General Chat

HOW MANY STARS When I was a boy I would ask my dad How many stars are there hanging in the sky More than enough son More than I could say Enough to keep you counting Till your dying day When I was a boy I would ask my dad How many fishes are there swimming in the sea More than enough son More than I could say Enough to keeep you counting Till your dying day When I was a boy I would ask my dad How many creepy-crawlies are there in the world More than enough son More than I could say Enough to keep you counting Till your dying day It seemed like there wasn't anything my dad didn't know

I don't want to go into school today Mum I don't feel like schoolwork today Oh, don't make me go into school today Mum Oh, please let me stay at home and play but you must go to school my cherub my lamb If you don't it will be a disater How would they manage without you my sweet After all you are the headmaster

I have so many favourites, this one of them: 'Twould ring the bells of Heaven The wildest peal for years, If Parson lost his senses And people came to theirs, And he and they together Knelt down with angry prayers For tamed and shabby tigers And dancing dogs and bears, And wretched, blind pit ponies, And little hunted hares. (Ralph Hodgson)

monday's child is red and spotty tuesday's child won't use the potty wednesday's child won't go to bed thursday's child will not be fed friday's child breaks all their toys saturday's child makes an awful noise and the child that is born on the seventh day is a pain in the neck like the rest OK

Always liked T.S. Eliots, from 'Old Pussums Practical Cats', Wordsworths 'Daffodils' and a childrens favourite about Matilda, who told such dreadful lies! :)) (can't copy and paste, haven't mastered it yet!, am learning!)

I love this poem, it is very sweet: We Are Seven A Simple Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; --Her beauty made me glad. "Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. "Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother." "You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be." Then did the little Maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree." "You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. "My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. "And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. "The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. "So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. "And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." "How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little Maid's reply, "O Master! we are seven." "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!" ~ William Wordsworth

Got lots of favourites but this one always reminds me of my Mum, it was her party piece and one of the few I can recite from memory. Cuddle Doon by Alexander Anderson The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi muckle faught and din. "Oh try an' sleep, ye waukrife rogues, Your faither's comin' in." They niver heed a word I speak, I try tae gie a froon, But aye I hap' them up an' cry "Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!" Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid, He aye sleeps next the wa' Bangs up and cries, "I want a piece!" The rascal starts them a'. I rin and fetch them pieces, drinks, They stop a wee the soun', Then draw the blankets up an' cry, "Noo, weanies, cuddle doon." But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab Cries oot frae neath the claes, "Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at aince, He's kittlin' wi' his taes." The mischief in that Tam for tricks, He'd bother half the toon, But aye I hap them up an' cry, "Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!" At length they hear their faither's fit An' as he steeks the door, They turn their faces tae the wa' An Tam pretends tae snore. "Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks, As he pits aff his shoon. "The bairnies, John, are in their beds An' lang since cuddled doon!" An' just afore we bed oorsel's We look at oor wee lambs, Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck An Rab his airm roun' Tam's. I lift wee Jamie up the bed An' as I straik each croon, I whisper till my heart fills up: "Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!" The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi' mirth that's dear tae me. But soon the big warl's cark an' care Will quaten doon their glee. Yet come what will to ilka ane, May He who rules aboon, Aye whisper, though their pows be bald: "Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!" Christine

Bob, I love that poem, Do you remember the advert with that? :-)

Jabberwocky a poem by Lewis Carroll 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought -- So rested he by the Tumtum tree. And stood awhile in thought. And as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came wiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. How Do I Love Thee? poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

One of my favourites is 'On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey' by Frances Beaumont. I really don't know why I like it so much. I discovered it in my Mum's copy of Palgraves Golden Treasury when I was a child and it appealed to me - strange child that I must have been! LOL ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ MORTALITY, behold and fear What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within these heaps of stones; Here they lie, had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands, Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust They preach, "In greatness is no trust." Here's an acre sown indeed With the richest royallest seed That the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried, "Though gods they were, as men they died!" Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings: Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sue xx

debra, a few months ago,a friend knew how upset i was,about losing my dog,and she sent me an e card,containing words and music to "footprints", i think its so meaningful...thank you. bryan.

