Poems- Not your own.

[xoxoxoBruce]

A last will and testament in 1732.
To my dear Wife, My Joy and Life, I freely now do give her
My whole Estate, With all my Plate, Being just about to leave her.
A Tub of Soap, a long Cart Rope, A Frying-pan and Kettle,
An Ashes Pail, A threshing Flail, An iron Wedge and Beetle.
Two painted Chairs, Nine warden Pears, A large old dripping-platter,
The Bed of Hay, On which I lay, An old Sauce pan for Butter.
A little Mugg, A Two quart Jugg, A Bottle full of Brandy:
A Looking-Glass To See your Face, You'll find it very handy.
A Musket true As ever flew, A Pound of Shot & Wallet,
A Leather Sash, My Calabash, My Powder-horn & Bullets.
An old Sword blade, A Garden Spade, A Hoe, a Rake, a Ladder,
A wooden Cann, A close-stool Pan, A Clyster-pipe and Bladder.
A greasy Hat, My old Ram-Cat, a Yard and half of Linnen,
A por of Grease, A woollen Fleece, In order for your Spinning.
A small-tooth Comb, An ashen Broom, A Candlestick and Hatchet,
A Coverlid Strip'd down with Red, A Bag of Rags to patch it.
A ragged mat, A Tub of Fat; A Book put out by Bunyan,
Another Book By Robin Rook; A Skain or two of Spunyarn.
An old black Muff, Some Garden Stuff, A Quantity of Burrage,
Some Devils Weed And Burdock Seed, To season well your Porridge.
A Chafing-Dish, With one Salt Fish, If I am not mistaken,
a Leg of Pork, A broken Pork, And half a flitch of bacon.
A Spinning Wheel, One Peck of Meal, A Knife without a Handle,
A rusty Lamp, Two Quarts of Samp, A piece of Tallow-Candle.
My Pouch and Pipes, Two Oxen Tripes, An oaken Dish well carved,
My little Dog, and spotted Hog, With two young Pigs just starved.
This is my Stove, I have no more, I heartily do give it.

[xoxoxoBruce]

WW I pilots drinking song...

A young aviator lay dying
At the end of a bright summer’s day.
His comrades had gathered around him
To carry his fragments away.

The aeroplane was piled on his wishbone,
His Lewis was wrapped round his head,
He wore a spark plug in each elbow,
‘Twas plain he would shortly be dead.

He spat out a valve and a gasket
As he stirred in the sump where he lay,
And then to his wondering comrades
These brave parting words did he say:

“Take the manifold out of my larynx
And the butterfly valve off my neck.
Remove from my kidneys the camrods;
There’s a lot of good parts in this wreck.

“Take the piston rings out of my stomach,
And the cylinders out of my brain.
Extract from my liver the crankshaft,
And assemble the engine again.

“Pull the longeron out of my backbone,
The turnbuckle out of my ear,
From the small of my back take the rudder —
There’s all of your aeroplane here.”

[xoxoxoBruce]

Poetry can be handy.

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Hit 'em with the book?

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Today, while doing a little research on Audie Murphy for Popdigr, I discovered that Mr. Murphy was somewhat of a poet. In addition to helping write several country songs (he was country music fan, but not a musician or singer) he wrote dozens of poems. When he was living in close friend Dave McClure's apartment, McClure would often come home to find the floor littered with poems written on scraps of paper. Here are the three that didn't get thrown away:

THE CROSSES GROW ON ANZIO

Oh, gather 'round me, comrades; and
listen while I speak
Of a war, a war, a war where hell is
six feet deep.
Along the shore, the cannons roar. Oh
how can a soldier sleep?
The going's slow on Anzio. And hell is
six feet deep.

Praise be to God for this captured sod that
rich with blood does seep.
With yours and mine, like butchered
swine's; and hell is six feet deep.
That death awaits there's no debate;
no triumph will we reap.
The crosses grow on Anzio, where hell is
six feet deep.

~Audie Murphy, 1948



ALONE AND FAR REMOVED

Alone and far removed from earthly care
The noble ruins of men lie buried here.
You were strong men, good men
Endowed with youth and much the will to live.
I hear no protest from the mute lips of the dead.
They rest: there is no more to give.

So long my comrades,
Sleep ye where you fell upon the field.
But tread softly please
March O'er my heart with ease.
March on and on,
But to God alone we kneel.

