Poems That Matter

kdl

02-02-02

02 much

02 little,

02 big.

02 fiddle!

02 Great

02 small,

02 cute,

02 tall!

02 Fat,

02 thin,

02 play,

02 WIN!!

-by Jane Turner Weyant

0₂! 0₂! 0₂!

-by Jane Turner Weyant

Promise yourself to be so strong that nothing can disturb your peace of mind.
Promise yourself to speak of health, happiness and prosperity to every person you meet.
Promise yourself to make all your friends aware of the special qualities within them.
Promise to look at the sunny side of every thing and let your optimism work to make your dreams come true.
Promise yourself to think, work for, and expect only the best.
Promise to be just as enthusiastic about the success of others as you are about your own.
Promise to forget past mistakes and press on towards a greater future.
Promise to wear cheerful countenance at all times, as a smile radiates warmth and love.
Promise to give so much time to the improvement of yourself that you have no time left to criticize others.
To be too wise for worry, too tolerant for anger and too courageous for fear.

-ANON

We tried so hard to make things better for our kids that we made them worse.

For my grandchildren, I'd like better.

I'd really like for them to know about hand me down clothes

and homemade ice cream and leftover meat loaf sandwiches. I really would.

I hope you learn humility by being humiliated, and that you learn honesty by being cheated.

I hope you learn to make your own bed and mow the lawn and wash the car. 

And I really hope nobody gives you a brand new car when you are sixteen.

It will be good if at least one time you can see puppies born and your old dog put to sleep.

I hope you get a black eye fighting for something you believe in.

I hope you have to share a bedroom with your younger brother/sister.

And it's all right if you have to draw a line down the middle of the room,

but when he wants to crawl under the covers with you

because he's scared, I hope you let him.

When you want to see a movie

and your little brother/sister wants to tag along,

I hope you'll let him or her.

I hope you have to walk uphill to school with your friends

and that you live in a town where you can do it safely.

On rainy days when you have to catch a ride,

I hope you don't ask your driver to drop you

two blocks away so you won't be seen

riding with someone as uncool as your Mom.

If you want a slingshot, I hope your Dad teaches you

how to make one instead of buying one.

I hope you learn to dig in the dirt and read books.

When you learn to use computers, I

 hope you also learn to add and subtract in your head.

I hope you get teased by your friends

when you have your first crush on a boy\girl,

and when you talk back to your mother

that you learn what ivory soap tastes like.

May you skin your knee climbing a mountain,

burn your hand on a stove and stick your tongue on a frozen flagpole.

I don't care if you try a beer once, but I hope you don't like it.

And if a friend offers you dope or a joint, I hope you realize he is not your friend.

I sure hope you make time to sit on a porch

with your Grandma/Grandpa and go fishing with your Uncle.

May you feel sorrow at a funeral and joy during the holidays.

I hope your mother punishes you when you throw a baseball

through your neighbor's window and that she hugs you and kisses you

at Hanukah/Christmas time when you give her a plaster mold of your hand.

These things I wish for you - tough times and disappointment,

hard work and happiness.

To me, it's the only way to appreciate life.

Written with a pen. Sealed with a kiss.

I'm here for you. And if I die before you do,

I'll go to heaven and wait for you.

Send this to all of your friends.

We secure our friends,

not by accepting favors,

but by doing them.

-Paul Harvey

Paul Harvey RIDDLE:

When asked this riddle,

80% of kindergarten kids got the answer,

compared to 17% of Stanford University seniors.

What is greater than God,

More evil than the devil,

The poor have it,

The rich need it,

And if you eat it,

you'll die?

  The falling leaves

drift by the window,

the autumn leaves

of red and gold,

I see your lips,

the summer kisses,

the sunburned hands,

I used to hold.

Since you went away,

the days grow long,

and soon I'll hear

old winter's song

But I miss you most of all, my darling,

when autumn leaves start to fall

-Johnny Mercer

Let me say

things to you

you're like a clear sky of blue

you're like a good dream come true

Let us be

one plus one

a love that will never be done

a love that's always just begun

Things don't always turn out like I planned

this I think that you will understand

Let me say

things to you

you're like a clear sky of blue

you're like a good dream come true

Darling, hold on, hold on for me

-Terry Adams

 Are you lonesome tonight, does your tummy feel tight?

