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Celebration: International Day for Monuments and Sites

An Epitaph On Her Self.

When I am Dead, few Friends attend my Hearse,
And for a Monument, I leave my VERSE.

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Topic of the Day: news

18 April 1930: BBC Radio announces that there is no news on that day

Fundamental of Liar Chapter XXX: News Part 2

Bad news is no news
No news is good news
Good news is bad news

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About poetry

Laurence Olivier

I'd like people to remember me for a diligent expert workman. I think a poet is a workman. I think Shakespeare was a workman. And God's a workman. I don't think there's anything better than a workman.

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The Food Of Love

What would you like for supper,
Some steak, with chips and peas,
Maybe, a nice brewed cuppa,
Or me, with lips that please.

You could have something spicy,
Like a curry or sweet and sour,
But these can be a bit spicy
And not good, at this late hour.

Perhaps a glass of beer, or shandy,
Or a brandy to fill the gap,
But, of course, that might make you randy,
Hey! Have that as your nightcap!

There's me, I'm sweet and slender,
And tender like the steak,
And if you put me in a blender,
A fantastic meal, I'd make.

[...] Read more

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Byron

Canto the Fourth

I
Nothing so difficult as a beginning
In poesy, unless perhaps the end;
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning
The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend,
Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning;
Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend,
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far,
Till our own weakness shows us what we are.

II
But Time, which brings all beings to their level,
And sharp Adversity, will teach at last
Man, -- and, as we would hope, -- perhaps the devil,
That neither of their intellects are vast:
While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel,
We know not this -- the blood flows on too fast;
But as the torrent widens towards the ocean,
We ponder deeply on each past emotion.

[...] Read more

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Frank P. Kosmach- 90th Birthday

My mother gave me a silver pen
with Frank's name and birthday inscribed.
We never knew Frank but Father told us
he was a very lucky man,
richer than the silver pen that drove him
to write my father a big check on pink paper.
Frank was lucky alright.
He paid his bills on time
and he had silver mint ships and pens
to spare and everything had
his name on it. He was the proud
chief of his german tribe and I'm sure
he knew all about world wars
and how they lasted all the time.
A story must have stuck in his head, too,
sweet like too much molasses
though I never knew him, like I said,
but whenever I write with his pen
I think of his skin, his silver-
where it went.

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