# Poetry!



## SpitfireKing (Jan 24, 2007)

I must admit, I love poetry, I also love my girlfriend to, and she likes my poetry, etc. But yes! Like I was saying I'm a fairly good poet and singer, they both tie together. I'm guessing some other people write on here, how long, and such. Me almost 4 years. More later.


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## Matt308 (Jan 24, 2007)

SK, I have to admit that when someone says poetry, my shields go up. The Nations Poet Laureatte puts "exceptional" poetry in the local newspaper to highlight the best of the best. And for the most part it is tripe. It seems that much of it is in the new freestyle format (for lack of a better term) that reminds me of mindless drivel with no rhyme nor reason.

I would love to be educated on how to appreciate good poetry, but am skeptical from the start. Bad attitude I guess.


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## Matt308 (Jan 24, 2007)

This isn't one of the Laureatte's, but what about this one of mine...

When Ryan was a teenager,
he was the best man at Oscar's wedding.
Next summer, Oscar will be best man
when Ryan gets married.
He's like a big brother
to my three little kids.

Because his experience was so positive,
Oscar now sits on the board.
But the girls who do have mentors
learn a different perspective.


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## lesofprimus (Jan 24, 2007)

I think my balls just went back up inside...


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## Matt308 (Jan 24, 2007)

You no like, Mr. Les? I suggest you shave your back and get a pedicure.


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## pbfoot (Jan 24, 2007)

I prefer the high art of limericks
The limerick's callous and crude, 
Its morals distressingly lewd; 
It's not worth the reading 
By persons of breeding - 
It's designed for us vulgar and rude.


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## Matt308 (Jan 24, 2007)

No class...


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## Matt308 (Jan 24, 2007)




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## k9kiwi (Jan 24, 2007)

There was a young girl from Regina,
On a long slow boat to China.
She was trapped at the tiller,
By a sex crazed gorilla.
And its a bloody long way to China.

Harry Secombe.
The Goon Show.


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## lesofprimus (Jan 24, 2007)

lol funny k9....

Matt, for ur information, my back is hairless, and the day someone does anything to my toes, they'll be ice skating in hell...


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## Matt308 (Jan 24, 2007)

Les, okay I'll let it out of the bag. Da****!

Go read them again. I picked those three sentences randomly from a single article out of today's paper, Seattle Times, Jan 24, Big Brothers. I was hoping that Spitfire would comment on the brilliance of the meter. The emotion of the symantics. The evocation of the ironic contrasts contained in the stanzas.

But NNoooooooooooooo. You dolts had to ruin my Grand Plan. Skew my ability to ambush a poor leftist poetry lover. Ruin my plans to grind his poetry soaked bones into grist for my conservative "get a job" mill.

Now my evening is ruined. And I must retire to a cold beer and soak my solace in drunken debauchery. Forever, I will hold you accountable. Et tu, Brute'?


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## k9kiwi (Jan 24, 2007)

So instead of a form of Haiku, you made more of an Achoo.


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## Matt308 (Jan 24, 2007)

Yeah...well.

LES RUINS EVERYTHING!!!!


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## SpitfireKing (Jan 25, 2007)

lesofprimus said:


> lol funny k9....
> 
> Matt, for ur information, my back is hairless, and the day someone does anything to my toes, they'll be ice skating in hell...



Ha ha. 

To her: Angel of Mercy 
Though a deathly cold surrounded me, 
Heaves warm lust consumed, 
Years of suffering now did end, 
For the angel of mercy is in my bed. 

Heres one I wrote a bit ago.


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## SpitfireKing (Jan 25, 2007)

Matt308 said:


> Les, okay I'll let it out of the bag. Da****!
> 
> Go read them again. I picked those three sentences randomly from a single article out of today's paper, Seattle Times, Jan 24, Big Brothers. I was hoping that Spitfire would comment on the brilliance of the meter. The emotion of the symantics. The evocation of the ironic contrasts contained in the stanzas.
> 
> ...



So that was your plan ay? Oh well, it sucked anyway.


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## Matt308 (Jan 25, 2007)

Give me a break. You woulda liked it.


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## SpitfireKing (Jan 26, 2007)

Like mustard on eggs, like mustard on eggs.


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## Matt308 (Jan 26, 2007)




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## ndicki (Jan 26, 2007)

Matt, don't knock poetry too fast, some of it is excellent. Try this, by Wilfred Owen, M.C., written in 1917:

Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, —
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.


