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I Asked Him to Blow On It! (My First Kazoo)

I remember when I got my first kazoo,
In those days so slow paced...
I was bored to tears at recess,
When in elementary school.
We were made to think like fools then.
I am convinced of that.

So I brought my kazoo to school.
And sent to the principal's office.
And as I sat,
Watching the principal play with my kazoo.
I asked him to blow on it!
And he proceeded to believe,
I had asked him to do something else.
I had always been perceptive.
That's why in those days I was bored to tears.

So I cried!
Hating the thought of being sent,
To the principal's office!

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Strangely

i (kept to) keep looking at the dark clouds
hoping to see the rainbow
at least to get a peace of mind
to cleanse my heart with the morning sun when it rises

walking these few metres
one foot in front of the other
as i paced on with life; could not bother
about the unknown saga
because nobody is there; not even a brother
to leadeth me on this one such journey,
no wonder....

i (kept to) keep staring at the dark clouds
in awe
hoping to see the rainbow
at least to get a peace of mind
to cleanse my heart by the sunset

strangely, a sunset boulevard....

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poem by Onalethuso Petruss Ntema
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The Mouse That Gnawed The Oak-Tree Down

The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down
Began his task in early life.
He kept so busy with his teeth
He had no time to take a wife.

He gnawed and gnawed through sun and rain
When the ambitious fit was on,
Then rested in the sawdust till
A month of idleness had gone.

He did not move about to hunt
The coteries of mousie-men.
He was a snail-paced, stupid thing
Until he cared to gnaw again.

The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down,
When that tough foe was at his feet—
Found in the stump no angel-cake
Nor buttered bread, nor cheese, nor meat—
The forest-roof let in the sky.

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poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Traffic Lights

During that time you're having a good day…
You're not in a hurry; lights all go your way.
When time is ample and the scene serene,
Just as you need them, they all turn green.
When the pressure's off with no goal ahead,
The friendly signals never turn to red.

But when time is short and pressure's on,
That friendly shamrock is quickly gone.
If boss or spouse will determine your fate,
At each blood red light dejected you wait.
It's like riding a sagging nag made of lead.
Your time erodes with each frustrating red.

Since life's lights are full of red and green,
Safe traffic depends on a well paced routine.
Then respect for all lights, as well as speed
Are necessary if life's journey is to succeed.

poem by Gregory Huyette
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It Was A Living Guard (Parody)

It was a living guard
I think, when reality
started. That walked off his piece of lawn
feeling affectionate,
laying down his head and wordless
against the tree,
became friends with it.

A first tree
from which he as a guard
paced off his way,
while it screamed next to him,
he pulled
and the stem was stripped off to the top,
until he saw:
the awakening of a young branch
that after the first pruning
carefree
started flowering.

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poem by Gert Strydom
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To The Poet Cowper, On His Recovery From An Indisposition

WRITTEN SOME TIME BACK.

Cowper, I thank my God that thou art healed.
Thine was the sorest malady of all,
And I am sad to think that it should light
Upon the worthy head; but thou art healed,
And thou art yet, we trust, the destined man,
Born to re-animate the lyre, whose chords
Have slumbered, and have idle lain so long;
To the immortal sounding of whose strings
Did Milton frame the stately-paced verse;
Among whose wires with lighter finger playing
Our elder bard, Spenser, a gentler name,
The lady Muses' dearest darling child,
Enticëd forth the deftest tunes yet heard
In hall or bower; taking the delicate ear
Of the brave Sidney, and the Maiden Queen.
Thou, then, take up the mighty epic strain,
Cowper, of England's bards the wisest and the best!

poem by Charles Lamb
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The Quarrel

Our quarrel seemed a giant thing,
It made the room feel mean and small,
The books, the lamp, the furniture,
The very pictures on the wall--

Crowded upon us as we sat
Pale and terrified, face to face.
"Why do you stay?" she said, "my room
Can never be your resting place."

"Katinka, ere we part for life,
I pray you walk once more with me."
So down the dark, familiar road
We paced together, silently.

The sky--it seemed on fire with stars!
I said:--"Katinka dear, look up!"
Like thirsty children, both of us
Drank from the giant loving cup.

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poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Horace I, 22.

Fuscus, whoso to good inclines--
And is a faultless liver--
Nor moorish spear nor bow need fear,
Nor poison-arrowed quiver.

Ay, though through desert wastes he roams,
Or scales the rugged mountains,
Or rests beside the murmuring tide
Of weird Hydaspan fountains!

Lo, on a time, I gayly paced
The Sabine confines shady,
And sung in glee of Lalage,
My own and dearest lady.

And, as I sung, a monster wolf
Slunk through the thicket from me---
But for that song, as I strolled along
He would have overcome me!

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poem by Eugene Field
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To Aristius Fuscus

Fuscus, whoso to good inclines,
And is a faultless liver,
Nor Moorish spear nor bow need fear,
Nor poison-arrowed quiver.

Ay, though through desert wastes he roam,
Or scale the rugged mountains,
Or rest beside the murmuring tide
Of weird Hydaspan fountains!

Lo, on a time, I gayly paced
The Sabine confines shady,
And sung in glee of Lalage,
My own and dearest lady;

And as I sung, a monster wolf
Slunk through the thicket from me;
But for that song, as I strolled along,
He would have overcome me!

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poem by Eugene Field
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Macramé

When she would macramé,
I stayed and watched.
Taking her needles,
And attaching small knots!
Making crisp doilies...
With different patterns,
Little mats she would starch.
Amazing my curiosity,
At the speed she delivered such art!

When she would macramé,
I would ask her how it was done.
She took my hands in between hers...
Until I alone did start!
She noticed soon I got extremely bored,
And my grandmother made me stop!

'Boy...
You something else!
Why you so nosy? '

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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