Here's mine.

Mandalay by Rudyard Kipling


By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!"
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat -- jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
Bloomin' idol made o'mud --
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd --
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay . . .

When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "~Kulla-lo-lo!~"
With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin' my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an' the ~hathis~ pilin' teak.
Elephints a-pilin' teak
In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!
On the road to Mandalay . . .

But that's all shove be'ind me -- long ago an' fur away,
An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
"If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else."
No! you won't 'eed nothin' else
But them spicy garlic smells,
An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;
On the road to Mandalay . . .

I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an' grubby 'and --
Law! wot do they understand?
I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
On the road to Mandalay . . .


Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be --
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay,
With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

---

<img src="http://boinc.mundayweb.com/one/stats.php?userID=285"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v207/cas1701/v_twin.gif">

<a href="http://www.makepovertyhistory.org"><b>MAKE</b>POVERTY<b>HISTORY</b></a>

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

---

"Out, Out—" Robert Frost
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them 'Supper'. At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap—
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh.
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man's work, though a child at heart—
He saw all spoiled. 'Don't let him cut my hand off
The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!'
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then — the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little — less — nothing! — and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

---

Still looking for something profound or inspirational to place here.

On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
And the Monkeys all say Boo!
There's a Nong Nang Ning
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots Jibber Jabber Joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang!
And you just can't catch 'em when they do!
So it's Ning Nang Nong!
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning!
Trees go Ping!
Nong Ning Nang!
The mice go Clang!

What a noisy place to belong,
Is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!


Spike Milligan in Silly verse for kids, 1968

---

<img src="http://boinc.mundayweb.com/one/stats.php?userID=285"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v207/cas1701/v_twin.gif">

<a href="http://www.makepovertyhistory.org"><b>MAKE</b>POVERTY<b>HISTORY</b></a>

OK I got to beat DogBytes to this one...

There once was a girl from Nantucket.....

---

I'd rather speak my mind because it hurts too much to bite my tongue.

American Spirit BBQ Proudly Serving those that courageously defend freedom.

There once was a student at Trinity
who computed the square of infinity.
But it gave him the fidgets
to write down the digits,
so he gave up math and took up divinity.

---

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep,
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gently autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, I did not die.

Anon

---

<img src="http://boinc.mundayweb.com/one/stats.php?userID=285"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v207/cas1701/v_twin.gif">

<a href="http://www.makepovertyhistory.org"><b>MAKE</b>POVERTY<b>HISTORY</b></a>

> Do not stand at my grave and weep,
> I am not there, I do not sleep,
> I am a thousand winds that blow,
> I am the diamond glints on snow.
> I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
> I am the gently autumn rain.
> When you awaken in the morning’s hush
> I am the swift uplifting rush
> Of quiet birds in circled flight.
> I am the soft stars that shine at night.
> Do not stand at my grave and cry;
> I am not there, I did not die.
>
> Anon
>

Thank you, cas that brought back some rather sad memories...

---

I'd rather speak my mind because it hurts too much to bite my tongue.

American Spirit BBQ Proudly Serving those that courageously defend freedom.

> >
> > Anon
> >
>
> Thank you, cas that brought back some rather said memories...
>
>
Sorry Wolfie, I didn't mean it to do that but I find it a comfort reading it from time to time remembering comrades no longer with us.

---

<img src="http://boinc.mundayweb.com/one/stats.php?userID=285"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v207/cas1701/v_twin.gif">

<a href="http://www.makepovertyhistory.org"><b>MAKE</b>POVERTY<b>HISTORY</b></a>

Not really a poem but as it's the 200th anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar
this one ought to be here too.

Heart of Oak

Come cheer up my Lads, 'tis to glory we steer,
To add something more to this wonderful year.
To honour we call you, as freemen, not slaves,
For who are so free as the sons of the waves?

Chorus:
Heart of oak are our ships, jolly tars are our men,
We always are ready, Steady, boys, steady,
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again!