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## Matt308 (Jan 26, 2007)

Haunting. But for every 100,00 persons who fancies themselves a poet, you MIGHT find one with something other than ability to write solopsist rantings.


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## ndicki (Jan 26, 2007)

True enough. Most pseudo-artists would have done well to hear someone tell them to stop being a pratt, and take up rugger instead. Only a few should survive!

Try this, too - you may find the odd line familiar!

Charge of the Light Brigade

I.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
`Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.II.
`Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.III

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.IV

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.V

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.VI

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

Alfred Lord Tennyson


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## Matt308 (Jan 26, 2007)

There is unrest in the forest,
There is trouble with the trees,
For the maples want more sunlight
And the oaks ignore their pleas.

The trouble with the maples,
(And they're quite convinced they're right)
They say the oaks are just too lofty
And they grab up all the light.
But the oaks can't help their feelings
If they like the way they're made.
And they wonder why the maples
Can't be happy in their shade.

There is trouble in the forest,
And the creatures all have fled,
As the maples scream "Oppression!"
And the oaks just shake their heads

So the maples formed a union
And demanded equal rights.
"The oaks are just too greedy;
We will make them give us light."
Now there's no more oak oppression,
For they passed a noble law,
And the trees are all kept equal
By hatchet, axe, and saw.


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## ndicki (Jan 26, 2007)

That says it all!


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## Matt308 (Jan 26, 2007)

Yep


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## the lancaster kicks ass (Jan 26, 2007)

God we had to study poetry for ages in english- i couldn't stand most of it..........


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## ndicki (Jan 26, 2007)

Barbarian creature - I _teach_ English!


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## Matt308 (Jan 26, 2007)

Now you've done it, Lanc! I remember we had a retired English teacher as our secretary about 15 years ago. I submitted a technical paper for her to "grid" up for me. She later handed it back and said, "You can't spell, your grammar is poor. You'll make an adequate engineer."

Cracks me up to this day.


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## ndicki (Jan 26, 2007)

So you joined the USMC in despair?


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## Matt308 (Jan 26, 2007)

Not a chance. Engineering is so...so...socially fascinating.


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## ndicki (Jan 26, 2007)

What?


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## Matt308 (Jan 26, 2007)

Paying attention were you.


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## ndicki (Jan 27, 2007)

I worry when I hear people say things like "social", especially if I'd thought they were normal...


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## the lancaster kicks ass (Jan 27, 2007)

i take pride in my grammar in real life, it all goes to pot on here though


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## ndicki (Jan 27, 2007)

Too many Americans, Lanc, that's the problem! And not enough sheep...


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## lesofprimus (Jan 27, 2007)

Oh my....


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## cheddar cheese (Jan 27, 2007)

I like poetry in general, if its short and sweet, dont like the longer ones so much. English lessons did ruin it all though, by looking at them so deeply it got ridiculous, and taking away the simple fact of enjoying them.
I do my best with spelling and grammar, but cant stand people who comment on the tiniest things. It makes no difference whether theres an apostrophe there or not unless youre writing a grammar exam, you know what the hell I mean by the sentence, so shut the hell up and get a life you pedantic arse...


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## Matt308 (Jan 27, 2007)

ndicki said:


> Too many Americans, Lanc, that's the problem! And not enough sheep...



What you talkin bout, ndicki? Us Americans have refined the Kings English good.


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## the lancaster kicks ass (Jan 27, 2007)

cheddar cheese said:


> I like poetry in general, if its short and sweet, dont like the longer ones so much. English lessons did ruin it all though, by looking at them so deeply it got ridiculous, and taking away the simple fact of enjoying them.
> I do my best with spelling and grammar, but cant stand people who comment on the tiniest things. It makes no difference whether theres an apostrophe there or not unless youre writing a grammar exam, you know what the hell I mean by the sentence, so shut the hell up and get a life you pedantic arse...



hey, correct use of apostrophies is what separates us from animals! incorrect use/total absence of apostrophies is one of my pet hates...........


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## ndicki (Jan 27, 2007)

Matt308 said:


> What you talkin bout, ndicki? Us Americans have refined the Kings English good.



Sho' have, brudder!


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## ndicki (Jan 27, 2007)

Lanc, it's an "apostrophe", without an "i". Greek, you see.


