Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

Laughing Song ©


When the birds go south they fly from Jack Frost,-

Oh cold is his breath, they scan east an’ the west;

When caught in currents they steer their own course

And like a feather they are none the worse;


When the greenswards feast on liquid sun

And the grasshoppers, the gnats join the fun;

When the moths and beetles romp around

The sky rains their death, the birds make no sound!


Geese sing while the storks preen their plumes white:

‘ Where our table al fresco is complete

We forgive Jack Frost who blew us southward,

After such a feast, not to forgive is hard’.


Source of my inspiration is given below:

Original poem

Laughing Song By William Blake


When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,

And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;

When the air does laugh with our merry wit,

And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;


when the meadows laugh with lively green,

And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,

When Mary and Susan and Emily

With their sweet round mouths sing “Ha, ha he!”


When the painted birds laugh in the shade,

Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread:

Come live, and be merry, and join with me,

To sing the sweet chorus of “Ha, ha, he!”




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My heart wakes to a nauseating sound:

My eyes as though from some shock electric

Reacting cannot but stare at him in front

Crouching, Oh it’s my hound Patrick;

‘Tis not like tabbycat with his mice

A share from spoils of his field chase

He lays at my feet,- Patrick has his way

To bulldoze my reverie and get away;

Why fawning tongue work all over me

As though its glad oil has charm

O’er the most supine master into alacrity?

What freezes my blood is sepsis, its harm

Shall outpace your fidelity, Patrick

I shall throw this ball and wish it gone

And chasing it to hell that is a trick

I wish you had taken up-Begone!



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Quo Vadis? ©




 There is no mistake you spot him

How he totters under weight-

It’s not by any means a pretty sight,

‘Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?


The borders are barr’d, so are hearts of men.

‘You seem more curious

Than vicious, and I am cautious

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?


My sins are writ large and scarlet

These papers scream ‘gainst me:

My birth under sorry hour, place

Worse still stamps me alien.’


‘That makes me,’ said I, a brother-

An alien I was once.

Brothers at arms, it’s no bother

For arms that bore a cross.


Ah under this bright Aegean Sun

You choose to bear my sin

Of being born in a curséd spot

And we’re cold and we’re hot.


And now there came border control,

And it grew wondrous cold

Of being swallowed by a whale-

Man’s godless protocol.

(in the style of The Rime of Ancient Mariner)


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Law From Below

The Kingdom of Mishrabia©



‘yes I will’ says the king

whose will is law.

‘Is it from above

or from below?

‘How the devil will I know?’


The quietest place on earth

Must be Mishrabia

Where graves are filled

With dead men who sing:


“For we know, O king

Your law is from below

How do we know for sure?

Kill, kill kill

The devil has always law

When he wants man below

Than see the face of God

And walk under his law.



‘yes I will’ says the king

whose will is law.

‘Is it from above

or from below?

‘How the devil will I know?’


The devil has his own law

When he wants man below

Than see the face of God

And walk under his law.


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Life In a Gyre

My life is some smoke on the rise

Past the crowded cityscape, and up it goes;

Do I mind the wind’s whimsies?

No more than the trail of soot that I scatter

When all this pother dies down.


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The Cloths of heaven


Had I the gumption I would pass for real

Scholar in mortar-board, you may well

Believe yonder yokel is Jackass

Of first rate mind, but given up, yes

His higher calling for hard labour :

But I being born with circumstance

I have no choice but walk the line, sir:

My learning is’nt what I intend practise.




Had I the heaven’s embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light;

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

WB Yeats


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Where man has, alas, ceased to pass the torch,-

For his arched steps have cut the meadows

And play before the motley fools and lure

Widows of their mite to feed an appetite;

Where love itself is sold by giddy glibness

Of mountebanks and is nothing but a habit;

Douse the torch its cold glare is sad tale-

Ne’er shall you rekindle it ,nor lead children of men

To hallowed halls where once virtue stood:

Proud of mien erect on her pedestal

Garlanded and bewitched by men of old,-

It is how the world shall pass

In oblivion and for worms a cold meal.


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