~Audie Murphy, late 1940's



FREEDOM FLIES IN YOUR HEART LIKE AN EAGLE

Dusty old helmet, rusty old gun,
They sit in the corner and wait.
Two souvenirs of the Second World War
That have witnessed the time and the hate.

Mute witness to a time of much trouble
Where kill or be killed was the law.
Were these implements used with high honor?
What was the glory they saw?

Many times I've wanted to ask them...
And now that we're here, all alone,
Relics all three of that long ago war. . .
Where has freedom gone?

Freedom flies in your heart like an eagle.
Let it soar with the winds high above
Among the Spirits of soldiers now sleeping.
Guard with care and with love.

I salute my old friends in the corner.
I agree with all they have said . . .
And if the moment of truth comes tomorrow,
I'll be free, or by God, I'll be dead!

~Audie Murphy, 1968




Info here, and, here.

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Info on the poems at the second link.

[xoxoxoBruce]

"Martian Gas"

In the midst of the twentieth century,
when man reached for the stars
And probed the void with telescopes
and inter-planet cars
And sought communications
with life beyond our own,
We found we still had earth-men
who feared the great unknown

Scientist, astronomer and physicist but fair;
Yet, Air Force Apologist, most ex' trordinaire.
"Deny, debunk, deplore, decry the witness of your eyes.
Saucer-sighters are but fools delighting in their lies."

Mortal man is not prepared
for inter-stellar strife.
Leave him to the ignorance
of just this earthly life.
Just as priests reserve the faith,
scientists hide the plan;
Martian conquest needs no help
from ordinary man.

UFO Poetry Slam

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I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

by William Wordsworth


I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
and twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
in such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
what wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.


William and his sister took a walk on this day (April 15) in 1802, and he was inspired by "a long belt of daffodils" and wrote this poem.

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A Drumlin Woodchuck

by Robert Frost



One thing has a shelving bank,
Another a rotting plank,
To give it cozier skies
And make up for its lack of size.

My own strategic retreat
Is where two rocks almost meet,
And still more secure and snug,
A two-door burrow I dug.

With those in mind at my back
I can sit forth exposed to attack
As one who shrewdly pretends
That he and the world are friends.

All we who prefer to live
Have a little whistle we give,
And flash, at the least alram
We dive down under the farm.

We allow some time for guile
And don't come out for a while
Either to eat or drink.
We take occasion to think.

And if after the hunt goes past
And the double-barreled blast
(Like war and pestilence
And the loss of common sense),

If I can with confidence say
That still for another day,
Or even another year,
I will be there for you, my dear,

It will be because, though small
As measured against the All,
I have been so instinctively thorough
About my crevice and burrow.

[xoxoxoBruce]

“A Victim of Irregularity”

Though no great catch, this man was caught,
And neighbors tell, I’m told,
That oft, with scratch, his face was scraught,
Till fearful yells he yold.

In sink of sadness almost sunk,
To quit all strife he strove —
And after he a think had thunk,
A happier life he love.

To steal a kiss, no more he stole;
To make a break, he broke;
To remedy the deal he’d dole,
A secret sneak he snoke.

Fate’s dice with crafty shake he shook;
As gamblers feel he felt;
But ere the final stake he stook
A bitter squeal he squelt.

Of earlier days, I think, he thought,
Ere Hymen’s bonds had bound —
Before his links were firmly lought —
When he by blond was blound.

A stroke for liberty he struck;
For in a fly he flew —
But though full many a joke he juck,
A secret cry he crew.

Then stings of conscience no more stung,
And so in peace he slept;
For, on the wings of Morpheus brung,
In Paradise he pept.

— George B. Moregood, Puck, Oct. 2, 1912

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[BigV]

Very touching

[xoxoxoBruce]

Whose proof this is I think I know.
I can’t improve upon it, though;
You will not see me trying here
To offer up a better show.

His demonstration is quite clear:
For contradiction, take the mere
n primes (no more), then multiply;
Add one to that … the end is near.

In vain one seeks a prime to try
To split this number — thus, a lie!
The first assumption was a leap;
Instead, the primes will reach the sky.

This proof is lovely, sharp, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And tests to grade before I sleep,
And tests to grade before I sleep.

(From Mathematics Magazine 78:2 [April 2005], 171.)

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[xoxoxoBruce]

Bukowski...