Escape from Elba

Literature => Poetry => Topic started by: Administrator on July 30, 2018, 12:16:42 PM

Title: Poetry
Post by: Administrator on July 30, 2018, 12:16:42 PM
Share and discuss
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on July 30, 2018, 03:33:40 PM
 the Cambridge ladies do not care, above
Cambridge if sometimes in its box of
sky lavender and cornerless, the
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on July 30, 2018, 04:31:32 PM
Art 
By Herman Melville
 
In placid hours well-pleased we dream
Of many a brave unbodied scheme.
But form to lend, pulsed life create,
What unlike things must meet and mate:
A flame to melt--a wind to freeze;
Sad patience--joyous energies;
Humility--yet pride and scorn;
Instinct and study; love and hate;
Audacity--reverence. These must mate,
And fuse with Jacob's mystic heart,
To wrestle with the angel--Art.

----

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Cornelius II on August 03, 2018, 09:54:25 AM
I Am Aged

I am aged, by common definition I suppose:
steely grey hair, fringed 'round a bald pate,
running to curls in back; I wish it were snowy white.

I get along with a cane, take Tylenol regularly,
-- arthritis is a bitch -- helped along internally now
by pacemaker and four cardiac stents.

My hearing is shot, but my eyes are still perfect,
courtesy of the cataract operation of course, but
still seeing keenly, as young as ever, reality in all its wonder.

I have lived through an Age -- of benevolent Government --
from FDR onward: New Deal, Fair Deal, Great Society;
and now see its demise, in the new administration.

So my children will live with it, my grandchildren normalize it,
as times have changed forever, and I will become
a crotchety Ancient, remembering, complaining,
fulfilling my role.

Crp
Dec 21, 2017
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: ffleate on August 07, 2018, 08:13:06 PM
The Meat in the Middle of the 8 Billion Year Thick Sandwich
with a nice glass of Malbec


“The earth” he said “is 4 billion years old”.
We sat at a table for two, with a bottle of wine,
a nice little Malbec
each with a full glass in hand.

Four billion years had passed
(all that evolution and such)
to get to that very moment.
And four billion years more,
inevitably, will follow.

We are the meat (with red wine)
In the middle
of the 8 billion year thick sandwich.

Let’s toast to that

Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on September 08, 2018, 03:35:53 PM
Passion 
by T.L. Verley 

In a fit of delusion, 
I grasped the illusion. 
I embraced the smell, color, softness, and beauty. 
I hung on not noticing the thorns, 
As the blood ran down my hands, 
And onto the ground, 
Until the roots sucked it up, 
And it was no longer feeding off of some unknown source, 
But instead it was feeding on me. 

---

Here is a page with some of my poetry on it...

http://more.showfax.com/bbs2/viewtopic.php?t=5782

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on November 04, 2018, 04:35:20 PM
Eldorado

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old-
This knight so bold-
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow-
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be-
This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied-
"If you seek for Eldorado!"

Edgar Allan Poe

--------

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on November 10, 2018, 08:09:44 PM
so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

  -- William Carlos Williams
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on November 10, 2018, 08:35:28 PM
To Elsie

The pure products of America
go crazy—
mountain folk from Kentucky

or the ribbed north end of
Jersey
with its isolate lakes and

valleys, its deaf-mutes, thieves
old names
and promiscuity between

devil-may-care men who have taken
to railroading
out of sheer lust of adventure—

and young slatterns, bathed
in filth
from Monday to Saturday

to be tricked out that night
with gauds
from imaginations which have no

peasant traditions to give them
character
but flutter and flaunt

sheer rags—succumbing without
emotion
save numbed terror

under some hedge of choke-cherry
or viburnum—
which they cannot express—

Unless it be that marriage
perhaps
with a dash of Indian blood

will throw up a girl so desolate
so hemmed round
with disease or murder

that she'll be rescued by an
agent—
reared by the state and

sent out at fifteen to work in
some hard-pressed
house in the suburbs—

some doctor's family, some Elsie—
voluptuous water
expressing with broken

brain the truth about us—
her great
ungainly hips and flopping breasts

addressed to cheap
jewelry
and rich young men with fine eyes

as if the earth under our feet
were
an excrement of some sky

and we degraded prisoners
destined
to hunger until we eat filth

while the imagination strains
after deer
going by fields of goldenrod in

the stifling heat of September
Somehow
it seems to destroy us

It is only in isolate flecks that
something
is given off

No one
to witness
and adjust, no one to drive the car.

