Poetry Corner

[Robrites]

Please Santa, Smoke One With The Homies

Please Santa, Smoke One With The Homies

By RedStewie





'Tis Christmas season once again,
And the homies have an earnest need for Mary Jane.
What better way to be jolly,
Than to roll up and smoke some holly.
Pretty please Mr. Claus,
Hop off that sleigh and take a smoke pause.
Let's roll a fat nugget in some "Christmas" wrapping papers,
And I bet Rodulph's nose will shine brighter from heavenly vapors.
Eggnog will weigh us down in this cold weather,
While a good blunt will make us light as a feather.
I have been good all year, and need to get loose.
Let's get high and find some ho, ho, hos to seduce.
I already got a comfortable chair, lighter and cigar,
All you need to bring is some green in a mason jar.
Come on Santa! smoke one with the boys,
So we can all be merry and make some noise.


https://allpoetry.com/poem/13660633-Please-Santa--Smoke-One-With-The-Homies-by-RedStewie

 

[Robrites]

Winter Complaint

Winter Complaint

By Ogden Nash





Now when I have a cold
I am careful with my cold,
I consult a physician
And I do as I am told.
I muffle up my torso
In woolly woolly garb,
And I quaff great flagons
Of sodium bicarb.
I munch on aspirin,
I lunch on water,
And I wouldn’t dream of osculating
Anybody’s daughter,
And to anybody’s son
I wouldn’t say howdy,
For I am a sufferer
Magna cum laude.
I don’t like germs,
But I’ll keep the germs I’ve got.
Will I take a chance of spreading them?
Definitely not.
I sneeze out the window
And I cough up the flue,
And I live like a hermit
Till the germs get through.
And because I’m considerate,
Because I’m wary,
I am treated by my friends
Like Typhoid Mary.

Now when you have a cold
You are careless with your cold,
You are cocky as a gangster
Who has just been paroled.
You ignore your physician,
You eat steaks and oxtails,
You stuff yourself with starches,
You drink lots of cocktails,
And you claim that gargling
Is a time of waste,
And you won’t take soda
For you don’t like the taste,
And you prowl around parties
Full of selfish bliss,
And greet your hostess
With a genial kiss.
You convert yourself
Into a deadly missle,
You exhale Hello’s
Like a steamboat wistle.
You sneeze in the subway
And you cough at dances,
And let everybody else
Take their own good chances.
You’re a bronchial boor,
A bacterial blighter,
And you get more invitations
Than a gossip writer.

Yes, your throat is froggy,
And your eyes are swimmy,
And you hand is clammy,
And you nose is brimmy,
But you woo my girls
And their hearts you jimmy
While I sit here
With the cold you gimmy.

 

[Robrites]

Fuck.
All
Yew
Stoned.

 

[kaochiu]

Fuck.
All
Yew
Stoned.

Mmmmh... Walt Withman?

 

[Robrites]

Mmmmh... Walt Withman?

Probably closer to... Malt Drunkman

 

[HOPS5K]

I'm high in the morning
Flying on a cloud
Kick ass Sativa
Boy, it's loud
Whole neighborhood heard me cough
Now it's time to get off

 

[Robrites]

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost​

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

 

[Robrites]

Digging by Seamus Heaney​

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pin rest; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

 

[Robrites]

Root Cellar by Theodore Roethke​

Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch,
Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,
Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.
And what a congress of stinks!
Roots ripe as old bait,
Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,
Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks.
Nothing would give up life:
Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.

 

[Robrites]

Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens by Jack Prelutsky​

Last night I dreamed of chickens,
there were chickens everywhere,
they were standing on my stomach,
they were nesting in my hair,
they were pecking at my pillow,
they were hopping on my head,
they were ruffling up their feathers
as they raced about my bed.

They were on the chairs and tables,
they were on the chandeliers,
they were roosting in the corners,
they were clucking in my ears,
there were chickens, chickens, chickens
for as far as I could see...
when I woke today, I noticed
there were eggs on top of me.

 

[Robrites]

I like This one...


Saturday At The Canal by Gary Soto​

I was hoping to be happy by seventeen.
School was a sharp check mark in the roll book,
An obnoxious tuba playing at noon because our team
Was going to win at night. The teachers were
Too close to dying to understand. The hallways
Stank of poor grades and unwashed hair. Thus,
A friend and I sat watching the water on Saturday,
Neither of us talking much, just warming ourselves
By hurling large rocks at the dusty ground
And feeling awful because San Francisco was a postcard
On a bedroom wall. We wanted to go there,
Hitchhike under the last migrating birds
And be with people who knew more than three chords
On a guitar. We didn't drink or smoke,
But our hair was shoulder length, wild when
The wind picked up and the shadows of
This loneliness gripped loose dirt. By bus or car,
By the sway of train over a long bridge,
We wanted to get out. The years froze
As we sat on the bank. Our eyes followed the water,
White-tipped but dark underneath, racing out of town.

 

[Robrites]

Resumé


By Dorothy Parker

Razors pain you;

Rivers are damp;

Acids stain you;

And drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren’t lawful;

Nooses give;

Gas smells awful;

You might as well live.

 

[Robrites]

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas​

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 that 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.

