...........although he was covered in cuts
he managed to not damage his nuts

Nice, it's one of those I could never think of an ending for :tongue:

hang on I'm not finished that was just a pause
last line:
...................although the same couldn't be said of his ball.

the end
poor Paul:bawling:

:laugh2:


Poor paul.

There once was a badger called Dave, who decided to go to a rave...

..............he swalled a pill
met a hampster called Bill
and they both woke up in a cave

I Watched Thee
by Lord Byron


I watched thee when the foe was at our side
Ready to strike at him, or thee and me
Were safety hopeless rather than divide
Aught with one loved, save love and liberty.

I watched thee in the breakers when the rock
Received our prow and all was storm and fear
And bade thee cling to me through every shock
This arm would be thy bark or breast thy bier.

I watched thee when the fever glazed thine eyes
Yielding my couch, and stretched me on the ground
When overworn with watching, ne'er to rise
From thence, if thou an early grave hadst found.

The Earthquake came and rocked the quivering wall
And men and Nature reeled as if with wine
Whom did I seek around the tottering Hall
For thee, whose safety first provide for thine.

And when convulsive throes denied my breath
The faintest utterance to my fading thought
To thee, to thee, even in the grasp of death
My spirit turned. Ah! oftener than it ought.

Thus much and more, and yet thou lov'st me not,
And never wilt, Love dwells not in our will
Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot
To strongly, wrongly, vainly, love thee still.

Ahh I know this poem well - I think it is one of the most beautiful love poems I have read. It is so evocotive. I love Byron:

Father of yours, father of mine
flowing blood and bones entwine
You feel the heart, I feel the scorn
ripped through my flesh the sharpened thorn
Sweet angels guard you while you sleep
while poison in my veins does seep
My eyes don't see, I've lost my way
in blankets wrapped, in dreams you lay
I stare at you and see my eyes
what could have been, with heavy sighs
my blood runs cold while yours is warm
protected from the howling storm
Father of yours, but not of mine
I bow my head before his shrine

While we are poems not of our own, this is an all time classic, popularised in film

Hankies at the ready :bawling:

This one I once learned

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.

Amazing piece of poetry this.

The Darkling Thrush - Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware

I discovered this, along with many others, when travelling Australia.

My Country
by Dorothea MacKellar

The love of field and coppice
Of green and shaded lanes,
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins.
Strong love of grey-blue distance,
Brown streams and soft, dim skies
I know, but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.

I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror
The wide brown land for me!

The stark white ring-barked forests,
All tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon,
Green tangle of the brushes
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree-tops,
And ferns the warm dark soil.

Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When, sick at heart, around us
We see the cattle die
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady soaking rain.

Core of my heart, my country!
Land of the rainbow gold,
For flood and fire and famine
She pays us back threefold.
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze ...

An opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand
though Earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.



http://australianpoems.tripod.com/mycountry.html

Wow, that's a truly evocative rainbow of a poem. I love it.

Thought maybe a bit of spoken poetry maybe appreciated. This poem, although written over 70 years ago, sounds, to me as if it is talking about our decade now.

That thread on death got me thinking about the significance of life and what meaning it has and I thought of this poem. We did it yesterday in class and we were split as to whether it was comforting or not. I initially thought it was in the way it encourages enjoying life while you can and with it's carefree attitude, although some disagreed.


The Fly (William Blake)
Little Fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath
And the want
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

Just WOW - amazing piece of poetry and how true

IF Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream and not make dreams your master;
If you can think and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Mirror, mirror on the wall, keeper of the truth
can time be traded for a coin, and bought the gift of youth?
Could we smoothe, like pebble stone, the lines upon a face
but to remove the journey would treasured memories erase?
Memories of birds of youth, whose song we all did sing
the hopes and dreams we carried, the world tucked beneath our wing
The reflection that you give shows me shades so pale and stretched
but on the flesh, the wisdom scars, all knowledge there is etched
Lashes once were thick and dark, and eyes of flaming light
have said goodbye to summers day and settled into night
but in their place, as bodies fade, a seed of wisdom grows
and nurtured well, the blooming bud becomes a glorious rose
A flower whose scent of passion has surely cast a spell
and with each falling petal, a tale of love will tell
Youth is for the kindling, whose sparks have yet to light
while beauty carries scars, but its fires are burning bright
Mirror, youth is just a chance, an opening of a door
I've entered through and now i see, that beauty is much more

I really like this piece, I always get excited when you post in here :)

I found a poem today I wrote when I was 16:


The Poets Collection

Taught in this field the masters teach,
But student eyes seem to beseech.
No words, nor money or endless glory,
Can ever create the perfect story.

Hearts and minds will never be crossed
As so many emotions will end up lost.
The battle of one, this endless quest;
A mans spirit is hopeful at best.

Knowledge sought and knowledge brought,
Still our feelings can never be taught.
Hapless in life; books and palms read,
Hopeless with love, carve poetry instead.


Taught in this field, the poets collect,
Never really knowing how much they neglect
the one that loves them; live for rejection,
only empty dreams in the poets collection.

this is a lovely poem and very wise and thoughtful for a 16 year old. I think at 16 I was a mess of emotions. I love being the age I am now but sometimes I think it would be nice to go back and 'know more' rather than just think I knew it all at that age lol. Beauty comes from what we know and feel and that only happens with time. I'm glad you like my attempts (that is a real compliment). I am such a messy writer. Sometimes when I write a poem, only I know what it is about lol, which is not really the point of writing. But its just a way of me getting thoughts and feelings out and putting them to one side. One of my previous ones 'Father of yours..........is just about a comment someone made to me and it made me think about people who have a very loving and supportive family and those who are in constant conflict with a parent - but if I have to explain then its not really a poem, but just more of a 'thought'. Maybe I just think in poetry. One day I am going to write a story - a total epic one day....................I have started it but that was about 5 years ago and I've written 7 pages, but one day.........:hugesmile:

My little ditty composed for Twitter

Stupid Robin
The north wind did blow
And we have had snow
And poor Robin seems to be
hiding his head under his wing
The idiot

When the sun is at its brightest, but outside the skies are grey
When the words have choked the speaker for there’s nothing left to say
When fear has found its lodgings and evicted old romance
When your favourite song is playing, but you feet refuse to dance
When the orchestra is playing, but it pounds inside your ears
When all are optimistic, but you’re crippled by your fears
When the beggar stretches out his hand, there’s nothing left to give
When death is more inviting than the prison where you live
When you’re looking for tomorrow and its nowhere to be found
When you’re stuck within the moment and your arms and legs are bound
When the sound of children’s laughter leaves you cold and full of sorrow
and the blanket wraps around you, but inside your heart is hollow
When your friends bring gifts of comfort and their love for you is strong
but their love can’t stretch to reach you on the tower you sit upon
When the prisoner inside you pleads for mercy to be shown
but his pleadings are unheard until his flesh falls from the bone
When you bathe in pools of tears and they burn your naked skin
and the life that you’ve been playing is the game you’ll never win