Grey Thrush at the Door
'Swe-e-et! Swe-e-et!' Low at first and flattering,
Full of soft seductiveness on a wheedling note.
Who comes in mercy now, crumbs of comfort scattering
For a grey bird pleading from a cold, cold throat?
Just a thread of tallow-fat, just a scrap of meat!
Grey thrush is at the door. 'Swe-e-et! Swe-e-et!'
Grey bird, friendly bird, merry bird in summer time,
For summer is a merry time, full of tuneful mirth.
Sunny days are singing days. But winter is a glummer time
With lean days of scant fare; frost has locked the earth.
Song goes as sun goes, and harshly drives the sleet.
Where comes the almoner? 'Swe-e-et! Swe-e-et!'
'Sweet! Sweet!' Now it grows imperious:
A short call, a loud call, impatience in its tone.
Why am I left lingering? See, my plight is serious.
A poor bird all forlorn, starving and alone.
Grey Thrush is a-hungering, begging scraps to eat.
It's far beyond my breakfast time! 'Sweet! Sweet!'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Dinner and Dinty
He dreaded not dark, nor the lonely road,
For the world, as he knew it, was kind.
Nor threat of the risk, nor necessity's goad
Gave fear to his innocent mind.
He was merely abroad for a country stroll:
And where lay the peril in that?
While themes so engaging delighted his mind
As dinner and Dinty the cat.
Then the summons went out and the search was on:
For the danger was clear to all.
Dread death was abroad where the child had gone,
But he answered to never a call.
He harked to the birds, and he dreamed his dreams,
As deep in the forest he sat;
And his mind went back to those two great themes:
Dinner, and Dinty the cat.
They found him at last with a smile on his face,
As he prattled of important things;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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One Hundred Years
Now, Batman, Prophet Batman, a hundred years ago,
He looked upon this land and found it good.
"'Tis the place to build a village," bold Batman said, and so
They straight began - or so I've understood
To fling rude huts together by the swamp and by the stream,
To make beginning here and then for Batman's daring dream.
But Batman, Prophet Batman, was quite a modest cove;
His vision sought no far and fabled goals.
A village he could picture here; but no vast treasure trove
A mighty city of a million souls
A miracle arising by the swamp and by the stream
In the hundred years that followed on one pioneering dream.
Now I, far lesser prophet, stand here to view the scene
Tall spire, proud dome athwart a sunny sky,
This far-flung city basking by many a garden green
Yet hopelessly I fail to prophesy.
While earth holds threat and promise both, and high hope walks with dread,
Then who may claim the vision of one hundred years ahead?
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Down, But Not Out
Oh, how I hate these chills, these winter ills,
Bleak blasts and breezes;
Abominate the 'flu,' the fierce 'Tishoo'
All inappropriate sneezes;
How I detest th' uneasy, wheezy chest.
Yet (tho' the declaration may seem priggish)
Fate I defy; and to Cold's cohorts cry,
Indomitable ever: 'Ick! ... Ip! ... Iggish!'
I dream of coral isles where sunlight smiles
And high noon blazes,
Where luscious tropic green, is vaguely seen
Thro' dancing hazes.
I long for these; and then some biting breeze
Pierces my being like an icy splinter;
Yet once more I, with shrill defiance, cry
And fling taunts in the teeth of woeful Winter.
I know this dread disease brings me unease
Most deleterious;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Fruit of Earth
The winds that blow about the world
(Said Old George Jones)
See here all hope to ruin hurled,
See there triumphant flags unfurled,
Over chance-favored zones.
And no man's wisdom, no man's might
Foresees, much les controls
Some little breeze born of the night
That brings perchance a sudden blight
Or balm for tortured souls.
But growin' things and sowin' things
And watchin' of 'em grow
Not hastenin' things or slowin' things
Nor seekin' to be knowin' things
That men may never know.
'Tis so the kind earth pays a man
'Tis so content is made.
Not work, but worry slays a man;
I take what tricks Fate plays a man
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Dove Has A Word
With a sprig in my beak, I repeatedly seek
For a spot where a poor bird may rest,
While tumultuous man strives in vain for a plan
That may build me a permanent nest.
But I'm sick of this search. All I ask is a perch
In a cope, neither gaudy nor grand;
And they need me, they say in a 'passionate' way;
But as soon as I venture to land
There's a clashing of scabbards; a barking of dogs
And I'm off once again to the ambient fogs.
I'd a job long ago - for old Noah, you know
And I hadn't much trouble with that.
But this mechanised age makes the searching a rage
For a synthetic Mont Ararat.
I have sought me a home o'er Locarno and Rome,
O'er Geneva, week after drear week;
I have hovered and wheeled and while the nations appealed
But as soon as a haven I seek
There's a beating of drums, and a yelling of fear,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Monday Morning
I often pause to contemplate
The sadly barren mental state
Of persons whom it is my fate
To meet on Monday morning.
They should be, after Sunday's rest,
Alert, clear-minded, full of zest;
But everywhere they are oppressed,
Bad-tempered, dull and yawning.
But I? I'm always strangely bright,
Primed with ideas and full of fight,
With brain alert and eye alight
With rare exhilaration:
All due, no doubt to my wise bent
To do no thing I should repent,
And to a Sunday wisely spent
In pious contemplation.
I do not wish to set myself
Upon some loft moral shelf
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Duty Done - 1935
The swallows are back, and I'm tuning my lyre,
For today 'tis my duty to sing
A melodious lay that is graciously gay
To welcome - officially - spring
Ting-a-ling
So let's have a song with a swing.
Bing!
High cockalorum and fal-de-rah, whack!
Young Spring's in the offing! The swallows are back!
To put sense in the song matters little so long
As the lift and the lilt of it ring.
And a mention be made of the wattle-hung glade
Where the blithering birds are a-wing
Ting-a-ling
And the clamorous honey-bees cling.
Z-z-z-ing!
Tho' I'm scarce in the humor, alas and alack!
Ho, merry-down-derry! The swallows are back!
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Lingothatweuze
I metabloke in Collun-street
A cove I yustano
When I wus workin Southoss,
A yeerertwo ago.
Sezzi, 'Well, owye kumminup?
I spose yehnomee still?'
'E grabsme betha 'andansiz,
'W'y owsheegoinbil?'
'Well, wotchadoinow?' sizzi,
Alludin' to 'is work.
'I aven gotakop,' sezee,
'At presen'. Wot's your lurk?'
'I'm upagenit pritty bad,
An' lookin' furra job,'
I answers. Then I bytsiz lug:
'Say, kinyeh lensa bob?'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Cosmic Comic Relief
Sadly sobbing, sadly sobbing,
Rolls the restless wireless sea,
Where the wireless waves go bobbing
Up and down so dolefully.
And nothing there the gloom assails,
Depression to undo,
Till some merry little static
In a manner most erratic
Till statics dropp their little tails
And split themselves in two.
Just to watch their comic wriggling
Moves the stratosphere to mirth,
And a giddy urge to giggling
Trails a titter round the earth.
When wireless humor flops and fails
And nought can raise a laugh,
Then some artful atmospheric
Sends the other half hysteric
Gay atmospherics dropp their tails
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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