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## cheddar cheese (Jan 27, 2007)

Woah lanc, Im amazed you could understand what I was saying. I didnt put an apostrophe in youre, completely changes the WHOLE meaning of the sentence  Damn, there isnt any in this post either! How do you guys understand what I mean?!


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## ndicki (Jan 27, 2007)

wot you talkin bout cheese i don unnerstan either


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## cheddar cheese (Jan 27, 2007)

dud we lyk ttlly mak no snse!


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## the lancaster kicks ass (Jan 27, 2007)

infidels the lot of you


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## Matt308 (Jan 27, 2007)

Lanc. Mind your manners. Always humour the handicapped.


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## ndicki (Jan 28, 2007)

Lanc has a fine sense of humour and can laugh at himself...


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## Matt308 (Jan 28, 2007)

And thankfully so. Otherwise the ribbing would have taken on an ugly quality long ago.


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## the lancaster kicks ass (Jan 28, 2007)

yes it is a feature of the British mentality, we love mocking ourselves, but not as much as we do the French..........


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## Matt308 (Jan 28, 2007)

On that we can agree.


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## SpitfireKing (Jan 29, 2007)

Indeed. Crazy french bastards, just let us build a Disney world there to get us off their backs. Ignore that last part.....


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## ndicki (Jan 30, 2007)

Don't mention Disneyland Paris - the wife has decided we all have to go this Sunday! Yeeeaaagh! The very thought gives me the willies.


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## SpitfireKing (Jan 30, 2007)

Oh crud. Well, that's a waste of money. I heard the minnie mouse has hairy armpits...


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## Matt308 (Jan 30, 2007)

I refuse to go to Disneyland here in the states. Too many people.


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## SpitfireKing (Jan 30, 2007)

Quoth the raven, 'nevermore'.


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## the lancaster kicks ass (Jan 31, 2007)

no _that_ is a great poem!


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## SpitfireKing (Jan 31, 2007)

Indeed. Indeed. I love that line, it is great. I use it on my mom everytime she makes somthing bad. Then she hits me.


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## the lancaster kicks ass (Jan 31, 2007)

it's one of few poems i actually really like


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## SpitfireKing (Jan 31, 2007)

Well hey. Yeah, nevermind....


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## Matt308 (Jan 31, 2007)

Doth quote the raven.


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## the lancaster kicks ass (Feb 3, 2007)

The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-- 
Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore-- 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- 
Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, 
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-- 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-- 
This it is, and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, 
That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door;-- 
Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-- 
Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, 
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. 
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice: 
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-- 
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-- 
'Tis the wind and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, 
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; 
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-- 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-- 
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. 
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, 
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-- 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" 
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore; 
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-- 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, 
With such name as "Nevermore." 

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. 
Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered-- 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before-- 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." 
Then the bird said, "Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, 
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-- 
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 
Of 'Never--nevermore'." 

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and door; 
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-- 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore 
Meant in croaking "Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; 
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, 
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er, 
She shall press, ah, nevermore! 

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer 
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. 
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee,--by these angels he hath sent thee 
Respite,--respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" 
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!-- 
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, 
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-- 
On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore-- 
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!" 
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil! 
By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore-- 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." 
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked upstarting-- 
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" 
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, 
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 
Shall be lifted--nevermore!


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## cheddar cheese (Feb 3, 2007)

Too long for a poem


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## Gnomey (Feb 3, 2007)

Yeah short ones are better. Here is one most should recognise (it is one of my favourites).

Wilfred Owen

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.


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## lesofprimus (Feb 3, 2007)

I can hear balls shriveling all across the board because of this thread....


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## the lancaster kicks ass (Feb 3, 2007)

surely the ability to discuss peotry and the arts will show us to be cultured and educated, thus impressing women, thus making it manly?


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## lesofprimus (Feb 3, 2007)

The only thing that impresses women is a big fat co*k and loads of $$$$....

Not unless the women ur trying to impress look like this.....


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## Matt308 (Feb 3, 2007)

HHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH.......XHDGDFL:SJDFOLJSHFLOHSFDOHSFalkdfkljdfkdkd......


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## SpitfireKing (Feb 5, 2007)

AWWW SH*T! I THINK MY C**K JUST SHRIVELED UP AND DIED!


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## SpitfireKing (Feb 9, 2007)

the lancaster kicks ass said:


> surely the ability to discuss peotry and the arts will show us to be cultured and educated, thus impressing women, thus making it manly?



