out! Why try!”
          The will to rise had disappeared;
          All hope had fled away;
          So far behind, so error prone;
          A loser all the way.
          “I’ve lost. So what’s the use,” he thought,
          “I’ll live with my disgrace.”

          But then he thought about his dad
          Who soon he’d have to face
          “Get up,” an echo sounded low.
          “Get up and take your place;
          You were not meant for failure here.
          Get up and win the race.”
          “With borrowed will get up,” it said,
          “You haven’t lost at all.
          for winning is no more than this:
          To rise each time you fall.”
          So up he rose to run once more,
          And with a new commit
          He resolved that win or lose
          At least he wouldn’t quit.

          So far behind the others now,
          The most he’d ever been–
          Still he gave it all he had
          And ran as though to win.
          Three times he’d fallen, stumbling;
          Three times he rose again;
          Too far behind to hope to win
          He still ran to the end.

          They cheered the winning runner,
          As he crossed the line first place.
          Head high, and proud, and happy;
          No falling, no disgrace.
          But when the fallen youngster
          Crossed the line last place,
          The crowd gave him the greater cheer,
          For finishing the race.
          And even though he came in last,
          With head bowed low, unproud,
          You would have thought he’d won the race
          To listen to the crowd.
          And to his dad he sadly said,
          “I didn’t do too well.”
          “To me, you won, his father said.
          “You rose each time you fell.”

          And now when things seem dark and hard
          And difficult to face,
          The memory of that little boy
          Helps me to win my race.

          For all of life is like that race,
          With ups and downs and all.
          And all you have to do to win,
          Is rise each time you fall.

          Quit! Give up! You're beaten!
          They still shout in my face.
          But another voice within me says,
          Get up and win the race!
          Last edited by onefour1; 01-25-2014, 10:53 PM.

          Comment


          • #6
            Originally posted by Jedidiah View Post
            I have not written poetry since grade school. Well there was college . . . I am just not a poet.
            I am just not a poet!
            A poet I am not!
            The more I try, I don't do it
            It rhymes, I guess I did it!
            Glendower: I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
            Hotspur: Why, so can I, or so can any man;
            But will they come when you do call for them? Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part 1, Act III:

            go with the flow the river knows . . .

            Frank

            I do not know, therefore everything is in pencil.

            Comment


            • #7
              Compathy

              Compassion is the earth,
              it is always beneath you regardless of flavor.
              It receives all in death,
              without judgment or favor.

              Love is the moon,
              a beautiful reflection in the lake.
              entwines the favored son,
              but fades dancing away in the wake.

              Compassion is the sun.
              The sun gives warmth and life to all,
              even the dark shadows in the morn
              receive light in the eve whether short or tall.

              Love is the moon
              sometime a smile, sometimes not
              dancing in the shadows
              sometimes there, sometimes not

              Compassion fills the air.
              to some a soft breeze.
              others a deadly roar and a prayer
              Not one nor the other to please.

              Love is the moon
              Playing hide and seek
              Sometimes a wink
              for those who vainly seek.

              Compassion is the sea,
              Ascending to the heavens unseen,
              returning again to give life.
              or a grave to some in the sea

              Love is the rose.
              Beautiful to behold,
              When no longer a rose,
              the thorns take hold.

              God is not a chess player
              with the white pieces.
              God is the sea . . .
              and we are the fishes

              Frank A Doonan
              Glendower: I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
              Hotspur: Why, so can I, or so can any man;
              But will they come when you do call for them? Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part 1, Act III:

              go with the flow the river knows . . .

              Frank

              I do not know, therefore everything is in pencil.

              Comment


              • #8
                Come Follow Me and He Went
                Author Unknown

                Camp 332 the captain came through

                He was wearing insignia bright.

                “Men” he declared, “You must be prepared

                To conquer the enemy’s fight!”

                With a towering glare and heart without care he said,

                “Men, I’d like you to hear…”

                “Soldier,” he said, “Get this into your head

                get rid of your cowardly fear!”

                So night after night they prepared for the fight

                At the feet of the militant man,

                Till the soldiers were ready, their spirits were steady

                And every man’s thought was I can!

                Well, the night finally came and name after name was

                Read for the march of the day

                It was then that they heard the cowardly word,

                “The captain is going to stay.”

                Well, they left for the trek and were dressed to the neck

                In attire designed for a fight

                But the hearts of the legion that marched through the region

                Were back in the camp in the night.