-- Wm C Wms
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on January 15, 2019, 04:06:46 PM
Fly With Me
by T.L. Verley

Life is wonderful, and great times are ahead,
Precious is the time between our birth and when we are dead,
Some don't get it, some don't understand,
Some live their entire lives with their heads in the sand.

But not you and I,
We choose to fly,
We'll live life to the fullest before we die.

Some are hopeless, living life in despair,
Some have no faith in themselves, in others, or faith that God cares,
Some see only bad, and they see life as getting worse,
Instead of as a blessing, they see life as a curse.

But not you and I,
We choose to fly,
We'll live life to the fullest before we die.

Anything is possible, dreams can become real,
Though sometimes in life we are wounded, the wounds heal,
Hand and hand together we shall walk up the hill,
And see the beauty all around us and feel the love that we feel.

Because you and I,
We choose to fly,
We'll live life to the fullest before we die.

------------

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: josh on January 18, 2019, 11:59:02 PM
Today, we mourn the passing of Mary Oliver.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on January 29, 2019, 05:14:59 PM
I wrote this a long time ago, I hope you like it...
 
Tree of Life
by T.L. Verley
 
If pears became the international source of power,
the partridge would have no home.
If all the air could be bottled,
people and animals would suffocate.
And if he who controlled the air gave it back,
he still might starve to death.
 
Tis extreme I know.
 
Capitalism is my partner and friend,
compared to tyranny its evil twin,
but both hold hands against us,
every now and then.
People divide in every which way,
and when they combine I don't always condone,
as someone is always left out;
in this humans seem prone.
Deprivation as motivation,
to conform, enslave, and the such,
gets easier and easier it seems,
the more one gets out of touch.
And monsters arise in the confusion,
and ideologies that don't mean shit,
and the glory becomes an illusion,
and the victory aint worth spit.
 
Why fight or be alone in the Garden of Eden,
when there are so many to share it with?
But it aint up to one man or government,
as society must learn the trick.

--------

Salute,

Tony V.

Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on February 22, 2019, 08:51:56 PM
Lines Written in Early Spring

-- William Wordsworth, 1770 - 1850

 I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;                         
And ‘tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played:
Their thoughts I cannot measure,
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.                             

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: oilcan on March 20, 2019, 01:33:43 PM
Ferlinghetti turns 100 this Sunday.  And has a new book.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/entertainment/books/lawrence-ferlinghetti-is-about-to-turn-100-and-he-hasnt-mellowed-at-all/2019/03/14/bdafafc0-45c4-11e9-aaf8-4512a6fe3439_story.html?utm_term=.0b1d4502a277



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on August 12, 2019, 05:47:40 PM
A Dream Deferred

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

Langston Hughes

-----------

That poem was used as the intro for the play "A Raisin in the Sun." When I was in college and in acting school I really got into the plays written by Black people, and poetry by Black people, I could relate to the suffering and poverty and I could relate to their desire to rise. Some of the best poetry, and plays, and music, are by Black people.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Raisin_in_the_Sun

I could relate to people who want to overthrow oppression and experience true freedom.

The modern slaves are the workers in communist China, people need to flood China with the Black poetry so they can see how much the modern Chinese are like the Blacks during slavery.

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on April 11, 2020, 03:43:39 PM
Here is a poem I wrote a long time ago, while sitting on a bus bench on Hollywood Blvd.