I've got three things women like in a guy.

!. Can cook
2. Can sing
3. Can write


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## cheddar cheese (Feb 9, 2007)

Ive also got 3 things women like in a guy, however this is a family forum for all ages and I am unable to mention them...


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## Matt308 (Feb 10, 2007)

Man. Who started this testosterone thread...


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## joebong (Feb 12, 2007)

A small excerpt from a latrine at Moffat field U.S.A.F.
Mei cong sailor sitten in the stern, thinks his sam pam doesn't burn, F*#@ing gooksll never learn. Napalm sticks to kids.
V.C. huddled in a jungle pit, or a mother with baby at her tit, Dow chemical doesn't give a s$*. Napalm sticks to kids.
I know its awfully coarse, so please forgive if it offends. Just thought I'd pass it along.


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## SpitfireKing (Feb 12, 2007)

Hey oh well.


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## SpitfireKing (Nov 19, 2009)

Well, I think it is time to bring this back. It died, and yet shall live anew....hopefully....
I'm just going to place a poem here and then I suppose we can continue on from there?

"There has been a hell, wrathful vengeance on the shallow grave,
People see truth in the yes of the beholder, show me the truth, show me the yelling blissful vengeance, hate me, love me, I do not care.
Oh lord, I’m blathering again…"

I wanted to write but I forgot what I wanted to say so I blathered...


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## BikerBabe (Nov 19, 2009)

SpitfireKing said:


> I've got three things women like in a guy.
> 
> !. Can cook
> 2. Can sing
> 3. Can write



1. Cool.
2. Aw, shut up man, and start cleaning up the house instead! 
3. Yeah, but can he _read_, too??? 



lesofprimus said:


> I can hear balls shriveling all across the board because of this thread....



...not just balls...ARGH!


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## Lucky13 (Nov 20, 2009)

So this is dusted off I see....cool! Maybe Dan care to show some of his more sensitive and poetic side.


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## A4K (Nov 20, 2009)

Two I saw on toilet walls back in NZ:

The Sh!thouse poet will never die,
A monument will be built to the sky.
A tribute to his brilliant wit,
A statue made of solid sh!t.


Some come here to sit and think,
Others come to sh!t and stink.
I just come to read the walls,
Sit on my arse and scratch my balls.


And one from Roger Waters (of Pink Floyd):

Moslem or Christian,
Mullah or Pope.
Preacher or poet,
Who was it wrote
Give any species too much rope,
And they'll f*ck it up.


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## Lucky13 (Nov 20, 2009)

“Your reason and your passion are the rudder and the sails of your seafairing soul, 
if either your sails or your rudder be broken, 
you can but toss and drift, or else be held at a standstill in mid-seas.
For reason, ruling alone, is a force confining; 
and passion, unattended, is a flame that burns to its own destruction.”


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## SpitfireKing (Nov 20, 2009)

That works well Lucky,

Emily Dickinson:

"I LIKE a look of agony,	
Because I know it ’s true;	
Men do not sham convulsion,	
Nor simulate a throe.	

The eyes glaze once, and that is death. 5
Impossible to feign	
The beads upon the forehead	
By homely anguish strung"


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## diddyriddick (Nov 20, 2009)

Thought I'd add a couple...

Gunga Din
Rudyard Kipling

You may talk o' gin and beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
He was "Din! Din! Din!
You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippery hitherao!
Water, get it! Panee lao!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din."

The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a piece o' twisty rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted "Harry By!"
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some juldee in it 
Or I'll marrow you this minute
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

'E would dot an' carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
With 'is mussick on 'is back,
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire",
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was "Din! Din! Din!"
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-files shout,
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I shan't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' he plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:
It was crawlin' and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
'E's chawin' up the ground,
An' 'e's kickin' all around:
For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!"

'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died,
"I 'ope you liked your drink", sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
At the place where 'e is gone --
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to poor damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I've belted you and flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!


----------



## diddyriddick (Nov 20, 2009)

In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae, May 1915


In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.


Dr. McRae wrote this poem to commemorate the loss of his friend Lt. Alexis Helmer who was killed at the second battle of Ypres. He was hit by a direct hit by a German 8" shell.


