I agree whole-heartedly !
Aaah memories ST, memories of a gentler age.
I had to recite in a CHORAL speaking group, thisâŠ
HE HUNT IS UP by Richard Gray
The hunt is up! the hunt is up
And it is well-nigh day;
And Harry our king is gone hunting
To bring his deer to bay.
The east is bright with morning light,
And darkness it is fled,
And the merry horn wakes up the morn
To leave his idle bed.
Behold the skies with golden dyes,
Are glowing all around;
The grass is green, and so are the treen
All laughing at the sound.
The horses snort to be at the sport
The dogs are running free
The woods rejoice at the merry noise
Of hey tantara tee ree!
The sun is glad to see us clad
All in our lusty green,
And smiles in the sky as he riseth high
To see and to be seen.
I were not asked back!
I didnt put enough feeling into itâŠneighâŠ
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX, âTHE YEARâ (1910)
What can be said in New Year rhymes,
Thatâs not been said a thousand times?
The new years come, the old years go,
We know we dream, we dream we know.
We rise up laughing with the light,
We lie down weeping with the night.
We hug the world until it stings,
We curse it then and sigh for wings.
We live, we love, we woo, we wed,
We wreathe our brides, we sheet our dead.
We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,
And thatâs the burden of the year.
New Yearâs Morning
Helen Hunt Jackson
Only a night from old to new!
Only a night, and so much wrought!
The Old Yearâs heart all weary grew,
But said: âThe New Year rest has brought.â
The Old Yearâs hopes its heart laid down,
As in a grave; but, trusting, said:
âThe blossoms of the New Yearâs crown
Bloom from the ashes of the dead.â
The Old Yearâs heart was full of greed;
With selfishness it longed and ached,
And cried: âI have not half I need.
My thirst is bitter and unslaked.
But to the New Yearâs generous hand
All gifts in plenty shall return;
True love it shall understand;
By all my failures it shall learn.
I have been reckless; it shall be
Quiet and calm and pure of life.
I was a slave; it shall go free,
And find sweet peace where I leave strife.â
Only a night from old to new!
Never a night such changes brought.
The Old Year had its work to do;
No New Year miracles are wrought.
Always a night from old to new!
Night and the healing balm of sleep!
Each morn is New Yearâs morn come true,
Morn of a festival to keep.
All nights are sacred nights to make
Confession and resolve and prayer;
All days are sacred days to wake
New gladness in the sunny air.
Only a night from old to new;
Only a sleep from night to morn.
The new is but the old come true;
Each sunrise sees a new year born.
I like that one Robert & both the ones you posted Sweetie Pie.
Thank-you Tiff. I was hoping that someone would see mine as they are about New Year.
and now we enter a brave new year
May goodness enrich the folks in here
and may your fears be quite allayed
May there be more happy days
Itâs not too much to ask
and surely not an onerous task
for peace and love to spread
Oh let it be heard and said.
Nowâs the time to live and then
Remember all the good times when
Life stretched endlessly ahead
So start again leading not led
(C) RJ 2018
Aww, bless you young Robert.
Happy New Year.
I Canât Think What He Sees In Her
Jealousyâs an awful thing and foreign to my nature;
Iâd punish it by law if it was in the Legislature,
One canât have all of everything, and wanting it is mean â
But still, there is a limit, and I speak of Miss Duveen.
Iâm not a jealous woman
But I canât see what he sees in her,
I canât see what he sees in her.
If she was something striking
I could understand the liking,
And I wouldnât have a word to say to that.
But I canât see why heâs fond
Of that objectionable blonde â
That fluffy little, stuffy little flashy little
Creepy crawly, music-hally, horrid little CAT!
I wouldnât say a word against the girl, be sure of that;
Itâs not the creatureâs fault she has the manners of a rat.
Her dresses may be dowdy, but her hair is always new,
And if she squints a little â well, many people do.
Iâm not a jealous woman
But I canât see what he sees in her,
I canât see what he sees in her.
I canât see what he sees in her!
Heâs absolutely free,
Thereâs no bitterness in me,
Though an ordinary woman would explode.
Iâd only like to know
What he sees in such a crow
As that insinuating, calculating, irritating
Tittivating, sleepy little, creepy little
Sticky little TOAD!
Author Unknown
Eccles the name of the author is A.P. HerbertâŠ
A talented man whom I remember for being the author of Albert Haddocks book of MISLEADING CASES made into a marvellous tv series starring the delightful Roy Dotrice & the delicious Alastair Sim, both at this time in their twilight years.
A great poem Robert, another one from your heart âŠ
eccles I had never heard that one before, I loved it.
Funny that some poetry never dates, and is still very poignant.
Thank-you
A wise man said a womanâs scorn
is given to her when sheâs born.
She carries it, though under cover,
a secret weapon for a lover
who dares defy her even once,
itâs no excuse to be a dunce.
