Quotes about pegs, page 4
The Art Of Scribbling
this is art.
this is not really just a game or a habit.
it is not a barrier not a bar
or dart.
this is the art of concealment but which hungers for an opinion.
this is the player at the backstage putting a mask, or a thick layer of make up
winks, and practices the movement of eyeballs.
this is the art of conveying emotions
a little bit exaggerated to get you direct to the point
nothing about pegs on square holes.
this is the art of dressing up for the proper occasion.
you pay attention to particular details expecting that he can also
understand the protest of your
color and insignias.
this is what you read and analyze and say perhaps this is it.
that this is what i am and this is all about what happened to me in the past
or that the future is already well drawn and
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Bible Stories: Job (Chapter IV)
Spoke Eliphaz, the Termanite:
Will you mind, if we speak to you?
Can anyone not talk to you?
You had advised many people;
You had strengthened their feeble hands;
Your words had helped those who falter.
When in problems, you’re impatient;
When troubles seek you, you’re annoyed;
Is not your piety, your faith?
Is not your steadfastness, your hope?
Do innocents truly perish?
Are upright, really destroyed?
The trouble-sower reaps the same;
The breath of God makes them perish;
The wrath of God consumes them all!
Although the mighty lion roars,
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poem by John Celes
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As I
As I battle out the austere torsions of the horizon
Plying to shove the gossamer sun to set
Into the insolent demise resting on his nest;
As I dispense the divergence of the liaison
Raveling a prostrate retroactive protraction
Musing on the gloaming before it dawns;
As I subtly winnow the skirts of this curtain
A prolix camouflage to interminable impasse
Shifting fractions and equations to resume this vying;
As I exonerate the black birds perched on the fringes
And obliterate the spiteful thaw of waxen houses
Tumbling a speck to the dead of the sapid vesper;
As the body touch the soul, like a hand in glove
Quelling the warmth and seething the frost
Bereaving the vehement possibility of consummation;
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Treadmill Song
The stars are rolling in the sky,
The earth rolls on below,
And we can feel the rattling wheel
Revolving as we go.
Then tread away, my gallant boys,
And make the axle fly;
Why should not wheels go round about,
Like planets in the sky?
Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man,
And stir your solid pegs
Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,
And shake your spider legs;
What though you’re awkward at the trade,
There’s time enough to learn, -—Â
So lean upon the rail, my lad,
And take another turn.
They’ve built us up a noble wall,
To keep the vulgar out;
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Guitar In A Stand
My guitar sits in a stand
rosewood neck
and maple bridge
chrome pegs
and stainless steel frets
six steel & brass strings
silent now
and no songs
for my fingers she longs
without regrets
upon her strings
a part of my heart
but she gives feelings in me wings
But there she sits silently
just an inanimate thing
that comes to life somehow
when I feel alone
and overfilled with the sadness
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poem by James T. Adair
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Unrivaled Transcience
Tell me about the power of Babylonian Gods
The symmetry and geometry of their scintillations
The silver blood dripping on their immortal wrists
Do we dream of the pain evoking the pleasure of life?
In this dog eat dog, the crunch is that: we are bones
Sworn to become dusts when we are outdated by
The easy shifting of the moon's wanton penumbra
But you will remember me, I will never die before eyes
A pantheon of virile and avid serpents uprooted
The ephemeral pegs of their virulent fangs
And the bleeding came like a guest of honor
We knew it would come, so we closed our eyes
Tell me about the lore of the tress, the lure of the sands
Croon the words in my impassable nights and never tire
Like an aubade, like a lullaby, reel me deluded into life
Make stay, or astray, in the fringes of your shadows
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poem by Norman Santos
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Spots Through the Ages
Romance goes out of everything in these days of ill grace,
And even old John Barleycorn grows 'standardised' apace;
Once henchman of gay gallantry, a kindlier part he played.
Scene: Tavern door. A saucy wench. A merry, ruffling blade.
He stops. She smiles. Arm round her waist. 'Could Eve be more divine?
See, a kiss, my pretty sweetling. Then, I pray, a stoup of wine.'
'Twas in a 'silver' tassie' that Rab Burns pledged his lass
(The current one, 'tis understood). But days grows drab, alas.
Scene: London pub. Tiles. Glittering glass: and there, behind the bar,
A brass-haired goddess, proud, aloof from this meek gutter child.
'A pot o' four-'arf, thank yeh, miss. An' please to dror it ild.'
The scene shifts to Australia, 'where a man can raise a thirst.'
(See Kipling). From 'long-sleevers' now they drained the stuff acurst.
Back of beyond, by Clancy's run they've a had a six months' drought.
Scene: Old bush shanty. Summer. Flies. Six shearers 'cutting out.'
A shirt-sleeved, whiskered barman. Says Bill: 'By gum, it's 'ot!
Breast up, blokes. Name yer gargle. Rybuck, boss; mine's a pot.'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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No Sense
He was drunk and had no sense
Fell down on ground and remained tense
'What will family members think about'? he thought
He could remember and feared actual fall out
People resort to drinking to forget heavy losses
To get fresh ideas on how to manage other sources
It is either love failure or deception from friends
Under all circumstances it is surely leading to tragic end
He had no such compelling ground
He had no grudge against anybody or around
Something worried him for unknown reasons
What would happen to them if he ceases to be a living person?
Hypothetical question and imagined worries
He was under tremendous pressure and carried
It was one sort of anxiety and unawareness
That stuck to his mind and was unable to face
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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A Ballad of Burial
If down here I chance to die,
Solemnly I beg you take
All that is left of "I"
To the Hills for old sake's sake,
Pack me very thoroughly
In the ice that used to slake
Pegs I drank when I was dry --
This observe for old sake's sake.
To the railway station hie,
There a single ticket take
For Umballa -- goods-train -- I
Shall not mind delay or shake.
I shall rest contentedly
Spite of clamor coolies make;
Thus in state and dignity
Send me up for old sake's sake.
Next the sleepy Babu wake,
Book a Kalka van "for four."
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Dog
You little friend, your nose is ready; you sniff,
Asking for that expected walk,
(Your nostrils full of the happy rabbit-whiff)
And almost talk.
And so the moment becomes a moving force;
Coats glide down from their pegs in the humble dark;
The sticks grow live to the stride of their vagrant course.
You scamper the stairs,
Your body informed with the scent and the track and the mark
Of stoats and weasels, moles and badgers and hares.
We are going OUT. You know the pitch of the word,
Probing the tone of thought as it comes through fog
And reaches by devious means (half-smelt, half-heard)
The four-legged brain of a walk-ecstatic dog.
Out in the garden your head is already low.
(Can you smell the rose? Ah, no.)
But your limbs can draw
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poem by Harold Monro
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