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## diddyriddick (Nov 20, 2009)

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

Dylan Thomas


Do not go gentle into that good night, 
Old age should burn and rave at close of day; 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, 
Because their words had forked no lightning they 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright 
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, 
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight 
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

And you, my father, there on the sad height, 
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


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## RabidAlien (Nov 20, 2009)

Written by Leo Marks to his girlfriend/fiance Ruth, a WAAF who died in a plane crash in Canada. The poem was given to Violette Szabo as a poem-code, and still brings a lump to my throat when I read it:

The life that I have
Is all that I have
And the life that I have
Is yours

The love that I have
Of the life that I have
Is yours and yours and yours

A sleep I shall have
A rest I shall have
Yet death will be but a pause

For the peace of my years
In the long green grass
Will be yours and yours
And yours


----------



## B-17engineer (Nov 20, 2009)

CIVIL WAR
Charles Dawson Shanly (1811-1875)

"Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot
Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette;
Ring me a ball in the glittering spot
That shines on his breast like an amulet!"

"Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead,
There's music around when my barrel's in tune!"
Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped,
And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.

"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch
From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood;
A button, a loop, or that luminous patch
That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!"

"O captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track,
When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette,
For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back,
That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.

"But I snatched off the trinket--this locket of gold;
An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."

"Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket!--'tis she,
My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon
Was her husband--Hush! soldier, 'twas Heaven's decree,
We must bury him there, by the light of the moon!

"But hark! the far bugles their warnings unite;
War is a virtue,-weakness a sin;
There's a lurking and loping around us to-night;
Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!"


----------



## Aaron Brooks Wolters (Nov 20, 2009)

Little Willy (anonomous)

Little Willy hung his sister
She was dead before we missed her
Little Willy's always up too tricks 
Ain't he cute
He's only six


----------



## BikerBabe (Nov 21, 2009)

Found this online.

*Fünf Meilen Hoch*

Schließende Dampfspuren - zu viele zu zählen; B-17s in der 
Kastenanordnung; für Frauen und Kinder...das Vaterland selbst...
die unmögliche Aufgabe von sie alle senken.

Polen, Norwegen, Franzözen und Belgien; wir singen die Lieder 
des sieges; Dänemarks, Hollands, Griechenlands 
und Rußlands...flüchtiger Raum für den Dritten Reich;
die Juwele der Eroberung noch glänzend von unseren Uniformen, 
wie wir in Hölle fliegen. 

Indikatoren strömen hinter Flügeln und Cockpit während sechzig
Maschine gewehren nach Haus suchen, die Korne des Schweisses
tröpfelnd hinunter meinen Stern, Beleidigung an dieser Höhe,
vierzig unterhalb null. Sekunden später finden meine Kanonenbein 
einen Kraftstofftank; eine sekunde der Bomber dort,
dann in einem Feuerkugel wird er gegangen.

Plötzlich haben meine Kamerad umdrehungen stark bis Kanal,
zwei oder drei "kleine Freunde" uns durch Überraschung, die Sonne
in unseren Augen genommen. Auf den Stock stark ziehen,
ein vertrauter schwere Koerperverletzung: Focke-Wulf - 
Mustang - Messerschmitt, gerades fleisch und gewehren
gegurtet zu einer Maschine - Pratt u. Whitney - Merlin –
Daimler-Benz an 400mps, ein tödliches Spiel der marke...
fangen mich ab, wenn sie können.

Tauchend, um zu entgehen, meine Flugzeug Schauders, 
geharkt mit Gewehrkugeln, zu spät sehe ich das P-51 gesperrt
auf mein Endstück. Keine Wahl aber Sprung oder Würfel.
Ich öffne das Kabinendach drehe dann die Kämpferoberseite unten,
die Schwerkraft, die mich von meinem brennen zieht Ross,
als Deutschland, nicht jetzt als eine heftig gezerrissen Steppdecke, 
Wartezeiten still für mich aus den Grund.

© 1979 Chris Sorrenti


*Five Miles High*

Vapor trails closing - too many to count; B-17s in box formation;
for wives and children...the fatherland itself...
the impossible task of bringing them all down.

Poland, Norway, France and Belgium; we sing the hymns of victory;
Denmark, Holland, Greece and Russia…fleeting glory for the Third Reich;
the jewels of conquest still gleaming from our uniforms as we fly into Hell.

