A poem

Jeslek

Jeslek

Banned
A Friend Like You[/siz]
Author unknown[/siz]

There's lots of things
With which I'm blessed,
My problems have been few,
But of all, this one's the best:
To have a friend like you.

In times of trouble
Friends will say,
"Just ask, I'll help you through it."
But you don't wait for me to ask,
You just get up and do it!

And I can think
of nothing more
That I could wisely do,
Than know a friend,
And be a friend,
And have a friend like you.



I just found this tonight, and I thought I should share it. :)
 
Jeslek

Jeslek

Banned
Touch of the Master's Hand

The Touch of the Master's Hand[/siz]
Myra Brooks Welch[/siz]

was battered and scarred, and the auctioner
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But held it up with a smile.
"What am I bidden, good folks," he cried,
"Who will start bidding for me?
A dollar, a dollar" --then, "Two!" "Only two?
Two dollars, and who'll make it three?
Three dollars, twice;
"Going for three --" But no,
From the room, far back, a gray-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening the loose strings.
He played a melody pure and sweet
As sweet as a caroling angel sings.

he music ceased and the auctioner
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said what am I bidden for the old violin?
And he held it up with the bow.
A thousand dollars, and who'll make it two?

wo thousand! And who'll make it thre?
Three thousand, once; three thousand twice;
And going, and gone!" said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
"We do not quite understand
What changed its worth?" Swift came the reply:
"The touch of the master's hand.

nd many a man with life out of tun,
And battered and scattered with sin,
Is auctioned off cheap to the thoughtless crowd,
Much like the old violin.
A "mess of pottage," a glass of wine;
A game -- and he travels on.
He's "going" once, and "going" twice,
He's "going" and "almost gone."
But the Master comes and the foolish crowd
Never quite understands
The worth of a soul and the change that's wrought
By the touch of the Master's hand.




That is my favorite poem. :) What is yours?
 
unclehobart

unclehobart

New Member
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
 
Scanty

Scanty

New Member
Was that from memory, Rob? If it was I'm impressed; it's word-for-word right. If it wasn't.....well I still like you, lol. :D
 
Scanty

Scanty

New Member
How about this one?


Barry the Depressed Slug

Barry the slug was unhappy in life,
His friends could tell just by looking.
He would stay in the ground, until he was found,
By the slug who did most of the cooking.

“Get up and go out,’ said the cook to the slug;
The glumness was getting him stressed.
But the slug wasn’t looking at the slug who was cooking,
He had become so incredibly depressed.

“I’ll chop off my head,” he eventually said,
But the other just laughed at the warning.

…To be honest the slug, is a short-lived bug,
And they’d all be dead by the morning.



:D
 
Ardsgaine

Ardsgaine

New Member
The Raven by Poe

If by Kipling

And this one by O. Henry:

The Old Farm

Just now when the whitening blossoms flare
On the apple trees and the growing grass
Creeps forth, and a balm is in the air;
With my lighted pipe and well-filled glass
Of the old farm I am dreaming,
And softly smiling, seeming
To see the bright sun beaming
Upon the old home farm.

And when I think how we milked the cows,
And hauled the hay from the meadows low;
And walked the furrows behind the plows,
And chopped the cotton to make it grow
I'd much rather be here dreaming
And smiling, only seeming
To see the hot sun gleaming
Upon the old home farm.

:p
 
unclehobart

unclehobart

New Member
The World's Worst Poem
By Simon Davies

The dog oozed round the grassy frith,
It gave its bungs a twiddle,
It whiffed and burped, it garked and blurped,
So I squashed it with my niddle.

It whimped in pain, it ate its brain,
It nurged a stinking scribble,
I heard it yelp, I screamed for help,
But it squashed me with its dribble.
 
Inkara1

Inkara1

Well-Known Member
Trees - Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree
 
Ardsgaine

Ardsgaine

New Member
That's good, but for nonsense words you can't beat The Jabberwock by Lewis Carrol:

Twas brillig and the slithey toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe
All mimsy were the borogoves
And the mome roths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock," my son
"The jaws that bite, the claws the catch
Beware the jub-jub bird, and
Shun the frumious bandersnatch."

He took his vorpal sword in hand
Long time the manxome foe he sought
So rested he by the tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood
The jabberwock with eyes of flame
Came wiffling through the tulgey wood
And gurgled as it came.

One, two-- one, two-- and through and through
His vorpal sword went snicker-snack.
He left it dead, and with its head
He went gallumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
Oh, frubjous day! Calloo, callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

Twas brillig and the slithey toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe
All mimsy were the borogoves
And the mome roths outgrabe.
 
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