Did you bring your Mylanta and Tums?

Does your memory stray, to that bright sunny day...

When you had all your teeth and your gums?

Is your hairline receding? Are your eyes growing dim?

Hysterectomy for her and it's prostate for him.

Does your back give you pain... do your knees predict rain?

Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?

Is your blood pressure up, your good cholesterol down?

Are you eating your low fat cuisine?

All that oat bran and fruit, Metamucil to boot,

keeps you like a well oiled machine.

If it's football or baseball... he sure knows the score.

he knows where it's at... but forgets what it's for.

So, your gall bladder's gone. But his gout lingers on.

Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?

When you're hungry, he's not, when you're cold, then he's hot.

Then you start that old thermostat war.

When you turn out the light, he goes left, you go right.

Then you get his great symphonic snore.

He was once so romantic, and witty and smart.

he turn out to be such a cranky old fart?

So don't take any bets, this is as good as it gets.

me dear, are you lonesome tonight?

(author unknown)

  You got to ac-cent-tchu-ate the positive

E-lim-i-nate the negative

And latch on to the affirmative

Don't mess with mister in-between

You got to spread joy up to the maximum

Bring gloom down to the minimum

And have faith, or pandemonium

Liable to walk upon the scene

To illustrate my last remark

Jonah in the whale, Noah in the ark,

What did they do, just when everything looked so dark?

Man, they said, we better

Ac-cent-tchu-ate the positive

E-lim-i-nate the negative

And latch on to the affirmative

Don't mess with mister in-between

(Johnny Mercer / Harold Arlen)

  Moon river, wider than a mile

I'm crossin' you in style some day

Old dream maker, you heartbreaker

Wherever you're goin', I'm goin' your way

Two drifters, off to see the world

There's such a lot of world to see

We're after the same rainbow's end,  waitin' 'round the bend

My huckleberry friend, Moon River, and me

Two drifters, off to see the world

There's such a lot of world to see

We're after the same rainbow's end,

waitin' 'round the bend

My huckleberry friend,

Moon River, and me

-Johnny Mercer

Cigarette holder

 which wigs me

over her shoulder,

she digs me.

Out cattin'

that satin doll.

Baby, shall we go

out skippin ?

Careful, amigo,

you're flippin',

speaks Latin

that satin doll.

She's nobody's fool so I'm playing it cool as can be.

I'll give it a whirl but I ain't for no girl catching me,

- swich-e-rooney.

Telephone numbers

well you know,

doing my rumbas

with uno

and that'n

my satin doll.

-Johnny Mercer

That old black magic has me in its spell

That old black magic that you weave so well

Icy fingers up

and down my spine

The same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine

The same old tingle that I feel inside

When that elevator starts its ride

Down and down I go, round and round I go

Like a leaf that's caught in the tide

I should stay away but what can I do

I hear your name, and I'm aflame

Aflame with such a burning desire

That only your kiss can put out the fire

You are the lover that I've waited for

The mate that fate had me created for

And every time your lips meet mine

Baby down and down I go, all around I go

In a spin, loving the spin that I'm in

Under that old black magic called love

-Johnnie Mercer

I Ask You   

What scene would I want to be enveloped in

more than this one,

an ordinary night at the kitchen table,

floral wallpaper pressing in,

white cabinets full of glass,

the telephone silent,

a pen tilted back in my hand?

It gives me time to think

about all that is going on outside—

leaves gathering in corners,

lichen greening the high grey rocks,

while over the dunes the world sails on,

huge, ocean-going, history bubbling in its wake.

But beyond this table

there is nothing that I need,

not even a job that would allow me to row to work,

or a coffee-colored Aston Martin DB4

with cracked green leather seats.

No, it's all here,

the clear ovals of a glass of water,

a small crate of oranges, a book on Stalin,

not to mention the odd snarling fish

in a frame on the wall,

and the way these three candles—

each a different height—

are singing in perfect harmony.

So forgive me

if I lower my head now and listen

to the short bass candle as he takes a solo

while my heart

thrums under my shirt—

frog at the edge of a pond—

and my thoughts fly off to a province

made of one enormous sky

and about a million empty branches.

Neither Snow     

When all of a sudden the city air filled with snow,

the distinguishable flakes

blowing sideways,

looked like krill

fleeing the maw of an advancing whale.