The Blvd
by T.L. Verley


People scared of each other
like everyone is a killer
Homeless, beaten, and not unlike a frightened animal
amongst the cream of the crop
an eighty thousand dollar horn honks at a man with no shoes
An angry fist raises to a lady who is doing no wrong
Three out of a thousand are not afraid to smile
A lady from thousands of miles away
struts beautiful legs and seems not afraid of anything
Another lady smiles and says "Hi"
A dude bums a smoke and outstretches a hand to shake
Autographs of the immortal in concrete
living in millions of minds
In between the desert and the sea
had Thomas Edison not been so greedy
this place might not exist
had others not wanted freedom away from him
this place might not exist
but it does
And people come from all over the world
to see reminants of their home-screen heroes
A hooker sells love because love for free pays no bills
was this her childhood dream
Is the empire crumbling
Why don't people smile at each other more
Why does some asshole bombard through traffic with his horn blowing
are everyone's rights not equal to his
If I were on the roof of a passing bus I would have pissed on his hood
Come on people we are not all killers
enjoy each other and embrace each other and love each other
I walk until my feet hurt
then I sit and watch
Cool place really
but it is all crumbling
Am I and are we


Salute,

Tony V.
 
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on April 18, 2020, 08:43:35 PM
Buying Produce in the Time of Corona



If I squeeze a melon
I'm seen as a felon.

Touch an avocado
I'm a desperado.

To cough on a carrot -
No one would dare it.

When sweetness is sought
One develops the hunch
That grapes may not
Be pulled from the bunch

TS Eliot wonders about eating a peach,
Now we all ponder mortality
Ere we so much as reach.

* * *
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on June 02, 2020, 02:02:41 PM
Frederick Douglass

When it is finally ours, this freedom, this liberty, this beautiful
and terrible thing, needful to man as air,
usable as earth; when it belongs at last to all,
when it is truly instinct, brain matter, diastole, systole,
reflex action; when it is finally won; when it is more
than the gaudy mumbo jumbo of politicians:
this man, this Douglass, this former slave, this Negro
beaten to his knees, exiled, visioning a world
where none is lonely, none hunted, alien,
this man, superb in love and logic, this man
shall be remembered. Oh, not with statues' rhetoric,
not with legends and poems and wreaths of bronze alone,
but with the lives grown out of his life, the lives
fleshing his dream of the beautiful, needful thing.

By Robert Hayden


------------

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on June 02, 2020, 02:06:29 PM
Freedom's Plow

When a man starts out with nothing,
When a man starts out with his hands
Empty, but clean,
When a man starts to build a world,
He starts first with himself
And the faith that is in his heart-
The strength there,
The will there to build.

First in the heart is the dream-
Then the mind starts seeking a way.
His eyes look out on the world,
On the great wooded world,
On the rich soil of the world,
On the rivers of the world.

The eyes see there materials for building,
See the difficulties, too, and the obstacles.
The mind seeks a way to overcome these obstacles.
The hand seeks tools to cut the wood,
To till the soil, and harness the power of the waters.
Then the hand seeks other hands to help,
A community of hands to help-
Thus the dream becomes not one man’s dream alone,
But a community dream.
Not my dream alone, but our dream.
Not my world alone,
But your world and my world,
Belonging to all the hands who build.

A long time ago, but not too long ago,
Ships came from across the sea
Bringing the Pilgrims and prayer-makers,
Adventurers and booty seekers,
Free men and indentured servants,
Slave men and slave masters, all new-
To a new world, America!

With billowing sails the galleons came
Bringing men and dreams, women and dreams.
In little bands together,
Heart reaching out to heart,
Hand reaching out to hand,
They began to build our land.
Some were free hands
Seeking a greater freedom,
Some were indentured hands
Hoping to find their freedom,
Some were slave hands
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
But the word was there always:
Freedom.