Tracers stream past wing and cockpit as sixty machine guns search for me,
beads of sweat trickling down my forehead, despite at this altitude,
forty below zero. Seconds later my cannons find a fuel tank;
one second the bomber’s there, then in a fireball it’s gone.

Suddenly my wingman banks hard to port, two or three “little friends”
have taken us by surprise, the sun in our eyes. Pulling hard on the stick,
a familiar mayhem: Focke-Wulf - Mustang - Messerschmitt,
just flesh and guns strapped to an engine - Pratt Whitney –
Rolls Royce Merlin - Daimler-Benz, at 400mph, a deadly game of tag...
catch me if you can.

Diving to escape, my aircraft shudders, raked with bullets,
too late I see the P-51 locked on my tail. No choice now but jump or die.
Opening the canopy, I turn the fighter upside down, gravity pulling me
from my burning steed, as Germany, no more now than a tattered quilt,
waits in silence for me below.

© 1979 Chris Sorrenti


----------



## muller (Nov 21, 2009)

The Grand Old Duke of York,
He had ten thousand men,
His case comes up next week....

Spike Milligan.


----------



## Njaco (Nov 21, 2009)

Here I sit
Brokenhearted
Tried to crap
But only farted.


----------



## vikingBerserker (Nov 21, 2009)

As read in a Men's Room off of I-95. 3rd stall:

"As I sit here smelling vapor,
Some ***hole stole the toilet paper..."


----------



## Lucky13 (Nov 21, 2009)

*The Unknown Soldier*

_He is known to the sun-white Majesties 
Who stand at the gates of dawn. 
He is known to the cloud-borne company 
Whose souls but late have gone. 
Like wind-flung stars through lattice bars 
They throng to greet their own, 
With voice of flame they sound his name 
Who died to us unknown. 

He is hailed by the time-crowned brotherhood, 
By the Dauntless of Marathon, 
By Raymond, Godfrey and Lion Heart 
Whose dreams he carried on. 
His name they call through the heavenly hall 
Unheard by earthly ear, 
He is claimed by the famed in Arcady 
Who knew no title here. 

Oh faint was the lamp of Sirius 
And dim was the Milky Way. 
Oh far was the floor of Paradise 
From the soil where the soldier lay. 
Oh chill and stark was the crimson dark 
Where huddled men lay deep; 
His comrades all denied his call 
Long had they lain in sleep. 

Oh strange how the lamp of Sirius 
Drops low to the dazzled eyes, 
Oh strange how the steel-red battlefields 
Are floors of Paradise. 
Oh strange how the ground with never a sound 
Swings open, tier on tier, 
And standing there in the shining air 
Are the friends he cherished here. 

They are known to the sun-shod sentinels 
Who circle the morning's door, 
They are led by a cloud-bright company 
Through paths unseen before. 
Like blossoms blown, their souls have flown 
Past war and reeking sod, 
In the book unbound their names are found 
They are known in the courts of God! _

by Angela Morgan


----------



## Lucky13 (Nov 21, 2009)

*Iron *

Carl Sandburg (1916) 


_Guns,
Long, steel guns,
Pointed from the war ships
In the name of the war god.
Straight, shining, polished guns,
Clambered over with jackies in white blouses,
Glory of tan faces, tousled hair, white teeth,
Laughing lithe jackies in white blouses,
Sitting on the guns singing war songs, war chanties.

Shovels,
Broad, iron shovels,
Scooping out oblong vaults,
Loosening turf and leveling sod.

I ask you
To witness-
The shovel is brother to the gun._


*Grass *

Carl Sandburg (1918) 


_Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work—
I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?

I am the grass.
Let me work._


----------



## RabidAlien (Nov 22, 2009)

Found in a stall at Big Bend Nat'l Park, Texas:

You can shake it, 
you can squeeze it,
you can bang it on the wall,
but its always in your pants
that the final drop will fall.


----------



## BikerBabe (Nov 22, 2009)




----------



## B-17engineer (Nov 22, 2009)

Again...


----------



## Heinz (Nov 22, 2009)

Want some real poetry check out WW1 poet Siegfried Sassoon.
Siegfried Sassoon - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

_Suicide In The Trenches_

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go

_Counter Attack_

We'd gained our first objective hours before
While dawn broke like a face with blinking eyes,
Pallid, unshaved and thirsty, blind with smoke.
Things seemed all right at first. We held their line,
With bombers posted, Lewis guns well placed,
And clink of shovels deepening the shallow trench.
The place was rotten with dead; green clumsy legs
High-booted, sprawled and grovelled along the saps
And trunks, face downward, in the sucking mud,
Wallowed like trodden sand-bags loosely filled;
And naked sodden buttocks, mats of hair,
Bulged, clotted heads slept in the plastering slime.
And then the rain began,— the jolly old rain!