 

[Robrites]

The New Poetry Handbook by Mark Strand​

1 If a man understands a poem,
he shall have troubles.

2 If a man lives with a poem,
he shall die lonely.

3 If a man lives with two poems,
he shall be unfaithful to one.

4 If a man conceives of a poem,
he shall have one less child.

5 If a man conceives of two poems,
he shall have two children less.

6 If a man wears a crown on his head as he writes,
he shall be found out.

7 If a man wears no crown on his head as he writes,
he shall deceive no one but himself.

8 If a man gets angry at a poem,
he shall be scorned by men.

9 If a man continues to be angry at a poem,
he shall be scorned by women.

10 If a man publicly denounces poetry,
his shoes will fill with urine.

11 If a man gives up poetry for power,
he shall have lots of power.

12 If a man brags about his poems,
he shall be loved by fools.

13 If a man brags about his poems and loves fools,
he shall write no more.

14 If a man craves attention because of his poems,
he shall be like a jackass in moonlight.

15 If a man writes a poem and praises the poem of a fellow,
he shall have a beautiful mistress.

16 If a man writes a poem and praises the poem of a fellow overly,
he shall drive his mistress away.

17 If a man claims the poem of another,
his heart shall double in size.

18 If a man lets his poems go naked,
he shall fear death.

19 If a man fears death,
he shall be saved by his poems.

20 If a man does not fear death,
he may or may not be saved by his poems.

21 If a man finishes a poem,
he shall bathe in the blank wake of his passion
and be kissed by white paper.

 

[Rocky Mtn Squid]

The Core

The Core

Every morning when I wake, a feeling soon begins to overtake me.
Ringing in my ears resounds through my brain; it finally surrounds me.
There is fire, there is life, there is passion, fever and fury.
There is love and there is hate, there is longing, anger and worry.

Oh, I have a flame; feel it touch my heart.
And down at my core is the hottest part.
I can burn without fuel.

If it should become too cold, I know I can endure the frostbite.
Oh, a blanket then I'll wrap around me; I keep myself so close to my side.
No one then can cause me harm, just as the river runs into the sea.
Cause every day, your fire alarm is deafening the silence all around me.

Oh, I have a flame; feel it touch my heart.
And down at my core is the hottest part.
I can burn without fuel.

It is burning.
It is burning.

You can trust me; we can laugh. Together we can share our sorrow.
I will give you secrets too, an attitude that you may borrow.
Gypsy woman said to me, "One thing you must bear in your mind:
You are young and you are free, but damned if you're deceased in your own lifetime."

Oh, you have a flame; feel it in your heart.
And down at the core is the hottest part.
We can burn without fuel.

It is burning.
It is burning.


Songwriters: Eric Patrick Clapton / Marcy Levy


[YOUTUBEIF]Lyw5jJI2agM[/YOUTUBEIF]


RMS

 

[kaochiu]

I was born in the high seas
dans le bateau de mon pere
Mein Mutter war Kapitän
Puso rumbo hacia Jerez.
Mikhail povar
Écho kratísei ta froúta gia ta potákia mou
e o menino da cabana cuidou de mim.
Vele jaren later, oud zijn
Seduto su una roccia, sulla cima
Jeg husker det bare fordi de fortalte meg

 

[Robrites]

Four Haiku by Matsuo Basho​

Spring:
A hill without a name
Veiled in morning mist.

The beginning of autumn:
Sea and emerald paddy
Both the same green.

The winds of autumn
Blow: yet still green
The chestnut husks.

A flash of lightning:
Into the gloom
Goes the heron's cry.

 

[Gypsy Nirvana]

Java Jive
The Manhattan Transfer

I love coffee, I love tea
I love the java jive and it loves me
Coffee and tea and the java and me
A cup, a cup, a cup, a cup, a cup (boy!)

I love java, sweet and hot
Whoops mr. moto, I'm a coffee pot
Shoot the pot and I'll pour me a shot
A cup, a cup, a cup, a cup, a cup

Oh slip me a slug from the wonderful mug
And I'll cut a rug just snug in a jug
A sliced up onion and a raw one
Draw one -
Waiter, waiter, percolator

I love coffee, I love tea
I love the java jive and it loves me
Coffee and tea and the java and me
A cup, a cup, a cup, a cup, a cup

Boston bean (soy beans)
Green bean (cabbage and greens)
I'm not keen about a bean
Unless it is a chili chili bean (boy!)

I love java sweet and hot
Whoops mr. moto I'm a coffee pot (yeah)
Shoot me the pot and I'll pour me a shot
A cup, a cup, a cup (yeah)

Slip me a slug of the wonderful mug
'an I'll cut a rug just as snug in a jug
Drop a nickel in the pot joe
Takin' it slow
Waiter, waiter, percolator

I love coffee, I love tea
I love the java jive and it loves me
Coffee and tea and the java and me
A cup, a cup, a cup, a cup, boy!

Songwriters: Milton Drake / Ben Oakland

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0XxsasUHzaQ

 

[Robrites]

Lines For A Christmas Card by Hilaire Belloc​

May all my enemies go to hell,
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel

 

[Robrites]

Having Lost My Sons, I Confront The Wreckage Of The Moon: Christmas, 1960 by James Wright​

After dark
Near the South Dakota border,
The moon is out hunting, everywhere,
Delivering fire,
And walking down hallways
Of a diamond.

Behind a tree,
It lights on the ruins
Of a white city
Frost, frost.

Where are they gone
Who lived there?

Bundled away under wings
And dark faces.

I am sick
Of it, and I go on
Living, alone, alone,
Past the charred silos, past the hidden graves
Of Chippewas and Norwegians.

This cold winter
Moon spills the inhuman fire
Of jewels
Into my hands.

Dead riches, dead hands, the moon
Darkens,
And I am lost in the beautiful white ruins
Of America.