Down into the earth went the plow
In the free hands and the slave hands,
In indentured hands and adventurous hands,
Turning the rich soil went the plow in many hands
That planted and harvested the food that fed
And the cotton that clothed America.
Clang against the trees went the ax into many hands
That hewed and shaped the rooftops of America.
Splash into the rivers and the seas went the boat-hulls
That moved and transported America.
Crack went the whips that drove the horses
Across the plains of America.
Free hands and slave hands,
Indentured hands, adventurous hands,
White hands and black hands
Held the plow handles,
Ax handles, hammer handles,
Launched the boats and whipped the horses
That fed and housed and moved America.
Thus together through labor,
All these hands made America.

Labor! Out of labor came villages
And the towns that grew cities.
Labor! Out of labor came the rowboats
And the sailboats and the steamboats,
Came the wagons, and the coaches,
Covered wagons, stage coaches,
Out of labor came the factories,
Came the foundries, came the railroads.
Came the marts and markets, shops and stores,
Came the mighty products moulded, manufactured,
Sold in shops, piled in warehouses,
Shipped the wide world over:
Out of labor-white hands and black hands-
Came the dream, the strength, the will,
And the way to build America.
Now it is Me here, and You there.
Now it’s Manhattan, Chicago,
Seattle, New Orleans,
Boston and El Paso-
Now it’s the U.S.A.

A long time ago, but not too long ago, a man said:
ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL—
ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR
WITH CERTAIN UNALIENABLE RIGHTS—
AMONG THESE LIFE, LIBERTY
AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.
His name was Jefferson. There were slaves then,
But in their hearts the slaves believed him, too,
And silently too for granted
That what he said was also meant for them.
It was a long time ago,
But not so long ago at that, Lincoln said:
NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
WITHOUT THAT OTHER’S CONSENT.
There were slaves then, too,
But in their hearts the slaves knew
What he said must be meant for every human being-
Else it had no meaning for anyone.
Then a man said:
BETTER TO DIE FREE
THAN TO LIVE SLAVES
He was a colored man who had been a slave
But had run away to freedom.
And the slaves knew
What Frederick Douglass said was true.

With John Brown at Harper’s Ferry, Negroes died.
John Brown was hung.
Before the Civil War, days were dark,
And nobody knew for sure
When freedom would triumph
"Or if it would," thought some.
But others new it had to triumph.
In those dark days of slavery,
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
The slaves made up a song:
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
That song meant just what it said: Hold On!
Freedom will come!
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
Out of war it came, bloody and terrible!
But it came!
Some there were, as always,
Who doubted that the war would end right,
That the slaves would be free,
Or that the union would stand,
But now we know how it all came out.
Out of the darkest days for people and a nation,
We know now how it came out.
There was light when the battle clouds rolled away.
There was a great wooded land,
And men united as a nation.

America is a dream.
The poet says it was promises.
The people say it is promises-that will come true.
The people do not always say things out loud,
Nor write them down on paper.
The people often hold
Great thoughts in their deepest hearts
And sometimes only blunderingly express them,
Haltingly and stumblingly say them,
And faultily put them into practice.
The people do not always understand each other.
But there is, somewhere there,
Always the trying to understand,
And the trying to say,
"You are a man. Together we are building our land."

America!
Land created in common,
Dream nourished in common,
Keep your hand on the plow! Hold on!
If the house is not yet finished,
Don’t be discouraged, builder!
If the fight is not yet won,
Don’t be weary, soldier!
The plan and the pattern is here,
Woven from the beginning
Into the warp and woof of America:
ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL.
NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
WITHOUT HIS CONSENT.
BETTER DIE FREE,
THAN TO LIVE SLAVES.
Who said those things? Americans!
Who owns those words? America!
Who is America? You, me!
We are America!
To the enemy who would conquer us from without,
We say, NO!
To the enemy who would divide
And conquer us from within,
We say, NO!
FREEDOM!
BROTHERHOOD!
DEMOCRACY!
To all the enemies of these great words:
We say, NO!

A long time ago,
An enslaved people heading toward freedom
Made up a song:
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
The plow plowed a new furrow
Across the field of history.
Into that furrow the freedom seed was dropped.
From that seed a tree grew, is growing, will ever grow.
That tree is for everybody,
For all America, for all the world.
May its branches spread and shelter grow
Until all races and all peoples know its shade.
KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE PLOW! HOLD ON!

