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Poetry

(6 posts)

His friends call him Will Yam Tube Eeyore naught two bee, that is the question: Weather ’tis no blur inn the mined two suffer Thus ling sand air rows of out rage us fore chin, O’er toot ache arms against a see of troubles, And buy up posing end them? Too dye: two’s leap; Know moor; and bias leap too seigh wee end The hart ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is air two, ’tis a consummation Devout lee too bee wish’d. Two dye, too sleep; Two sleep: perchance too dream: eye, theirs the rub; Four inn that sleep of death watt dreams may come Wen wee halve shuffle doff this more tall coil, Mussed give us paws: theirs the respect That makes calamity of sew long life; Fore who wood bare the whip sands corns of thyme, The owe press oars wrong, the prowed manse con tomb lee, The pangs of despised love, the laws delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That pay shunt mare it of the unworthy takes, Wen he himself mite his quiet us make With a bear bawd kin? who wood far dells bare, Too grunt and sweat under a weary life, Butt that the dread of sum thing after death, The undiscover’d con tree from who’s born Know traveller returns, puzzles the will And make suss rather bare though sills wee have Than fly two others that wee no knot of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us awl; And thus the native hew of resolution Is sick lead oar with the pail caste of thought, And enter prizes of grate pith and moment With this regard they’re currants tern a rye, And lose the name of action—Soft ewe now! The Pharaoh feel ya! Nymph, inn thigh orisons Bee awl mice inns remember’d.

Just for Fun: Square Poems

Tuesday··2011·04·05 · 7 Comments
Ever heard of a square poem? Neither had I, until today. A square poem is one which reads the same vertically as horizontally, like this example by Lewis Carrol. Composing a square poem is really quite challenging, and fun to boot. (If you think that makes me a nerd, it’s because you’re an illiterate boob. So there.) Here is my first attempt: The Lord is my shepherd. Lord, my God all merciful, Is God the sufficient redeemer. My all sufficient Savior be; Shepherd, merciful redeemer, be glorified. As poetry, it leaves something to be desired, I know. As prose, it’s not much better. Feel free to submit your own attempts. I myself will versify further in the comments.

Sartorial Song

Friday··2011·04·08
Since Tuesday, when I posted another example of my prodigious poetic prowess, poetry has been a hot topic in our house. We, as I’m sure you would expect, favor the classics. Consequently, there have been multiple quotings of that late, great American poet, Shel Silverstein. Having no profound thoughts of my own, and this being Friday, too late in the week to collect any, I offer you one of our family’s favorite Silverstein pearls. Tattooing Ruth Collars are choking, Pants are expensive, Jackets are itchy and hot, So tattooing Ruth tattooed me a suit. Now folks think I’m dressed When I’m not. —Shel Silverstein, Falling Up (I think).

Memorial Day, 2014

Monday··2014·05·26
In Flanders Fields Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872–1918) Canadian Army In Flanders Fields the poppies blow Between the crosses row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

I’m Telling You Why

Saturday··2015·12·19
Last Christmas Eve, for the first time in several years, I got sick and was forced to break (I think) a six-year daily posting streak. I meant to return sooner, but [insert excuse here]. I hope to get back on schedule in 2016. This is my contribution to the 2015 Christmas season. See you again, Lord willing, in 2016.I hate it when people adapt Christian words to secular songs, especially when the original is utterly pagan. Nevertheless, I have done this. Please don’t use it for your Lord’s Day worship service. Jesus Has Come Down from His Throne The saints all sing out: No more need to cry, We have a way out From way up on high— Jesus has come down from his throne. And this is the gist: He’s paid the full price; Without a doubt, His death does suffice— Jesus has come down from his throne. He sees your sins a-heaping, He knows that you’re a fake, He knows you’ve not done as you should, So he did it for your sake. Oh! We have redoubt To which we can fly; Now we can tout Salvation brought nigh— Jesus has come down from his throne.

Exercising My Spiritual Gifts

Monday··2017·11·06
This morning, I was inspired by the metrical Psalms of my friend David Regier, and I’ve been waxing poetic this afternoon. This is the result. If you like it, thanks. If not, it’s Mr Regier’s fault. For your edification: My arrival at church was belated; I came with my stomach unsated. Like a ravenous creature, It drowned out the preacher, And so I was excommunicated. A teacher of systematic theology, Whose avocation was zoology, Catechized an equine, Which got into the wine, And now he owes an apology. The organist came to church late, While the ushers were passing the plate. To shorten the story, There was no offertory; In shame, he became an oblate. Preparing for Sunday’s potluck, Mrs Jones baked a luscious roast duck. It made enough gravy To feed a whole navy (The remainders filled Mr Jones’ truck). The youth pastor said to his wife, “This job is creating such strife. “The time’s drawing near, “I really do fear, “I’ll be running top speed for my life.” Semper Deformanda.

@TheThirstyTheo



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