Quotes about peg, page 9
L'e Esprit De L'esclair
Basking into the shadows
That loomed like pillars
Raising the canopies high
Making room for innuendos
While the feet sank into the sand
With their gilded smiles glistening
You are an impenetrable mirror house
Where the clocks cannot croon
Neither halt nor pant, in askance
Rummaging to topple and unfurl
The naked terrain of conflagration
Spewing thin films of smokescreen
As walls to build an empiric wall
And cradle the ingredients of reveries
Such auspicious mendaciloquence, yet
Abatement buried its fangs deep
To inject the insidious venom to seethe
And devour the endeavor completely
Into the void belly of the vast galaxy
And as they leave without opening
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poem by Norman Santos
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The guy who ones us..
and there’s this guy,
hits my poems every day
devotedly
that’s a lot of poems
doesn’t read them,
just hits them
to dropp another 1 in the voting box
on new poems, or ones he’s already oned, alike
he or she no surely he
girls have better things to do
saw some poems had rated 10
naturally assumed that this was faked
because he’s like that, decided
it was time to take me down a peg
but adding his comments – no,
too public, better do it secretly
then announce it publicly
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Torto Volitans Sub Verbere Turbo Quem Pueri Magno In Gyro Vacua Atria Circum Intenti Ludo Exercent
Of pearies and their origin I sing:
How at the first great Jove the lord of air
Impelled the planets round the central sun
Each circling within each, until at last
The winged Mercury moves in molten fire.
And which of you, ye heavenly deities,
That hear the endless music of the spheres,
Hast given to man the secret of the Top?
Say, was it thou, O Fun, that dost prefer,
Before all temples, liberty and play?
Yes, yes, ’twas only thou, thou from the first
Wast present when the Roman children came
To the smooth pavement, where with heavy lash
They chased the wooden plaything without end. [580]
But not to tell of these is now my task,
Nor yet of humming-tops, whose lengthened neck,
With packthread bound, and handle placed above,
Amuses little children. Not of these,
But of the pearie, chief of all his tribe,
Do I now sing. He with a sudden bound
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poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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My Love
It’s not the lover that we love, but love
itself, love as in nothing, as in O;
love is the lover’s coin, a coin of no country,
hence: the ring; hence: the moon—
no wonder that empty circle so often figures
in our intimate dark, our skin-trade,
that commerce so furious we often think
love’s something we share; but we’re always wrong.
When our lover mercifully departs
and lets us get back to the business of love again,
either we’ll slip it inside us like the host
or we’ll beat its gibbous drum that the whole world
might know who has it. Which was always more my style:
O the moon’s a bodhran, a skin gong
torn from the hide of Capricorn,
and many’s the time I’d lift it from its high peg,
grip it to my side, tight as a gun,
and whip the life out of it, just for the joy
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poem by Don Paterson
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The Fall of Jock Gillespie
This fell when dinner-time was done --
'Twixt the first an' the second rub --
That oor mon Jock cam' hame again
To his rooms ahist the Club.
An' syne he laughed, an' syne he sang,
An' syne we thocht him fou,
An' syne he trumped his partner's trick,
An' garred his partner rue.
Then up and spake an elder mon,
That held the Spade its Ace --
God save the lad! Whence comes the licht
"That wimples on his face?"
An' Jock he sniggered, an' Jock he smiled,
An' ower the card-brim wunk: --
"I'm a' too fresh fra' the stirrup-peg,
"May be that I am drunk."
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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After the Funeral (In memory of Ann Jones)
After the funeral, mule praises, brays,
Windshake of sailshaped ears, muffle-toed tap
Tap happily of one peg in the thick
Grave's foot, blinds down the lids, the teeth in black,
The spittled eyes, the salt ponds in the sleeves,
Morning smack of the spade that wakes up sleep,
Shakes a desolate boy who slits his throat
In the dark of the coffin and sheds dry leaves,
That breaks one bone to light with a judgment clout'
After the feast of tear-stuffed time and thistles
In a room with a stuffed fox and a stale fern,
I stand, for this memorial's sake, alone
In the snivelling hours with dead, humped Ann
Whose hodded, fountain heart once fell in puddles
Round the parched worlds of Wales and drowned each sun
(Though this for her is a monstrous image blindly
Magnified out of praise; her death was a still drop;
She would not have me sinking in the holy
Flood of her heart's fame; she would lie dumb and deep
And need no druid of her broken body).
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poem by Dylan Thomas
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The ladies Know! ! this one is for the guys
The ladies know
She vacillates, procrastinates
she can’t decide what she should wear.
To the annoyance of her mate
her indecision hard to bear.
Men simply don’t appreciate
the efforts that a lady makes
Her clothing must co ordinate.
She can’t afford to make mistakes
Subjected to close scrutiny
of other ladies eagle eyes
She must be turned our perfectly
Although her loving husband tries
to tell her she looks beautiful.
She knows that he is prejudiced
as well as being dutiful
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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25 Minutes To Go
They're buildin' the gallows outside my cell.
I got 25 minutes to go.
And in 25 minutes I'll be in Hell.
I got 24 minutes to go.
Well, they give me some beans for my last meal.
23 minutes to go.
And you know... nobody asked me how I feel.
I got 22 minutes to go.
So, I wrote to the Gov'nor... the whole damned bunch.
Ahhh... 21 minutes to go.
And I call up the Mayor, and he's out to lunch.
I got 20 more minutes to go.
Well, the Sheriff says, 'Boy, I wanna watch you die'.
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poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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A little smile
She will shine
Everything will be fine
Dance together and nice to dine
With small peg of wine
Stroll for a while
To go for an extra mile
It is always a wish
To fight it out but not to finish
Bear little smile
Wait for time at nine
I will be there
To take you anywhere
The clouds don’t thunder
It is unique but no wonder
I think and ponder
What do I find in her?
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Ragging
Universities and campus prepare their grave,
In the guise of education they put front brave,
Bur on ground of morality they cave in,
Line drawn clear but education thin,
Great fall in standard and knowledge lagging,
More efforts on fashion and thrust on ragging,
Many loose their lives on name of flogging,
It is blot or shame and prestige more dragging,
From a distance some movement I saw,
Senior hitting junior with his fist on jaw,
Not knowing what? Junior bowed and beg,
Saw I senior pouring liquor from peg,
All students shouted and danced with joy,
Entrant was unaware and cried like boy,
This was great fun as if playing with toy,
Humanity at loss and disgrace they enjoy,
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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