I have been chosen so it seems,
though never in my wildest dreams
did I expect this sly attack
which was prepared behind my back.
You see, to tell the real story,
the saga started with a sorry
but unbeknownst to me entré,
presented as a joyful play.
There lived, in cloudy inner city
a middle aged and rather pretty
and intellectual grandmother
who had been searching for another,
a better purpose in her life.
The task of playing the good wife
and caring for rambunctious kids
did drive her to consider bids
elsewhere in regions of the globe.
While sitting in her purple robe,
sheâd dream of knights without a flaw
and then, on the TV she saw
how history had proven often
that free-verse thoughts would help to soften
societyâs ingrained conventions,
and slowly ripened her intentions.
God, thank thee for the internet,
where countless lonely hearts have met.
She surfed in all the continents
from Adelaide to Arab tents.
And found, (she was articulate) ,
a hopeful one who, old but fit
was quite intrigued by her Hello,
but too naive for any pro.
And now, my friends, this poet skips
four stanzas (sealed must be my lips)
it seems that she did want a toy
to be converted to a boy
without the right to pick and choose
and somewhat big for his own shoes,
she needed in her midlife crisis
not booze or other neat devices
but human flesh in all its glamour,
(and may I use the word âenamourâ) ,
so, with her womanâs intuition
consolidated her position.
The only fly in this sweet ointment,
which led to bitter disappointment
was that no man, unless deranged
appreciates if an estranged
no matter how erotic soul
attempts to press him in a role
where he must don the leather gear
and, kneeling, mumble 'May I, dear? â
So, programmed for a premature
resounding failure, all the lure
collapsed in waves of turbulence,
there was the thought of âstaying friendsâ
but that was not at all to be,
so now the fly, with glee, broke free,
and left the spiderâs sticky net
still wondering why they had met.
And silence now descended gladly
upon the two, though, rather sadly
were days at first, though they prevailed
it was quite clear that they had failed
an undertaking which was wrong,
as only those who, cold and strong
will contemplate and carry through
since they have nothing else to do.
But let me, just for a small second
digress from what the target reckoned,
a friend of mine is youngster lightning
his motherâs who is somewhat frightâning
is wise beyond our wildest dreams,
and sees a thing for what it seems
her name is, fittingly, Dame Thunder
and she did look at this sad blunder
perhaps she is the one behind
this new attack upon the mind
All men have, it is known, a horn
to ward off any womanâs scorn
So bring it on, use your resources
of darkness and malignant forces
a dream that roses will adorn
is what I want, not womanâs scorn.
Herbert Nehrlich
Truly a saga, did you write it?
Time needed to digest
Not my poem, but one my Gran told me when I was a teen.
It took me a while to find out who wrote it. The internet is amazing.
Never love unless you can
Bear with all the faults of man:
Men sometimes will jealous be
Though but little cause they see;
And hang the head, as discontent,
And speak what straight they will repent.
Men that but one saint adore
Make a show of love to more.
Beauty must be scorned in none,
Though but truly served in one:
For what is courtship but disguise?
True hearts may have dissembling eyes.
Men, when their affairs require,
Must awhile themselves retire;
Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk,
And not ever sit and talk.
If these and such-like you can bear,
Then like, and love, and never fear!
Thomas Campion
No young Robert the author is at the bottom.
I think eccles has started a trend.
Lovely Tiff - Thank-you:-)
Note to self âShould have gone to specsaversâ
I wrote this some years ago, I never have written a prose poem before or since, I prefer rhyming.
Death Of A Tree
Gone, is the landmark that showed me
from the main road where my house stood.
They came and cut down the huge Scots Pine
that stood at the back of our gardens,
on the other side of the lane.
For 15 years, we, my husband, neighbours and I,
had watched the antics of the Rooks
who nested in the Rookery at the top of the tree
and other birds going to and fro.
With chainsaws, ropes, tackle and lots of noise,
they cut the tree apart, piece by piece,
leaving until last the top most branches with their nests.
The next day, those also had gone.
I didnât interfere though I was very tempted,
but Iâd arrived home on the Tuesday,
from work far too late.
They had already cut off the lower branches.
We couldnât have done anything anyway,
there is no preservation order on Scots Pines.
A few branches were dead,
it was very old,
maybe it was diseased?
Perhaps the people in the new house built close to the tree
thought it might fall on them one day?
Whatever the reason it is gone,
nothing can bring it back.
Seems terrible that a tree
taking close to 100 years to grow that large,
can be reduced to firewood in a few hours.
I feel sorry for the Rooks,
where will they nest now?
We shall miss them,
but mostly we will miss the tree.
In time, I suppose,
we can get used to the empty space in the sky
where it grew.
Love it Tiff .
I donât know a lot about Rooks.
A country man once told me that the reason they build nests in the highest branch twigs is that the branches grow into the nest making it secure.
Educational here ennit?
Yeah, Words seem structural
Thoughts another matter
Thinking is a burden
Physiologicaly reductional.