A yawning soldier knelt against the bank,
Staring across the morning blear with fog;
He wondered when the Allemands would get busy;
And then, of course, they started with five-nines
Traversing, sure as fate, and never a dud.
Mute in the clamour of shells he watched them burst
Spouting dark earth and wire with gusts from hell,
While posturing giants dissolved in drifts of smoke.
He crouched and flinched, dizzy with galloping fear,
Sick for escape,— loathing the strangled horror
And butchered, frantic gestures of the dead.

An officer came blundering down the trench:
'Stand-to and man the fire-step! 'On he went...
Gasping and bawling, 'Fire- step...counter-attack!'
Then the haze lifted. Bombing on the right
Down the old sap: machine- guns on the left;
And stumbling figures looming out in front.
'O Christ, they're coming at us!' Bullets spat,
And he remembered his rifle...rapid fire...
And started blazing wildly...then a bang
Crumpled and spun him sideways, knocked him
out To grunt and wriggle: none heeded him; he choked
And fought the flapping veils of smothering gloom,
Lost in a blurred confusion of yells and groans...
Down, and down, and down, he sank and drowned,
Bleeding to death. The counter-attack had failed


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## RabidAlien (Nov 22, 2009)

Excellent, Heinz.


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## BikerBabe (Dec 16, 2009)

LIVING IS --

Living is
a thing you do
now or never --
which do you?

- Piet Hein.


----------



## vikingBerserker (Dec 16, 2009)

Very nice BB!


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## Marcel (Dec 17, 2009)

BikerBabe said:


> LIVING IS --
> 
> Living is
> a thing you do
> ...



Piet Heijn? never knew he spoke English:

Piet Heijn, zijn naam is klein,
Zijn daden benne groot,
Hij heeft gewonnen de Zilvervloot....

Sounding through Ajax stadium


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## BikerBabe (Dec 17, 2009)

Marcel said:


> Piet Heijn? never knew he spoke English:
> 
> Piet Heijn, zijn naam is klein,
> Zijn daden benne groot,
> ...



Nope, danish designer, inventor, multi-talented artist and poet Piet Hein - 1905-1996.







Also known as Kumbel, whose small poems is known as Grooks.
Here's another one:

MEMENTO VIVERE

Love while you've got
love to give.
Live while you've got
life to live.


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## bigZ (Jan 20, 2010)

*High Flight*

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark nor even eagle flew—
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

John Gillespie Magee, Junior (June 9, 1922 – December 11, 1941)


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## Njaco (Jan 20, 2010)

Big, ya just sent a chill through me.

On this very day my father died 6 years ago and that was what we wrote on his funeral rememberance cards. Time for a shot.


----------



## BikerBabe (Jul 8, 2010)

lesofprimus said:


> The only thing that impresses women is a big fat co*k and loads of $$$$...-cut-



   
Oh dear, Les: Thanks for the laugh of the day here!
You make me believe quite strongly, that my understanding of men is a whole lot better than your understanding of women! *chuckles* *wipes eyes*...heheheeeheheheh...


----------



## SpitfireKing (Oct 7, 2010)

lesofprimus said:


> I think my balls just went back up inside...



Well, glad you guys showed him


----------



## BikerBabe (Jun 25, 2011)

*The Invitation*

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting in your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit in pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own,if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tip of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you're telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.

I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not pretty every day, and if you can source your life from God's presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.

I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn't interest me who you are, how you came to be here.

I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.

I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

~ Oriah Mountain Dreamer.


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## RabidAlien (Jun 25, 2011)

Methinks it would be a pretty rare individual indeed who could say "yes" to all of those. I certainly can't...but would like to be the type of person who could.


----------



## BikerBabe (Jun 26, 2011)

I hear you, RA. It's one helluva "To do"-list, but good none the same.


