Quotes about peg, page 8
0012 S t i r r e r!
Oh why must you flaunt and yet again
your proclaimed divisions with others
like some badge of honour?
And yes, I could not note your
stirring, stirring, stirring,
if I did not see it in myself…
Creating this dolls’ theatre in our mind,
allotting all the minor parts
to those we think we know,
reserving to ourselves
the role of the protagonist,
and the dramatist as well:
keeping the action going,
sudden feuds and gracious relinquishing,
enemies inflated, lovers too,
claims and counterclaims,
abuse poured on abuse,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Ballad of G. R. Dibbs
This is the story of G.R.D.,
Who went on a mission across the sea
To borrow some money for you and me.
This G. R. Dibbs was a stalwart man
Who was built on a most extensive plan,
And a regular staunch Republican.
But he fell in the hands of the Tory crew
Who said, "It's a shame that a man like you
Should teach Australia this nasty view.
"From her mother's side she should ne'er be gone,
And she ought to be glad to be smiled upon,
And proud to be known as our hanger-on."
And G. R. Dibbs, he went off his peg
At the swells who came for his smiles to beg
And the Prince of Wales -- who was pulling his leg
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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Breakaway
Pink,
blue,
and lavender
paint the sky
Gorgeous.
It is agreeable on her.
The color of her adornment.
As the setting sun
shows off
her glory
with brilliant
hues
and bold strokes,
the girl
feels inspired
as she beholds
the sunset's beauty, tranquility,
and breathtaking passion.
Her burdens
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poem by Julie A Smith
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The World...
This world watch it as it comes to end
we had the power to destroy it and we click the button send
we sent our messages we talked away
mumbling and stuttering both frustrated and alone like what did i say
but now this is where the mistakes meet
this is where the eclipse and the end greet
greet one another
giving us a war and a destruction like no other
it hurts i know
but its too late now we were too slow
ARGH it hurts more
my heart is all but tore
is it even there
is there nothing i can do but tear
tear just to see that i can find my heart i need it
don't take my feelings again please
don't throw my love, my anger, my hate to the ends of the seas
I need it ARGH stop now please i beg
as i get nailed to a wooden board with a peg
you cant hurt my now ill fly but ground me
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poem by David Knox
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To the Unknown Goddess
Will you conquer my heart with your beauty; my sould going out from afar?
Shall I fall to your hand as a victim of crafty and cautions shikar?
Have I met you and passed you already, unknowing, unthinking and blind?
Shall I meet you next session at Simla, O sweetest and best of your kind?
Does the P. and O. bear you to meward, or, clad in short frocks in the West,
Are you growing the charms that shall capture and torture the heart in my breast?
Will you stay in the Plains till September -- my passion as warm as the day?
Will you bring me to book on the Mountains, or where the thermantidotes play?
When the light of your eyes shall make pallid the mean lesser lights I pursue,
And the charm of your presence shall lure me from love of the gay "thirteen-two";
When the peg and the pig-skin shall please not; when I buy me Calcutta-build clothes;
When I quit the Delight of Wild Asses; foreswearing the swearing of oaths ;
As a deer to the hand of the hunter when I turn 'mid the gibes of my friends;
When the days of my freedom are numbered, and the life of the bachelor ends.
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Russian Family History
I was born in a peaceful time and place
My father just out of uniform
The draft and ration books thrown away
Abundance grew in our English garden
The empire was dissolving but its ties
For worse or better would long endure
As a future traveller to many lands
I would discover and learn to explore.
From the port of Odessa they had come
Leaving Smorgon village, carrying its name
Settling down to toil, in London's East End
Never to talk of Russia again
Jenny, Louis, Violet, Peg,
The children of the ships of 1904
Building a platform of support
For the generations to follow them
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poem by Frank Bana
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Call A Spade A Spade
at that very young age
you were taught to call a spade a spade
and a square a square. There are no exceptions to the rule.
There are no compromises with the truth.
Then you grow to be a very nice, self-made man.
You practice what was taught to you.
And you meet pain and disappointments.
And you suspect that the teachers are wrong.
Time teaches you.
Squares sometimes become rectangles on an extension of a principle
to accommodate a compromise of a certain shape.
A spade need not be a spade depending on who gets axed.
A square peg you sometimes put in a round hole and it does not matter
really what happens next. You are simply told to do so as ordered.
And what is important is that they like it.
You survive the hazards of this life.
You become successful on the science of compromise,
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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First Love
My long first year of perfect love,
My deep new dream of joy; She was a little chubby girl,
I was a chubby boy.
I wore a crimson frock, white drawers,
A belt, a crown was on it;
She wore some angel's kind of dress
And such a tiny bonnet,
Old-fashioned, but the soft brown hair Would never keep its place;
A little maid with violet eyes,
And sunshine in her face.
O my child-queen, in those lost days
How sweet was daily living!
How humble and how proud I grew,
How rich by merely giving!
She went to school, the parlour-maid
Slow stepping to her trot;
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poem by Edward Dowden
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A Valentine
YE are twa laddies unco gleg,
An' blithe an' bonnie:
As licht o' heel as Anster's Meg;--
Gin ye'd a lassie's favor beg,
I' faith she couldna stir a peg
Ance lookin' on ye!
He's a douce wiselike callant--Jim:
Of wit aye ready.
Cuts aff ane's sentence, 't ither's limb,
An' whiles he's daft and whiles he's grim,
But brains?--wha's got the like o'him
In's wee bit heidie?
Dear laddie wi' the curlin' hair,
Gentlest of ony:
That gies kind looks an' speeches fair
To dour auld wives as lassies rare,--
I ken a score o' lads an' mair,
But nane like Johnnie!
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poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Living
Slow bleak awakening from the morning dream
Brings me in contact with the sudden day.
I am alive – this I.
I let my fingers move along my body.
Realization warns them, and my nerves
Prepare their rapid messages and signals.
While Memory begins recording, coding,
Repeating; all the time Imagination
Mutters: You'll only die.
Here's a new day. O Pendulum move slowly!
My usual clothes are waiting on their peg.
I am alive – this I.
And in a moment Habit, like a crane,
Will bow its neck and dip its pulleyed cable,
Gathering me, my body, and our garment,
And swing me forth, oblivious of my question,
Into the daylight – why?
I think of all the others who awaken,
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poem by Harold Monro
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