                You see as they went, they thought of a tent


                of a cowardly captain who stayed

                Who didn’t go through what he told them to do

                Because he was really afraid.

                He easily told the men to be bold

                To have courage for strength in a fight,

                But he was the man when the battle began

                Who hid in the dark of the night.

                Then there was one who walked in the son


                of Galilee country of old.

                A teacher was He as He walked by the sea

                For His words with His actions were bold

                “Men” he declared, “We must be prepared

                to conquer the enemy’s fight.”

                Then He went in the power of prayer to the hills

                And He prayed for the rest of the night.

                It was He long ago who taught men to know

                That it is far more blessed to give

                Then by His example His teaching was ample

                To show them how better to live.

                “Come follow me” was His conquering plea

                “We must not give up the fight.”

                “Father, thy will not mine be done,”

                and they followed in spirit and might.

                You see, the master teacher wasn’t a preacher

                Who hid in a camp in a tent,

                He was the one who showed how it was done

                He said, “Come follow me” and He went.

                Comment


                • #9
                  The Man in the Glass

                  When you get what you want in your struggle for self
                  And the world makes you king for a day,
                  Just go to a mirror and look at yourself,
                  And see what the man has to say.

                  For it isn't your father or mother or wife,
                  Upon you whose judgement must pass;
                  But the one whose verdict that counts most in your life
                  Is the one starring back from the glass.

                  He's the one to please, never mind all the rest.
                  For he's with you clear till the end,
                  And you've passed your most dangerous and difficult test
                  If the man in the glass is your friend.

                  You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years.
                  And get pats on the back as you pass,
                  But your final reward will be heartaches and tears
                  If you've cheated the man in the glass

                  Comment


                  • #10
                    I tend to post my poetry to my Tumblr account here. But here's a sample;

                    Bell of mercy for one who deserves none

                    Here I dwell
                    Across the sea
                    Listening to the tolling bell
                    Of sweet mercy

                    For a man of great crimes
                    A product of selfishness
                    For him this bell chimes
                    In spite of his hellishness

                    I was this man
                    A being of pure evil
                    I was the one to damn
                    Deserving of punishment most lethal

                    Yet my Lord loved me
                    He stepped down from His throne
                    My Jesus I still cannot see
                    Why you threw this dog a bone

                    So I was given the hammer
                    And three nine inch nails
                    I hung you on that cross like a banner
                    As I listened to your screams and wails

                    I stood back to admire my handy work
                    Not knowing that this was your deed
                    Yet I could not find my old smirk
                    And right there and then sprouted my seed

                    Faith rushed into my every nook
                    Suddenly my stone heart broke
                    And I could not bear to look
                    I was put under a different yoke

                    That man died with Christ
                    He was hung there with Him on that cross
                    When Jesus was sacrificed
                    Now if it isn’t for Him it is all loss

                    Christ Jesus for me did die
                    Oh great King of Kings
                    Son of God Most High
                    To Him I owe all things

                    So now my life is great joy
                    Yet also great sorrow
                    I was once a foolish boy
                    But now the truth I know

                    I weep for my Lord
                    That He should show such benevolence
                    To His sinning ward
                    Who at the time did all things in malevolence

                    My soul is sorrowful
                    Because of my manifold transgressions
                    Yet my heart is freely joyful
                    Because He is faithful to forgive at my confessions

                    Comment


                    • #11
                      I don't write poetry very often, and when I do, it's usually mean-spirited song parodies. Here's one completely original poem of mine, however, be warned -- it is not an uplifting poem in the least.

                      ...

                      The Scary Door

                      You are a faceless automaton -- without heart, without soul -- an instinct-driven anthropomorphic maggot designed to feast upon the ebon objects of your psyche-spawned desires. You have no purpose. You are Nothing.

                      Then one day you make a discovery. You find love with a beautiful woman, a woman who acts as a mirror, reflecting the image of a pristine, shining paradise into the shadow-shrouded depths of your vestigial mind. As you find this Love, you also discover God. You enter a new stage of personal evolution, and begin to metamorphose from Homo vermis to Homo deus. The veil begins to lift from your vestigial mind, which begins to expand, allowing you to perceive the cosmos on a higher level than was previously possible.

                      But then disaster strikes! You discover your love has been one-sided all this time, and that She has been your true god all along. She spurns your worship, and exiles you from Her presence. The God whom you falsely claimed to worship denies you in turn for your feigned alliegiance and becomes the Ignorer, the Silent God.