I do a lot of work in a Day Centre and this is one of the favorites of people there Memories of Childhood Just on the edge of hearing, Soft in th salt-scented breeze, The whisper of waves receding A shiver of wind in the trees Just on the edge of seeing Over the rim of the hill Sky-skimming kites go soaring To rival the sea birds skill Just on the edge of scenting' The sea weed,the sand and the sun, Smell of camomile lingering Crushed by our feet as we run Just on the edge of knowing Holidays pleasure and pain Memories of childhood are waiting Round the bend in the lane

Len, I like that poem always makes me feel very humble, Lucia

On a more serious note! 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 Flander's 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 Lt Colonel John McCrae

Lovely Poem Lorraine, Lucia :-)

The Almond Tree I All the way to the hospital The lights were green as peppermints. Trees of black iron broke into leaf ahead of me, as if I were the lucky prince in an enchanted wood summoning summer with my whistle, banishing winter with a nod. Swung by the road from bend to bend, I was aware that blood was running down through the delta of my wrist and under arches of bright bone. Centuries, continents it had crossed; from an undisclosed beginning spiralling to an unmapped end. II Crossing (at sixty) Magdalen Bridge Let it be a son, a son, said the man in the driving mirror, Let it be a son. The tower held up its hand: the college bells shook their blessings on his head. III I parked in an almond's shadow blossom, for the tree was waving, waving at me upstairs with a child's hands. IV Up the spinal stair and at the top along a bone-white corridor the blood tide swung me swung me to a room whose walls shuddered with the shuddering womb. Under the sheet wave after wave, wave after wave beat on the bone coast, bringing ashore - whom? New- minted, my bright farthing! Coined by our love, stamped With our images, how you Enrich us! Both you make one. Welcome to your white sheet, my best poem. V At seven-thirty the visitors' bell scissored the calm of the corridors. The doctor walked with to the slicing doors. His hand is upon my arm, his voice - I have to tell you - set another bell beating in my head: your son is a mongol the doctor said. VI How easily the word went in - clean as a bullet leaving no mark on the skin, stopping the heart within it. This was my first death. The 'I ' ascending on a slow Last thermal breath studied the man below as a pilot treading air might the buckled shell of his plane - boot, glove and helmet feeling no pain from the snapped wires' radiant ends. Looking down from a thousand feet I held four walls in the lens of an eye; wall, window, the street a torrent of windscreens, my own car under its almond tree, and the almond waving me down. I wrestled against gravity, but light was melting and the gulf cracked open. Unfamiliar the body of my late self I carried to the car. VII The hospital - its heavy freight lashed down ship-shape ward over ward - steamed into night with some on board soon to be lost if the desperate charts were known. Others would come altered to land or find the land altered. At their voyage's end some would be added to, some diminished. In a numbered cot my son sailed from me; never to come ashore into my kingdom speaking my language. Better not look that way. The almond tree was beautiful in labour. Blood- dark, quickening, bud after bud split, flower after flower shook free. On the darkening wind a pale face floated. Out of reach. Only when the buds, all the buds were broken would the tree be in full sail. In labour the tree was becoming itself. I, too, rooted in earth and ringed by darkness, from the death of myself saw myself blossoming, wrenched from the caul of my thirty years' growing, fathered by my son, unkindly in a kind season by love shattered and set free. Lucia :-)

Robert Burns, Upon the hill there stood a cow it must have moved for its no there noo

I love poetry and have lots of books. Today I like this one - A WOMAN YOUNG AND OLD W.B.YEATS II. BEFORE THE WORLD WAS MADE If I make the lashes dark And the eyes more bright And the lips more scarlet, Or ask if all be right From mirror after mirror, No vanity's displayed: I'm looking for the face I had Before the world was made. What if I look upon a man As though on my beloved, And my blood be cold the while And my heart unmoved? Why should he think me cruel Or that he is betrayed? I'd have him love the thing that was Before the world was made. Gwynne

Warning By Jenny Joseph