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Says Mister Doojabs

Well, eight months ago one clear cold day,
I took a ramble up Broadway,
And with my hands behind my back
I strolled along on the streetcar track—
(I walked on the track, for walking there
Gives one, I think, a distinguished air.)

'Well, all of a sudden I felt a jar
And I said, 'I’ll bet that’s a trolley car,'
And, sure enough, when I looked to see
I saw it had run right over me!
And my limbs and things were so scattered about
That for a moment I felt put out.

Well, the motorman was a nice young chap!
And he came right up and tipped his cap
And said, 'Beg pardon,' and was so kind
That his gentle manner soothed my mind:
Especially as he took such pains
To gather up my spilt remains.

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poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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If It Is Peace

With imagination...
Free we are to deliver,
Our best creations.
Only we restrict them to limits!
Sometimes selfishly we decide,
To explore or hide.
Within those limits.
And satisfied we are,
When they've been reached.

Snuggle some do...
In moods of fictionalized attitudes.
Set and draped upon landscapes,
Author made.
To invite escapes.
For the mind traveling to other times.
To visit while watching a movie.
And hypnotized to feel...
Live and breathe,
The experience.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Buying a Car

I wanted a car when I wearied of walking.
With savings in hand, I left home to peruse.
The dealer was helpful, bright-eyed and fast-talking.
He offered two models from which I could choose.

The first looked immaculate, surfaces gleaming,
compared to the other, defaced by a scratch.
"The price is the same", said the car dealer, beaming.
I deemed him unscheming, so asked "What's the catch"?

He mumbled and hemmed as he opened each bonnet.
I missed all his words, for the squeak of the hood.
While first engine, seamless, had no mark upon it,
the other was patchwork of iron and wood.

The first car, he promised, would cause me no worry,
the makers long trusted with local renown.
He offered a test drive, said "No need to hurry,
as long as you stay within limits of town".

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poem by Diane Hine
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Will O' The Wisp

Follow me, follow me,
Over brake and under tree,
Thro' the bosky tanglery,
Brushwood and bramble!
Follow me, follow me,
Laugh and leap and scramble!
Follow, follow,
Hill and hollow,
Fosse and burrow,
Fen and furrow,
Down into the bulrush beds,
'Midst the reeds and osier heads,
In the rushy soaking damps,
Where the vapours pitch their camps,
Follow me, follow me,
For a midnight ramble!
O! what a mighty fog,
What a merry night O ho!
Follow, follow, nigher, nigher -
Over bank, and pond, and briar,

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poem by George Meredith
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The Logicians Refuted

IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT

LOGICIANS have but ill defin'd
As rational, the human kind;
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglecius,
By ratiocinations specious,
Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
'Homo est ratione praeditum',--
But for my soul I cannot credit 'em;
And must in spite of them maintain,
That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature;
That instinct is a surer guide
Than reason-boasting mortals' pride;
And that brute beasts are far before 'em,
'Deus est anima brutorum'.

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poem by Oliver Goldsmith
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The Season

And must I wear a silken life,
Hemmed in by city walls?
And must I give my garden up
For theatres and balls?

Nay, though the cage be made of gold,
'Tis better to be free;
The green of the green meadows, love,
Is quite enough for me.

I'd rather ramble through the lanes
Than drive about in town;
I'd rather muse or dream than dance,
When the stars are shining down.

I do not care for diamonds, dear,
But I care a deal for flowers;
And thousands are just creeping out
For the sunshine and the showers.

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poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Rocking Of A Cradle

I honestly wish my portrayals were always happy.
But as history show us.
That just can not be.
Some despise me for it.
Others dismiss it as being from a nut who knows of nothing.
As if truth was something evil I was just spewing from my mouth.
As the a fire flows its own way in a dance that is always different.
Still heat comes from it, just in a different direction.
It will continue with out any delay.
Some will be warm while others will be cold.
Some will die young while others will die old.
Fairness is not divided into portions of gold.
It is not something that can be just bought and sold.
The equals sign is hard to come by in life.
So many unknown variables, that the equation is almost always unsolvable,
The search continues on as I continue to ramble on.
Sometime the fruits on many years of labor are acquired.
But usually the these fruits are small in comparison to work it took to produce them.
We are but plowing the field, planting the seed, and tending to the hope that something will grow.
A uncertainty is but life from the foundation up.

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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Elegy XXV. To Delia, With Some Flowers

Whate'er could Sculpture's curious art employ,
Whate'er the lavish hand of Wealth can shower,
These would I give-and every gift enjoy,
That pleased my fair-but Fate denies the power.

Bless'd were my lot to feed the social fires!
To learn the latent wishes of a friend!
To give the boon his native taste admires,
And, for my transport, on his smile depend!

Bless'd, too, is he whose evening ramble strays
Where droop the sons of Indigence and Care!
His little gifts their gladden'd eyes amaze,
And win, at small expence, their fondest prayer!

And, oh! the joy, to shun the conscious light;
To spare the modest blush; to give unseen!
Like showers that fall behind the veil of night,
Yet deeply tinge the smiling vales with green.

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poem by William Shenstone
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Junior College

Up is down, spin me around. I won myself a degree. Bow at my feet, fear my intellect, I should buy me a new pipe. Perhaps if I felt different I would, but it’s me, the same lost boy I have always been. I knows where I wants to go, but how do I get there? I stare at the map. Straight lines, squiggly lines, no lines, I am still lost. Seems to me I bought the wrong one.

My parents sure were proud. So were my grandparents. Oh yea and my sister and my friend’s mom and my dad’s ex-girlfriend, the family dog, the waitress at the pizza parlor shit, even my boss. What I didn’t tell them through my stupid smile was that I am a fraud. Sure, I had my flashes of pride, but they came and went between roaming clouds. The hardest part of earning this degree was waking up in time to hear my teacher ramble on and on and on about things I already knew and no longer remember. But hey, I have myself a cap and a gown and a piece of paper, that’s all they needed to see.

Gold tassels! I didn’t get one of those. This would have caused poignancy if it wasn’t for the old woman with a limp sitting beside me. Seventy-five years it took her to graduate junior college and she couldn’t be happier. Neither could I, all seven of her great-grandchildren were in attendance. This woman sparked a spark of something in my otherwise numb normal state. I laughed with her, I celebrated with her, I almost cried with her, for goodness sake, I did more then sit there with a blank stare. She counts her days, I piss away mine, yet we graduate together, from the back row.

Am I average because I’m average or is it because I choose to be? A day later, I have forgotten the old woman, and remembered those gold tassels. The deans shake their hands with smiles mine in disgust. Compare them to me. Ha. No comparison, gold is better then green. If only I had woken up a little earlier, opened my textbooks, the same ones I was supposed to have been opening for the last 10 years, maybe I would have that gold tassel. What will become of them? What about me? They know how to get where they are going. I'm stuck circling the same streets. Damn, not only did they get pretty tassels, they got a better map.

poem by Adam Holmes
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When I Am Gone

When I am gone, I pray you shed
No tears upon the grassy bed
Where that which you have loved is laid
Under the wind-warped yew-tree's shade.
And let no sombre pomp prepare
My unreturning journey there,
Nor wailing words nor dirges deep
Disturb the quiet of my sleep;
But tender maidens, robed in white,
Who have not yet forgotten quite
The love I sought, the love I gave,
Be the sole mourners round my grave.
And neither then, nor after, raise
The bust of pride, the slab of praise,
To him who, having sinned and striven,
Now only asks to be forgiven,
That he is gone.

When I am gone, you must not deem
That I am severed, as I seem,

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poem by Alfred Austin
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