By Langston Hughes

-----------

Salute,

Tony V.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on June 02, 2020, 02:21:13 PM
The Harlem Dancer

Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes
And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway;
Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes
Blown by black players upon a picnic day.
She sang and danced on gracefully and calm,
The light gauze hanging loose about her form;
To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm
Grown lovelier for passing through a storm.
Upon her swarthy neck black shiny curls
Luxuriant fell; and tossing coins in praise,
The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls,
Devoured her shape with eager, passionate gaze;
But looking at her falsely-smiling face,
I knew her self was not in that strange place.

By Claude McKay

----------------

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on June 23, 2020, 11:23:04 AM
If anyone should touch
A mink that is Dutch,
Go to the sink
And wash off that mink,

Because they catch corona,
And send it on to their ownah,
Who may spread it widely
From Oslo to Pamplona.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Hairy Lime on June 23, 2020, 01:40:42 PM
Freedom's Plow

When a man starts out with nothing,
When a man starts out with his hands
Empty, but clean,
When a man starts to build a world,
He starts first with himself
And the faith that is in his heart-
The strength there,
The will there to build.

First in the heart is the dream-
Then the mind starts seeking a way.
His eyes look out on the world,
On the great wooded world,
On the rich soil of the world,
On the rivers of the world.

The eyes see there materials for building,
See the difficulties, too, and the obstacles.
The mind seeks a way to overcome these obstacles.
The hand seeks tools to cut the wood,
To till the soil, and harness the power of the waters.
Then the hand seeks other hands to help,
A community of hands to help-
Thus the dream becomes not one man’s dream alone,
But a community dream.
Not my dream alone, but our dream.
Not my world alone,
But your world and my world,
Belonging to all the hands who build.

A long time ago, but not too long ago,
Ships came from across the sea
Bringing the Pilgrims and prayer-makers,
Adventurers and booty seekers,
Free men and indentured servants,
Slave men and slave masters, all new-
To a new world, America!

With billowing sails the galleons came
Bringing men and dreams, women and dreams.
In little bands together,
Heart reaching out to heart,
Hand reaching out to hand,
They began to build our land.
Some were free hands
Seeking a greater freedom,
Some were indentured hands
Hoping to find their freedom,
Some were slave hands
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
But the word was there always:
Freedom.

Down into the earth went the plow
In the free hands and the slave hands,
In indentured hands and adventurous hands,
Turning the rich soil went the plow in many hands
That planted and harvested the food that fed
And the cotton that clothed America.
Clang against the trees went the ax into many hands
That hewed and shaped the rooftops of America.
Splash into the rivers and the seas went the boat-hulls
That moved and transported America.
Crack went the whips that drove the horses
Across the plains of America.
Free hands and slave hands,
Indentured hands, adventurous hands,
White hands and black hands
Held the plow handles,
Ax handles, hammer handles,
Launched the boats and whipped the horses
That fed and housed and moved America.
Thus together through labor,
All these hands made America.

Labor! Out of labor came villages
And the towns that grew cities.
Labor! Out of labor came the rowboats
And the sailboats and the steamboats,
Came the wagons, and the coaches,
Covered wagons, stage coaches,
Out of labor came the factories,
Came the foundries, came the railroads.
Came the marts and markets, shops and stores,
Came the mighty products moulded, manufactured,
Sold in shops, piled in warehouses,
Shipped the wide world over:
Out of labor-white hands and black hands-
Came the dream, the strength, the will,
And the way to build America.
Now it is Me here, and You there.
Now it’s Manhattan, Chicago,
Seattle, New Orleans,
Boston and El Paso-
Now it’s the U.S.A.