At least they looked that way to me

from the taxi window,

and since I happened to be sitting

that fading Sunday afternoon

in the very center of the universe,

who was in a better position

to say what looked like what,

which thing resembled some other?

Yes, it was a run of white plankton

borne down the Avenue of the Americas

in the stream of the wind,

phosphorescent against the weighty buildings.

Which made the taxi itself,

yellow and slow-moving,

a kind of undersea creature,

I thought as I wiped the fog from the glass,

and me one of its protruding eyes,

an eye on a stem

swiveling this way and that

monitoring one side of its world,

observing tons of water

tons of people

colored signs and lights

and now a wildly blowing race of snow.

 Poems by Billy Collins

Copyright © 1999 The Cortland Review

"The Birds of Killingworth"

Tis always morning somewhere, and above

The awakening continents, from shore to shore,

Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.

And everywhere, around, above, below,

Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow,

And a new heaven bent over a new earth

Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

“MY NATIVE TOWN”

You ask about my home town,

How can I half describe

The beauties of this piece of ground

Though here I’ve spent my life.

‘Tis here that nature has full sway,

She here displays her charms,

Here song-birds trill their happy lay

On rocky, hillside farms.

In summer-time there may be heard

The robin, lark,and jay,

The thrush, the cuckoo and blackbird,

The bluebird’s cheerful lay.

The hoarse caw of the crow is heard,

Bob-white shouts out the quail

The cat-like call of the cat-bird,

The night hawk’s mornful wail.

The humming-bird and the bee flit by

In search of honey sweet,

Hither and yon the swallows fly

On wings that are most fleet.

The cricket’s chirp, the croak of frogs

Sounds loadly in our ears,

The turtle’s whistle mong the bogs,

toads say “rain is near.”

Now near the center of all this

A church stands on a hill,

A Congregational Church is this

And here we worship still.

For eighty years this church has stood

Through storm and heat and cold,

Its influence has been good for me

Blessing both young and old.

This church has missionaries sent

To lands far, far away

And there their lives have all been spent

In teaching men the way.

Now near this church but in the rear

Stands Agricultural Hall,

Our great town fairs are all held here,

Town meetings courts and all.

And here the Y.P.S.C.E.’s

Their weekly meeting hold,

Here also picnics, socials, teas

And festivals they hold.

Here too the Grangers have their home,

And semi-monthly meet,

When farmers and there families come

And brother patrons greet.

Not far away is a country store

And Post Office combined,

One mail a day does it afford

To satisfy our mind.

A wagon-shop is near at hand

A blacksmith’s shop beside,

Here does the “Village Smithy” stand

His anvil by his side.

The street is lined on either side

With houses large and small,

Gardens and barn are there besides

And room enough for all.

Into districts the town’s divided,

In all they number eight,

In each a schoolhouse is provided

For education’s sake.

The Methodist Church ceased to exist,

Their building’s even gone,

The ‘Piscopals have an edifice

Where their services they perform.

A paper-mill once was in town

And seemed to prosper well,

The mill long since burned to the ground

Its ashes rest here still.

Old people tell us of the day,

When tan-works and shoe-shop,

In operations were each day

Long since their works did stop.

Now when our people need new boots

They to the village hie,

Look O’er the merchant’s line of goods

And ready-made boots do buy.

Three saw-mills the town can boast,

Of gristmills likewise three,

Our industries are gone almost

I fear soon all will be.

Our hills and valleys are all here

And they are here to stay,

We’ve air so pure and springs so clear

And these can’t run away.

But boys and girls no sooner grow

To men and women strong,

Then to the city they all go

to join the busy throng.

They leave the farm to get along,

In any it may,

Because they rather join the throng

That’s rushing on its way.

More charms has city life they think,

Than quiet rural life,

From pleasures cup they hope to drink

And never meet with strife.

It matters not where life is spent,

Nor where our duty calls,

Trials to to every one are sent

To each a full share falls.

So when old Killingworth you leave

Do not expect to find,

That cares, perplexities and grief

Have all been left behind.

This poem was written by

Clara E. Parmelee Killingworth, Connecticut July, 1899

More to come...

Back to Things That Matter

Back to Bobo

Bobo Bio

Bobo Calendar

Back to Table of Contents

Back to Pudding Bench Home