----------



## T-6 (Nov 22, 2012)

"A man of few words" by Meville Hardiment

Black eyed Corporal Farrell
was a man of few words other
than the usual anglo-saxons
sprinkled around barrackrooms
and camps. He had no words
for the ragged shrapnel slicing
through his kneecaps but
used his morphia and that was that. 
We sat side by side in the sun,
for 'lightning never strikes twice
in the same place' I had said.
Side by side wishing the frank
sharp crack and slap of shrapnel
would cease and leave us be. 
He might have dreamt of England
and some soft hospital bed. I don't
know, and we just waited. And then
a sniper's bullet holed his head.
He looked at me reproachfully and barked
'F*ck!"


----------



## T-6 (Nov 22, 2012)

"Luck" by Denis McHarrie

I suppose they'll say his last thoughts were of simple things,
Of April back at home, and the late sun on his wings;
Or that he murmured someone else's name
As earth reclaimed him sheathed in flame.
Oh God! Let's have no more of empty words,
Lip service ornamenting death!
The worms don't spare the hero;
Nor can children feed upon resounding praises of his deed.
'He died who loved to live,' they'll say,
'Unselfishly so we might have today!'
Like hell! He fought because he had to fight;
He died that's all. It was his unlucky night.


----------



## T-6 (Nov 22, 2012)

"An Irish airman foresees his death" William Butler Yeats

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public man, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.


----------



## T-6 (Nov 22, 2012)

I read this little bit of verse about Bomber Command a year ago or so ago. I've tried finding it again but can't. I'm pretty sure this is how it went but don't remember if this is all or just part of it. Does this ring any bells for anyone?

Every bloody evening at half past bloody eight
You can hear us on the runway with the throttles through the gate.
"Lift off, you big black bastard! We're twenty minutes late!!"
And we have to bomb the Ruhr in the moonlight.


----------



## A4K (Nov 23, 2012)

Not in the same vein, but...

He was born by the sewer,
By the sewer he died.
Some say it was murder
But I say 'sewer-side'...


----------



## RabidAlien (Nov 23, 2012)

Found in a bathroom stall at Big Bend Nat'l Park:

You can squeeze it,
you can shake it,
you can bang it on the wall:
but its always in your undies
that the final drop will fall.


----------



## Readie (Nov 23, 2012)

Here's two of my favourite poems.

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew.
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.


I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

Cheers
John


----------



## bbear (Nov 23, 2012)

Well said Readie, a touch of class at last.

And i'll swap you 'the windhover' for the 'eagle'

hopkins
I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, 
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

tennyson
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls

there are other 'air power' related ones i'm sure


----------



## meatloaf109 (Nov 23, 2012)

"There once was a man from Nantucket..."
Oops, sorry, somebody already posted that.


----------



## Readie (Nov 24, 2012)

My favourite verses from the 'The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam'


'The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.


And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,
Lift not thy hands to It for help--for It
Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.'

Eternal truth in these words.
Cheers
John


----------



## Alex . (Mar 27, 2014)

Bumping up on old thread if I may, found this poignant poem whilst reading about Irish aircrew in WWII 

Possibly written by Norman Robinson, Killed in Action 24th November 1943 (Bomber Command)

_"We have no graceful form, no flashing shape 
To flicker, fish-like, in the dome of sky; 
No famous whine of motor glint of light 
Proclaim us to the earthlings ear or eye 

Darkly we go, unseen, by friends unsped, 
Leaving the homely fields that are our own, 
Up to the heights where sunsets' early red 
Changes to blackness. We are there alone. 

No heat of battle warms our chilling blood 
No friendly soil beneath us if we fall; 
Our only light the stars, whose fickle mood 
Will lead them to desert us when we call. 

Death down below or stealing through the dark 
Awaits our coming with a silent grin; 
Bellowes' fireworks curtained round our mark 
Form doors of fire, through which we enter in. 

Flame, smoke and noise surround us for a while. 
A shuddered jerk the load goes screaming down; 
Cold hands and feet move levers for escape; 
A chain of fire bespatters through the town 

Back to the darkness, friendly now we speed 
To count our wounds, and set a course for home. 
Speaking to base, attentive to our need, 
Watching for that far-friendly line of foam. 

Hour upon hour, the long-drawn journey seems; 
Fights and searchlights still our road proclaim. 
Salt-eyed, we watch the heaven for the Huns, 
Weary we dodge the heaven-splitting flame. 
Then, with no certain victory to impart, out of the dawn we drop from frosty light.
Welcomed alone by those who saw us start 
And watched and waited for us through the night."_


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