Quotes about girth, page 12
Why Love?
Nature dazzles the bewitched eye,
With splashing colours of a rainbow -on fire in the copper sky,
With cascading waterfall- flirts a roving butterfly,
With shooting stars banished-to light up the Milky Way,
With a hovering humming bird that belittles the peacock dancing in the rain,
With glowing fire-flies—on their backs hold torch to a visionary dream.
Nature disperses the incense of fragrances,
Of a damasked rose-held together by reckless thorns,
Of coy jasmines-blooming only in the twilight of false dawn,
Of sandalwood limbs-where lie twined the vilest snakes,
Of earthy smells-wrought of dry earth in summer rain,
Of spring flavors—ripped, ooze out in their best form, when treaded upon.
Nature plays tenors to the patient ear on tinsel wings,
In birds calls-mountains echo in the wee hours of the morning,
In a shepherd’s song—thaws to tears the simmering heat,
In whispering trees—shedding leaves in the stillness of the forest,
In pounding waves –shores sing their victory over lost distances,
In pattering rain — from heaven’s lowered eye-lids the foliage bears the bruises.
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poem by Seema joglekar
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Old Town Types No 20 - Mr Blades the Butcher
Mr Blades, the butcher, was a large and beefy man,
'Best him at a cattle deal,' 'twas said, 'no other can.'
He ate a lot and drank a lot and had a lot to say,
And he jollied all the ladies in his large and airy way.
His family was numerous, and helped him in 'the trade,'
And townsfolk had a deal to say of money what they made.
But Mr Blades just went his way, and had his bit of fun;
And joked about his appetite, his girth, or else his 'run.'
His 'run' - a stretch of scrubland at the back of Connor's place -
Was a joke about the district; for it did not bear a trace
Of building or improvement. Yet some said Mr Blades
Had ambitions as a squatter, and a secret scorn for 'trades' . . .
Then the cattle duffers started in the district. Connors raved,
But folk said it was wonderful how Mr Blades behaved.
Tho' he lost a hundred stores one night. But soon began the rows
When people in the town began to lose domestic cows.
Police surprised the gang one night out in the mulga shades,
And took the lot, red-handed, with their leader - Mr Blades.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Beggars
It is the beggars who possess the earth.
Kings on their throne have but a narrow girth
Of some poor known dominion; these possess
All the unknown, and that vast happiness
Of the uncertainty of human things.
Wandering on eternal wanderings,
They know the world; and tasting but the bread
Of charity, know man; and, strangely led
By some vague, certain, and appointed hand,
Know fate; and being lonely, understand
Some little of the thing without a name
That sits by the roadside and talks with them,
When they are silent; for the soul is shy
If more than its own shadow loiter by.
They and the birds are old acquaintances,
Knowing the dawn together; theirs it is
To settle on the dusty land like crows,
The ragged vagabonds of the air; who knows
How they too shall be fed, day after day,
And surer than the birds, for are not they
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poem by Arthur Symons
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Israel O Israe
Israel O Israel
God came for you in flesh and blood
Left Christ with the key to hell
To Heaven too, yet you can’t tell
Israel O Israel.
Woman travails with sin as a child
Bishops cry
Angels sigh
Men die
And you labour in birth
Alas a child without breath
Israel O Israel
Suffer not your child to wrath.
Woman walks around naked
Still she is blackened, darkened
In sight
Cavalry is full of blood
Blood O blood
Don’t go don’t dry
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poem by Chanda Mwenechanya
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The Spoilers
Ye are the Great White People, masters and lords of the earth,
Spreading your stern dominion over the world's wide girth.
Here, where my fathers hunted since Time's primordial morn,
To our land's sweet, fecund places, you came with your kine and corn.
Mouthing your creed of Culture to cover a baser creed,
Your talk was of White Man's magic, but your secret god was Greed.
And now that your generations to the second, the third have run,
White Man, what of my country? Answer, what have you done?
Now the God of my Simple People was a simple, kindly God,
Meting his treasure wisely that sprang from this generous sod,
With never a beast too many and never a beast too few,
Thro' the lean years and the fruitful, he held the balance true.
