Quotes about scoured, page 2
The Privvy.......Toilet Trolls
Twas sordid that thought
Midwinter handed a lit
Oil lamp
Glowing
Showing the way outside to the shiny black paint of
The toilet door
Lift the latch....clunk! as your eyes scoured the darkness the bushes
For bogey men, trolls and murderers
Place lamp on window sill
Put small buttocks on the winter chilled toilet seat
Heart beats at a quickened pace
As a small scared face gazes
Out
Eyes foraging the white painted walls
For spiders and daddy long legs
Anything that crawls
And flys
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poem by Karen Sinclair
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Celebates
They must not wed the Doctor said,
For they were far from strong,
And children of their marriage bed
Might not live overlong.
And yet each eve I saw them pass
With rapt and eager air,
As fit a seeming lad and lass
As ought to pair.
For twenty years I went away
And scoured the China Sea,
Then homing came and found that they
Were still sweet company.
The Doctor and the Priest had banned
Three times their wedding ties,
Yet they were walking hand in hand,
Love in their eyes.
And then I went away again
For years another score,
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poem by Robert William Service
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Home
I looked for a place I could call home in the United Kingdom,
I searched from Glasgow to Bristol but didn't accomplish my goal,
At first I was concerned that my failure would become a problem,
But then I managed to bring my anxieties under control,
I scoured for a place to call my own in the French empire,
I explored from Paris to Nice but my search sadly did not cease,
I thought that that which I wanted was not for me to acquire,
But with time I found that my optimism started to increase,
I hunted for a quaint place to live within Germany's frontier,
I roamed from Hamburg to Munich while unable to make a pick,
For a while I was miserable since my future was unclear,
But I was determined to find somewhere that wasn't prosaic,
I decided to claim some land and then make my own dominion,
With the hope of filling it with beauty which elsewhere can't be found,
All without ever having to ask for another's opinion,
However I had to give up as the troubles faced were abound.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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Lauds for St. Germaine Cousin (1579-1601)
Blessed is the One who lifts the slow sun
above this morning's raw orange edge,
who moves the ewe to nudge her birth-
stunned lamb into the flock's heat, who
leads the hen to steer her keets as soon as
they can walk into the insect-
filled, high grass, guides the owl to tear fresh
pigeon into pieces small enough
to fill the owlet's gaping bill,
and prompts the rat to lick the pup
that's not her own and take it to her side,
directs the swan to trumpet,
bob her head, and raise her wings, quivering
into a living canopy
above the nest built without hands
by those who have no hands, just wings,
wings that cannot weave but must and somehow
do, just as I twist thread from the distaff's
wild wether wool, skirted, sorted, scoured,
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poem by Christianne Balk
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Darrel
On his shoulder
are the weight of his struggles,
his prostrate grief,
and esoteric quintessence;
the impending doom
that defeat riveted
On his hands
are burns from cigarettes,
an empty bottle
and everything else
lifeless and afraid
On his eyes
are shut persiennes
veiling the shadows that
love has casted
and its silver web
of emptiness
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poem by Norman Santos
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Idyll XXX
When Cypris saw Adonis,
In death already lying
With all his locks dishevelled,
And cheeks turned wan and ghastly,
She bade the Loves attendant
To bring the boar before her.
And lo, the winged ones, fleetly
They scoured through all the wild wood;
The wretched boar they tracked him,
And bound and doubly bound him.
One fixed on him a halter,
And dragged him on, a captive,
Another drave him onward,
And smote him with his arrows.
But terror-struck the beast came,
For much he feared Cythere.
To him spake Aphrodite, -
'Of wild beasts all the vilest,
This thigh, by thee was 't wounded?
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poem by Theocritus
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With a Celtic Scarf around My Neck
Hail Hail to all the Celtic fans
I see you are in good voice
Let us stand within McConnell's pub
And sing and drink to the Bhoys
For we were born and it's in our blood
To follow the bhoys in green
For the Glasgow Celtic are the finest team
The world has ever seen.
It was many years ago when our fore-fathers
Left their native home
As they said goodbye to Donegal,
To Limerick and Tyrone
They fled the English landlords
And the famine that scoured their land
They crossed the sea to Glasgow town
With Ireland’s cross in their hand.
To Jock Stein and the Lisbon Lions
Our fathers would raise a cheer,
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poem by Daniel McDonagh
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Old Tin Liz
We have scrubbed, and scoured and polished, till she's looking just like new,
And her good old engines singing, and our hearts are singing too,
While the magpies pipe a chorus, and the air's like a sparkling fizz.
And we're going to the races in the Old Tin Liz.
T'was the first car in the district, how we swelled our chests with pride,
As we asked our poorer neighbours to step up and take a ride,
Now they pass us by, disdainful, in the newest make there is,
Wondering why we cling so faithfully to Old Tin Liz.
When we'd got her, new and shining, Oh the picnics that we had,
Mother shredding all her troubles, Father larking like a lad,
While we youngsters sang in chorus, as our bubbling spirits riz,
Sitting decked with ferns and wattles in the Old Tin Liz.
But when Janey got a snake bite, ah! the terror of that day,
Nothing in the house to cure her, and the doctor miles away,
'Twas then Lizzie showed her mettle. Oh she had a heart of gold
Roaring up those flinty ridges liked a blessed two-year-old.
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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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The rocks shout Amen [Stâncile strigă Amin]
Lean and tormented, old, bent to the ground,
Like pilgrims scoured Beda all around.
And passed through many countries, many lands,
To spread religion and the God's commands.
But being blind, he couldn't make his way,
That's why a child would lead him every day.
And once he guided him along a brook
Where there were many rocks with stately look.
The old man paused to breathe and take a rest,
The toddler turned to him and spoke in jest:
"O, father, it is wrong to linger here
When crowds are waiting for you to appear
And give the sermon". So, the poor old man
Got up, took out his text and soon began
To read it and explain it with such grace,
That tears of joy did flood his wrinkled face.
The laughter of the child shook all his bones
Seeing the saint was preaching to the stones
And all his words got lost into thin air;
The old man stopped and with the greatest care
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poem by George Coşbuc, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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The Germ Chaser
I knew a careful lady once
Who read a book by Dr. Bunce,
A wise authority on wogs
That roam about in dust and fogs;
Indeed, he pointed out, all air,
However pure, held germs somewhere;
They clung to door-knobs, crawled on floors,
Inhabited small change in scores.
In fact, there scarcely was a thing
To which some foul germ did not cling,
Ready to leap and work its will
To some poor luckless human's ill.
The lady closed the book and sighed,
And all content within her died.
This pleasant earth for her became
The haunt of wogs, and life a game
Of hide and seek. She joined the band
Of grim germ-chasers in the land.
She scoured and scrubbed, examined food -
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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