StrmDncr• Show poetry

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Welcome!  
Summer is  here and with it comes a time filled with inspiration.

I hope you find inspiration in this fun filled season and enjoy your stay.

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Let the games begin !!!!


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~~~Please take a moment to stop by "Forever Yours" to remember some of our lost poets~~~

allpoetry.com/poem/2042720#

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*I believe poetry should be an expression of thought, feeling, sight, and beauty. Though not all poetry is cheerful, loving or kind, it should be expressed in terms that make the reader experience the moment.*  



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My Favorite Poems;

*Why Not All Mornings*
by David Coyote

Awake to find the clock, its hands at nine,
from sleep warmed bed I rise, in hopes my head
will clear, as into glasses used for wine
I pour some juice ice-cold, then back to bed
in tune with bird, it’s song divine, I kiss
my sweetheart, start to play as light and sun
on walls make rainbows: hope her boss won’t miss
the empty seat – but wait; a scent begun
in roasting beans; it sends me down the hall
for cream-laced brew, to play her game, my part
her houseboy, barefoot back to arms that call
a man who loves, who’s filled with hers at heart.
For me the day is lost when turned away
from love. So here is where I think I’ll stay.

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Please stop by David's site and enjoy more
of his wonderful work.
Dcoyote.com


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*Dunna Call Me Paddy*
by Clive Shorter

Cun ye no tell tha difference thun Lassie,
'Tween Irish brogue and a Highland lilt?
Must ye alus be cunfusin'
"Brave men as be wearin' tha kilt?
I canna fathom ye problem
When it comes t' tellin' them 'part
Fer wun plays tha Pipes like a haggis
Whilst t' other "Tha Bags" are an art!
I've no seen tha "Li'le People
I've no got a four-leaf charm
And I don' put ma faith in St. Pat
But in steel an' tha strength o' me arm
Mcfarlane, McDonald an' Bruce
Be not Flaherty, Sweeney er Keefe
And if ye be confusin' one fer t'other
Ye can only be headin' fer grief.
So don' give me no "Topadamornin'"
Fer I'm proud tha' I'm a Scot
And I wouldna be callin' me Paddy
˜Fer IRISH I am NOT!!

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*Lesbia*
From Catullus 85 BC

Vivamus, mea Lesbia atque amemus,
rumoresque senum severiorum
omnes unius aestimemus assis.
soles occidere at redire possunt:
nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux,
nox est perptua una dormienda
da mi basia mille, deinde centum
dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,
deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum.
dein, cum mia multa fecerimus,
conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus,
aut nequis malus invidere possit,
cum tantum sciat esse basiorum

English translation by Richard Crashaw  1649

Come and let us live my Deare,
Let us love and never feare,
What the sowest Fathers say:
Brightest Sol that dyes to day
Lives againe as blith to morrow,
But if we darke sons of sorrow
Set; o then, how long a Night
Shuts the eye of our short light!
Then let amorous kisses dwell
On our lips, begin and tell
A Thousand and a Hundred score
A Hundred and a Thousand more,
Till another Thousand smother
That, and that wipe of another.
Thus at last when we have numbered
Many a Thousand, many a Hundred
Wee’l confound the reckoning quite,
And lose our selves in wild delight:
While our joyes so multiply,
As shall mocke the envious eye


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*This is the inscription
on the tomb of Lord Byron's dog Boswin*


When some proud son of man returns to earth
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptur'd art exhausts the art of woe,
And stoned urns record who rest below
When all is done, upon the tomb seen
Not what he was, but what he should have been;
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend
The first to welcome, foremost to defend;
Whose heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes, for him alone
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied Heaven the soul he held on earth;
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive Heaven!
Oh, man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debas'd by slavery, or corrupt by power
Who knows thee well, must quit thee with degust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, they words deceit!
By nature vile, ennoble but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame
Ye! who, perchance, behold this single Urn
Pass on- it none you wish to mourn:
To mark a Friend's remains these stones arise,
I never knew but one, and here he lies.

George Gordon, Lord Byron


www.petloss.com

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*Stop by Suite101.com, Living With Dogs.
My new column.
New articles will be posted once a month*

www.suite101.com/welcome.cfm/living_with_dogs

www.suite101.com/suiteu/default.cfm/538989



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allpoetry.com/Poem/124238   "Tell Her"

allpoetry.com/poem/145954   "Tell Him"


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For Pet Lovers....

www.petakillsanimals.com/index.cfm