                      You are cast out into the Outer Darkness. You devolve. No longer are you the burgeoning God Man, or even the original Maggot Man; you are now Vermis homo, the Man Maggot.

                      Darkness no longer envelops your mind, for you no longer have a mind to speak of; you wail and gnash your teeth with all the awareness of a lobotomized amoeba. You are beyond purposeless; you are Less Than Nothing.

                      As you lament and trevail, you finally find the One True God; It isn't your Love, or even the Silent God. The One True God is Time, and Death, Entropy, and the Destroyer of Worlds -- All-Powerful, All-Consuming Chaos.

                      And It laughs at you -- this blind, deaf, and dumb Deity -- as you fall beyond ... The Scary Door.
                      "When the Western world accepted Christianity, Caesar conquered; and the received text of Western theology was edited by his lawyers…. The brief Galilean vision of humility flickered throughout the ages, uncertainly…. But the deeper idolatry, of the fashioning of God in the image of the Egyptian, Persian, and Roman imperial rulers, was retained. The Church gave unto God the attributes which belonged exclusively to Caesar."

                      — Alfred North Whitehead

                      Comment


                      • #12
                        Originally posted by Duragizer View Post
                        I don't write poetry very often, and when I do, it's usually mean-spirited song parodies. Here's one completely original poem of mine, however, be warned -- it is not an uplifting poem in the least.

                        ...

                        The Scary Door

                        You are a faceless automaton -- without heart, without soul -- an instinct-driven anthropomorphic maggot designed to feast upon the ebon objects of your psyche-spawned desires. You have no purpose. You are Nothing.

                        Then one day you make a discovery. You find love with a beautiful woman, a woman who acts as a mirror, reflecting the image of a pristine, shining paradise into the shadow-shrouded depths of your vestigial mind. As you find this Love, you also discover God. You enter a new stage of personal evolution, and begin to metamorphose from Homo vermis to Homo deus. The veil begins to lift from your vestigial mind, which begins to expand, allowing you to perceive the cosmos on a higher level than was previously possible.

                        But then disaster strikes! You discover your love has been one-sided all this time, and that She has been your true god all along. She spurns your worship, and exiles you from Her presence. The God whom you falsely claimed to worship denies you in turn for your feigned alliegiance and becomes the Ignorer, the Silent God.

                        You are cast out into the Outer Darkness. You devolve. No longer are you the burgeoning God Man, or even the original Maggot Man; you are now Vermis homo, the Man Maggot.

                        Darkness no longer envelops your mind, for you no longer have a mind to speak of; you wail and gnash your teeth with all the awareness of a lobotomized amoeba. You are beyond purposeless; you are Less Than Nothing.

                        As you lament and trevail, you finally find the One True God; It isn't your Love, or even the Silent God. The One True God is Time, and Death, Entropy, and the Destroyer of Worlds -- All-Powerful, All-Consuming Chaos.

                        And It laughs at you -- this blind, deaf, and dumb Deity -- as you fall beyond ... The Scary Door.
                        No wonder I'm single.
                        Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Take up the cause of the fatherless; plead the case of the widow.--Isaiah 1:17

                        I don't think that all forms o[f] slavery are inherently immoral.--seer

                        Comment


                        • #13
                          Cat Tongue Rag

                          Damn! Cat hair’s a bear!
                          Cat hair! Cat hair! Cat hair!
                          Cat hair everywhere!
                          My coat, black suit and chair!

                          Rollers and brush.
                          Roller here, brush there.
                          Damp cloth or vacuum.
                          Vacuum clogged and still more hair.

                          Extreme measures brought to bear,
                          Cut-stitch, cut-stitch, and cut-stitch again.
                          Maybe ten or twenty to take the hair.
                          Snip stitch, snip, stitch, and snip, stitch again.

                          Damn! Cat hair’s a bear!
                          Clip- stitch, Clip-stitch, and clip-stitch again!
                          It will take a hundred to bring to bear.
                          Yep! One hundred cat tongues in a square.

                          Cat tongue rag removed the hair.
                          Off with all the cat hair.
                          Coat, black suit and chair.
                          Gag! Gag! Hair balls everywhere.

                          After d’tongues, go d'tails

                          Frank A Doonan
                          The Orange Dog Poet of Hillsborough
                          Last edited by shunyadragon; 10-30-2014, 05:15 PM.
                          Glendower: I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
                          Hotspur: Why, so can I, or so can any man;
                          But will they come when you do call for them? Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part 1, Act III:

                          go with the flow the river knows . . .

