Quotes about strut, page 7
Born In Baryards
Born in barnyards, see how roosters strut,
searching for a hen that is a slut.
Wherever men are born they do not care
about most women till they see them bare.
Their eyes that flash like moonshine look around
like roosters for a hen, and once they’ve found
a bird they like they do not need to beg,
and leave her long before she’s laid an egg.
Roosters in the morning crow in time
to wake their counterparts who’re with a hen,
ridiculous sometimes, sometimes sublime,
like roosters always, born as barnyard men.
poem by Gershon Hepner (19 September 2008)
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In My Craft or Sullen Art
In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
[...] Read more
poem by Dylan Thomas
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I Suppose I Could Hoax
With a splattering of spoofs,
I suppose I could hoax...
If that was what I chose to do.
So many folks,
Seem caught up...
In the promotion of pretense.
And with a hollowed puffed up chest,
I would strut like a Rooster...
Or a Peacock doing that as my best.
But I enjoy a peacefulness...
Undisturbed by a prioritized nonsense.
Since I've chosen to be true,
With a detesting done by those who fool...
As a way to identify themselves with substance!
And substance is difficult to fake and present,
To those who know the difference between content and waste.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Stripped Completely
They've allowed their ideologies,
To ruin their lives to be lived free and pleased.
With the cross breeding of religions.
And practiced beliefs...
A forgiveness relieves them from repeated sins!
From tarnished pulpits preached to remind them.
Devoted to motivating lusts.
Driven by the marketing of temptations.
And soothed like trained mice...
Taught and conditioned.
To be controlled.
Accepting they do,
What they been told.
And stripped completely from those identities...
Few are bold enough to strut.
And behold...
Without being corrupted!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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An altered look about the hills
140
An altered look about the hills—
A Tyrian light the village fills—
A wider sunrise in the morn—
A deeper twilight on the lawn—
A print of a vermillion foot—
A purple finger on the slope—
A flippant fly upon the pane—
A spider at his trade again—
An added strut in Chanticleer—
A flower expected everywhere—
An axe shrill singing in the woods—
Fern odors on untravelled roads—
All this and more I cannot tell—
A furtive look you know as well—
And Nicodemus' Mystery
Receives its annual reply!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Political Fiddle Fought Wars
it is
a language
a few
despicable
rogues
power strut
crazed
pulse play
crime fiddle
human net strung violins
to party patriot cat calls
plan serenade deceives
herd prod
stimulus
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Under The Pleasure Of Snow
Under the snows fallen by the wind and rain
A little man of grateful beams of light has emerged;
His visions powerfully strut and perform an escape
From the endangering isle of a great weather and might.
Understand their talk and allegiances, many bloods
Concur and result, towards the essence of a prison,
To dissolve in wastes and ink of the better sort:
One finally admits the cold weather arriving.
From the face of pleasure evolves a real moral value,
It subsists and sustains the living
To be frightful and kind,
A kind being of strength shall believe and form a value.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Let Us Be Drunk
Let us be drunk, and for a while forget,
Forget, and, ceasing even from regret,
Live without reason and despite of rhyme,
As in a dream preposterous and sublime,
Where place and hour and means for once are met.
Where is the use of effort? Love and debt
And disappointment have us in a net.
Let us break out, and taste the morning prime . . .
Let us be drunk.
In vain our little hour we strut and fret,
And mouth our wretched parts as for a bet:
We cannot please the tragicaster Time.
To gain the crystal sphere, the silver dime,
Where Sympathy sits dimpling on us yet,
Let us be drunk!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Lookie, Lookie
Lookie, lookie, here comes Cookie
walking down the street.
The boys are all aflutter
when their eyes do meet.
She can strut and she can sway,
making them all stare.
But Cookie just keeps walking
as if they were not there.
Lookie, lookie, there goes Cookie
passing them all by.
She's not aware of how she looks
and here's the reason why.
Cookie's life is hard at home.
She doesn't trust a guy.
Her father left when she was five
and she never found out why?
[...] Read more
poem by Edwina Reizer
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I Say Then The Wind...
i say then the wind,
to thee who preach temples and banks.
i say the stink of the homeless body,
to you who quote perfume.
i say the baby being born,
to you who shout invasion and conquer.
i say silence,
to you who preach success.
i say equality,
to you who strut religion.
i say justice,
to you who would win.
i say suffering,
to you who live indulgence.
i say family,
to thee who carry nations.
i say then the wind,
to you who doubt in anger.
i say dying,
to you who would live...
[...] Read more
poem by Eric Cockrell
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