Then the White Lords came in their glory; and their cry was: 'More! Yet more!'
And to make them rich for a season they filched Earth's age-old store,
And they hunted my Simple People - hunters of yester-year -
And they drove us into the desert - while they wrought fresh deserts here.
They ravaged the verdant uplands and spoiled wealth ages old,
Laid waste with their pumps and sluices for a gunny-bag of gold;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Philosophy - Matters Little If At All
PHILOSOPHY - MATTERS LITTLE IF AT ALL
Whether lapping wave band foam bath,
thunder clap, tsunami tall,
weather warm or glacier calf,
matters little, if at all.
Whether old one passes over,
young unsung, berth premature,
silver spoon and four leaf clover,
or homeless, wan, naught can endure.
Laments unheeded, red rims beaded
with emotions on the fly,
strangers never know they needed,
nor regrets, nor passing sigh.
Who with motives honed for getting,
never letting go of aim,
last laugh's left with time, forgetting,
fame's flame, game's name, wild or tame.
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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The First Flight
While there's one on his feet with a tale to repeat
And another is sampling a drink,
The eager First Flight have a girth to draw tight
Or a chain to let out by a link;
While the boisterous laugh in that circle of chaff
The opening music has drowned,
You will hear the First Flight as they whisper 'That's right!'
To the note of a favourite hound.
When a holloa makes sure that his start is secure
And dispels every doubt of a run,
When the crowd gallops straight to the obvious gate
With the latch that is never undone,
You will see the First Flight cram a topper on tight,
Catch a willing old nag by the head
And clapping on sail at the blackthorn or rail,
Take the line of the robber in red.
They thunder away over stubble and clay,
Over roots or the level o' lea,
The gallant First Flight that are soon out of sight
While the slow ones are sadly at sea.
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poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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The Dreamers
HAVE courage, O my comradry of dreamers!
All things, except mere Earth, are ours.
We pluck its passions for our flowers.
Dawn-dyed our great cloud-banners toss their streamers
Above its quaking tyrant-towers!
Making this stern grey planet shine with jewel-showers.
Our lives are mantled in forgotten glory,
Like trees that fringe yon dark hill-crest
Alight against the molten west.
The great night shuddering yields her stress of story—
The dreams that stir the past’s long rest—
Strange, scented night-winds sighing on our naked breast.
Through all the spirit’s spacious, secret regions—
By pathways we believed unknown—
Still thoughts immortal meet our own.
Ideas!—In innumerable legions!
Like summer’s stir in forests lone
Their various music merges in time’s monotone.
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poem by Sydney Wheeler Jephcott
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Alnaschar and the Oxen
There's a pasture in a valley where the hanging woods divide,
And a Herd lies down and ruminates in peace;
Where the pheasant rules the nooning, and the owl the twilight tide,
And the war-cries of our world die out and cease.
Here I cast aside the burden that each weary week-day brings
And, delivered from the shadows I pursue,
On peaceful, postless, Sabbaths I consider Weighty Things
Such as Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!
At the gate beside the river where the trouty shallows brawl,
I know the pride that Lobengula felt,
When he bade the bars be lowered of the Royal Cattle Kraal,
And fifteen miles of oxen took the veldt.
From the walls of Bulawayo in unbroken file they came
To where the Mount of Council cuts the blue . . .
I have only six and twenty, but the principle's the same
With my Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!
To a luscious sound of tearing, where the clovered herbage rips,
Level-backed and level-bellied watch 'em move.
See those shoulders, guess that heart-girth, praise those loins, admire those hips,
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Why WILL The Girls Refuse? - Parody
Why will the girls refuse, mamma,
why will the girls refuse?
For every time one turns me down
I throw a fit of blues.
how can a guy go gad about
with no-one to amuse,
when each proposal meets with frown –
some clues, mamma, your views?
Why can’t they be content, mamma,
when taken out to dine
to Fred’s fine fish and chip bazaar
with water ‘stead of wine, -
it went down well with you and pa
before the parking fine,
so if we walk – no need for car –
why will Miss Prissy whine?
I’m sure I’ve done my best, mamma,
to keep them at my heels,
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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