                          Frank

                          I do not know, therefore everything is in pencil.

                          Comment


                          • #14
                            Yes, the Theory of gravity always will apply,
                            whether ten stories or sixty,
                            but in reality we do not know why.
                            The theory of gravity remains a mystery.

                            As to where we go when reasons path ends,
                            remains a mystery without end,
                            some believe it is back again, and again.
                            others believe it is streets of gold or Satan's BBQ in the end.

                            Some say nothing is the blessing,
                            others just say don't know.
                            most say their way is best bet going.
                            More then likely nobody for sure knows.

                            God is not a chess player
                            with the white pieces.
                            God is the sea,
                            and we are the fishes.
                            Glendower: I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
                            Hotspur: Why, so can I, or so can any man;
                            But will they come when you do call for them? Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part 1, Act III:

                            go with the flow the river knows . . .

                            Frank

                            I do not know, therefore everything is in pencil.

                            Comment


                            • #15
                              Recited to the music of a Billie Holiday song.

                              Where have the sons, brothers and fathers gone?

                              Where have the sons, brothers, and fathers gone?
                              Brothers take them every one
                              Chained to the dark holds of ships one by one
                              With the daughters, mothers and sisters in darkness.

                              Gone to dock to property on the block
                              Gone to be sold and never to be seen
                              The capital of farm and industry
                              Leaving mothers, daughters, sons and sisters again.

                              Where are the sons, brothers, and fathers gone?.
                              When will they be free? Chains traded for chains to meet the greed.
                              Gone to fill the prisons everyone.
                              Penal peonage for our railroads and industry need
                              Leaving daughters, sisters, and mothers alone servitude.

                              ‘Willow weep for me
                              Willow weep for me
                              Bend your branches down along the ground and cover me
                              Listen to my plea
                              Hear me willow and weep for me
                              Gone my lovely dreams
                              Lovely summer dreams
                              Gone and left me here
                              To weep my tears along the stream.’*


                              *Willow Weep For Me Billie Holiday

                              Where are the sons, brothers and fathers gone?
                              Hanging in silent darkness, no justice everyone.
                              Leaving daughters, wives, sisters, and mothers alone.
                              Nor hallowed ground to rest in peace.
                              Hanging in the silent darkness alone.

                              ‘Southern trees bear strange fruit
                              Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
                              Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze
                              Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees’*

                              *Strange Fruit by Billie Holliday


                              Where have the sons, brothers, and fathers gone?
                              Gone to the street, alley, and curb alone.
                              Soul owned by black Lincoln in a shark suit
                              White powder in neat rows.
                              Death painless in a snow storm on a July night
                              Leaving the daughters, wives, sisters, and mothers alone.

                              ‘Sunday is gloomy, my hours are slumberless
                              Dearest, the shadows I live with are numberless
                              Little white flowers will never awaken you
                              Not where the black coach of sorrow has taken you
                              Angels have no thoughts of ever returning you
                              Would they be angry if I thought of joining you?
                              Gloomy Sunday*


                              *Gloomy Sunday Billie Holiday

                              Where are the sons, brothers, and fathers gone?
                              Gone to the fields, rivers, and shack where the Blues live.
                              Jungle acts and Minstrel demean to entertain
                              Jazz and Blues in the back door with dignity regained.
                              Leaving the sisters, daughters, and mothers again

                              Where are the sons, brothers and fathers gone?
                              Blood in the alley, the isle and door step.
                              Rain washes away the blood, but not the stain.
                              Leaving the daughters, wives and mothers to weep.

                              ‘Yes, the strong gets more
                              While the weak ones fade
                              Empty pockets don't ever make the grade
                              Mama may have, papa may have
                              But God bless the child that's got his own
                              That's got his own*’


                              *God Bless The Child Billie Holiday

                              Billie! Billie! Billie!
                              Over 200 years of repression and fears
                              You lived, suffered and died the Blues.
                              We can only honor and acknowledge you
                              Your journey over the centuries singing the Blues.

                              Frank Doonan
                              The Orange Dog Poet.
                              Last edited by shunyadragon; 05-19-2015, 05:59 PM.
                              Glendower: I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
                              Hotspur: Why, so can I, or so can any man;
                              But will they come when you do call for them? Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part 1, Act III:

                              go with the flow the river knows . . .

                              Frank

                              I do not know, therefore everything is in pencil.

                              Comment

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