The Cellar - Poems- Not your own.

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- - Poems- Not your own. (http://cellar.org/showthread.php?t=16916)

Info on the poems at the second link.

Quote:

"Martian Gas"

In the midst of the twentieth century,
when man reached for the stars
And probed the void with telescopes
and inter-planet cars
And sought communications
with life beyond our own,
We found we still had earth-men
who feared the great unknown

Scientist, astronomer and physicist but fair;
Yet, Air Force Apologist, most ex' trordinaire.
"Deny, debunk, deplore, decry the witness of your eyes.
Saucer-sighters are but fools delighting in their lies."

Mortal man is not prepared
for inter-stellar strife.
Leave him to the ignorance
of just this earthly life.
Just as priests reserve the faith,
scientists hide the plan;
Martian conquest needs no help
from ordinary man.

UFO Poetry Slam

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
and twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
in such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
what wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William and his sister took a walk on this day (April 15) in 1802, and he was inspired by "a long belt of daffodils" and wrote this poem.

A Drumlin Woodchuck

by Robert Frost

One thing has a shelving bank,
Another a rotting plank,
To give it cozier skies
And make up for its lack of size.

My own strategic retreat
Is where two rocks almost meet,
And still more secure and snug,
A two-door burrow I dug.

With those in mind at my back
I can sit forth exposed to attack
As one who shrewdly pretends
That he and the world are friends.

All we who prefer to live
Have a little whistle we give,
And flash, at the least alram
We dive down under the farm.

We allow some time for guile
And don't come out for a while
Either to eat or drink.
We take occasion to think.

And if after the hunt goes past
And the double-barreled blast
(Like war and pestilence
And the loss of common sense),

If I can with confidence say
That still for another day,
Or even another year,
I will be there for you, my dear,

It will be because, though small
As measured against the All,
I have been so instinctively thorough
About my crevice and burrow.

“A Victim of Irregularity”

Though no great catch, this man was caught,
And neighbors tell, I’m told,
That oft, with scratch, his face was scraught,
Till fearful yells he yold.

In sink of sadness almost sunk,
To quit all strife he strove —
And after he a think had thunk,
A happier life he love.

To steal a kiss, no more he stole;
To make a break, he broke;
To remedy the deal he’d dole,
A secret sneak he snoke.

Fate’s dice with crafty shake he shook;
As gamblers feel he felt;
But ere the final stake he stook
A bitter squeal he squelt.

Of earlier days, I think, he thought,
Ere Hymen’s bonds had bound —
Before his links were firmly lought —
When he by blond was blound.

A stroke for liberty he struck;
For in a fly he flew —
But though full many a joke he juck,
A secret cry he crew.

Then stings of conscience no more stung,
And so in peace he slept;
For, on the wings of Morpheus brung,
In Paradise he pept.

— George B. Moregood, Puck, Oct. 2, 1912

From an article about Victorian Cat Funerals...

Quote:

AN ELEGY ON PETER, AGED 12.
In vain the kindly call: in vain

The plate for which thou once wast fain

At morn and noon and daylight’s wane,

O King of mousers.

No more I hear thee purr and purr

As in the frolic days that were,

When thou didst rub thy velvet fur

Against my trousers.

How empty are the places where

Thou erst wert frankly debonair,

Nor dreamed a dream of feline care,

A capering kitten.

The sunny haunts where, grown a cat,

You pondered this, considered that,

The cushioned chair, the rug, the mat,

By firelight smitten.

Although of few thou stoodst in dread,

How well thou knew a friendly tread,

And what upon thy back and head

The stroking hand meant.

A passing scent could keenly wake

Thy eagerness for chop or steak,

Yet, Puss, how rarely didst thou break

The eighth commandment.

Though brief thy life, a little span

Of days compared with that of man,

The time allotted to thee ran

In smoother metre.

Now with the warm earth o’er thy breast,

O wisest of thy kind and best,

Forever mayst thou softly rest,

In pace, Peter.

Quote:

Whose proof this is I think I know.
I can’t improve upon it, though;
You will not see me trying here
To offer up a better show.

His demonstration is quite clear:
For contradiction, take the mere
n primes (no more), then multiply;
Add one to that … the end is near.

In vain one seeks a prime to try
To split this number — thus, a lie!
The first assumption was a leap;
Instead, the primes will reach the sky.

This proof is lovely, sharp, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And tests to grade before I sleep,
And tests to grade before I sleep.

(From Mathematics Magazine 78:2 [April 2005], 171.)

I want some of what ol' Chuck was using.

Excerpts of this poem are used in a current Busch beer commercial. That's where I heard it.

The Honest Working Man
By Marie Joussaye

As through the world we take our way
How oftentimes we hear
The praises sung of wealthy men,
Of prince, and duke and peer.
The poets tell us of their fame,
They are lauded o’er the land,
But you very seldom hear them sing
Of the honest working man.

They praise the wealthy banker,
The purse-proud millionaire;
Their pockets have golden lining,
So they’re praised from everywhere.
Let others sing the praises
Of those darlings of the land,
But mine shall be a nobler theme–
The honest working man.

Let monarchs prize their glittering crowns
And all their royal host,
Let lordlings brag of their blue blood–
They have nothing else to boast.
But what is all their rank, compared
To our hero, true and grand,
One of fair Nature’s noblemen–
The honest working man.

His hands may be both rough and hard,
His clothes and speech be plain,
But you will find his manly heart
Without a spot or stain.
And there are some whose clothes are fine.
Whose hands are soft and white,
But the secret records of their lives
Could never bear the light.

May Heaven’s choicest blessings fall
Upon that hero’s head,
Who bravely toils throughout each day
To earn his loved ones bread.
You’ll find no monarch who can show
A record half so grand.
God bless great labor’s true-born knight–
The honest working man.

So now of Fortune’s favored ones,
Henceforth let less be said,
And more be spoken of the man
Who toils for daily bread.
God bless each hardy son of toil
That labors in the land.
Let us give three cheers with right good will
For the honest working man.

The honest WORKING man. Very cool.