A long time ago, but not too long ago, a man said:
ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL—
ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR
WITH CERTAIN UNALIENABLE RIGHTS—
AMONG THESE LIFE, LIBERTY
AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.
His name was Jefferson. There were slaves then,
But in their hearts the slaves believed him, too,
And silently too for granted
That what he said was also meant for them.
It was a long time ago,
But not so long ago at that, Lincoln said:
NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
WITHOUT THAT OTHER’S CONSENT.
There were slaves then, too,
But in their hearts the slaves knew
What he said must be meant for every human being-
Else it had no meaning for anyone.
Then a man said:
BETTER TO DIE FREE
THAN TO LIVE SLAVES
He was a colored man who had been a slave
But had run away to freedom.
And the slaves knew
What Frederick Douglass said was true.

With John Brown at Harper’s Ferry, Negroes died.
John Brown was hung.
Before the Civil War, days were dark,
And nobody knew for sure
When freedom would triumph
"Or if it would," thought some.
But others new it had to triumph.
In those dark days of slavery,
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
The slaves made up a song:
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
That song meant just what it said: Hold On!
Freedom will come!
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
Out of war it came, bloody and terrible!
But it came!
Some there were, as always,
Who doubted that the war would end right,
That the slaves would be free,
Or that the union would stand,
But now we know how it all came out.
Out of the darkest days for people and a nation,
We know now how it came out.
There was light when the battle clouds rolled away.
There was a great wooded land,
And men united as a nation.

America is a dream.
The poet says it was promises.
The people say it is promises-that will come true.
The people do not always say things out loud,
Nor write them down on paper.
The people often hold
Great thoughts in their deepest hearts
And sometimes only blunderingly express them,
Haltingly and stumblingly say them,
And faultily put them into practice.
The people do not always understand each other.
But there is, somewhere there,
Always the trying to understand,
And the trying to say,
"You are a man. Together we are building our land."

America!
Land created in common,
Dream nourished in common,
Keep your hand on the plow! Hold on!
If the house is not yet finished,
Don’t be discouraged, builder!
If the fight is not yet won,
Don’t be weary, soldier!
The plan and the pattern is here,
Woven from the beginning
Into the warp and woof of America:
ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL.
NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
WITHOUT HIS CONSENT.
BETTER DIE FREE,
THAN TO LIVE SLAVES.
Who said those things? Americans!
Who owns those words? America!
Who is America? You, me!
We are America!
To the enemy who would conquer us from without,
We say, NO!
To the enemy who would divide
And conquer us from within,
We say, NO!
FREEDOM!
BROTHERHOOD!
DEMOCRACY!
To all the enemies of these great words:
We say, NO!

A long time ago,
An enslaved people heading toward freedom
Made up a song:
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
The plow plowed a new furrow
Across the field of history.
Into that furrow the freedom seed was dropped.
From that seed a tree grew, is growing, will ever grow.
That tree is for everybody,
For all America, for all the world.
May its branches spread and shelter grow
Until all races and all peoples know its shade.
KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE PLOW! HOLD ON!

By Langston Hughes

-----------

Salute,

Tony V.
He has been more succinct.

Harlem

BY LANGSTON HUGHES

What happens to a dream deferred?


      Does it dry up

      like a raisin in the sun?

      Or fester like a sore—

      And then run?

      Does it stink like rotten meat?

      Or crust and sugar over—

      like a syrupy sweet?


      Maybe it just sags

      like a heavy load.


      Or does it explode?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on June 30, 2020, 05:44:51 PM
Do you have an Emily in the family?   "Emily Lime" would be a great name for a writer of palindromes.   

Or Abe Omar Amoeba.   If you're into the whole microbe thing.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on August 20, 2020, 11:30:46 AM
Haiku

The justice cannon
Is now turned on Steve Bannon
Defrauds wall zealots.

Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on August 24, 2020, 02:21:20 PM
If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream- -and not make dreams your master;
If you can think- -and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on! '

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings- -nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And- -which is more- -you'll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling

_____________

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on September 26, 2020, 03:16:17 PM
Gus: The Theatre Cat
By T.S. Eliot
 
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 know 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 pursued 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, these 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.'

-----------

Salute,

Tony V.