We ne'er see our foes but we wish them to stay,
They never see us but they wish us away.
If they run, why, we follow and run them ashore,
For if they won't fight us, we cannot do more.

Chorus:

They swear they'll invade us, these terrible foes;
They frighten women, children, and beaus,
But should their flat bottoms in darkness get o'er,
Still Britons they'll find to receive them on shore.

Chorus:

We'll still make them fear, and we'll still make them flee,
And drub 'em on shore as we've drubb'd 'em at sea,
Then cheer up my lads, with one hear let us sing,
Our Soldiers, our Sailors, our Statesmen, our King.

Chorus:

We'll still make 'em run, and we'll still make 'em sweat,
In spite of the Devil and Brussels Gazette,
Then cheer up my lads, with one heart let us sing,
Our Soldiers, our Sailors, our Statesmen, our King.

---

<img src="http://boinc.mundayweb.com/one/stats.php?userID=285"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v207/cas1701/v_twin.gif">

<a href="http://www.makepovertyhistory.org"><b>MAKE</b>POVERTY<b>HISTORY</b></a>

> Sorry Wolfie, I didn't mean it to do that but I find it a comfort reading it
> from time to time remembering comrades no longer with us.
>

It's OK cas my daughter died in 1999 and there is not a day that goes by that I am not reminded of her.. If it wasn't this poem it would have been something else :)

The poem was read by her cousin at her funeral..

If you ever want to make a whole room full of people cry there is one country song that will do it.. The Dance By Garth Brooks. I made them play that song the day I buried her..

Sadness is over.... Lets get on with life... no boo hoo's no pity.. I do not want to hear no more about it... I simply wanted you to know why it was sad...

---

I'd rather speak my mind because it hurts too much to bite my tongue.

American Spirit BBQ Proudly Serving those that courageously defend freedom.

...I find it a comfort reading it from time to time remembering comrades no longer with us.
I just drown my sorrows in a bottle of vodka. Or let The Smiths take me deeper into depression.

I have to post a poem now, haven't I? OK, this is from the "System 7.0 Secret About Box" whose trigger caused a bug and therefore the easter egg was never really "found" [More...]

For all the nights you had to stay
And all releases &mdash; DOA
And all the bugs we never found
And all the features run aground,
For all the schedule slips we made
And all the prayers we know you prayed
And all the crashes we didn&rsquo;t see
And all the hangs (still mystery)
For weekends spent here, patiently,
For this, in all humility,
To you who scorned depressing talks,
We dedicate this secret box
For pressing on in spite of doubt
For that is what it&rsquo;s all about&hellip;

---

Not my favorite poem, but one which read as child moves you, but read as an adult horrifies you- making this the poem which moves me most. Prehaps some people could take heed of this in the current climate.

Wilfred Owen
Dulce et Decorum est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime. —
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, —
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

---

Damn you! I remember that poem well...
.o0(Oh, damn! Now I've gotta post another poem... and I don't know that many... better generate one...)

---

’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 whiffling 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!
O 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.

---

<img src="http://boinc.mundayweb.com/one/stats.php?userID=285"><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v207/cas1701/v_twin.gif">

<a href="http://www.makepovertyhistory.org"><b>MAKE</b>POVERTY<b>HISTORY</b></a>

I no longer ask why one man

puts a tin bucket over his head

while another is content

to beat it with a spoon.

The rattling,

that once unnerved me

like school marm's

chalky fingernails,

has become life's music.

How I dreaded the people

to approach me

in a newly purchased pail,

held precariously in place

by the chin-strap-handle,

as they tried to make eye contact

from under its shadowy visor.

Their voices hollow echos

between thin walls.

I used to pity these people,

thinking, how difficult it must be

to sleep with one's face pressed

against a metal sheet,

the nightmares

of waking up in hailstorms.

But now I always carry a spoon,

just in case I get the chance,

to clang their tin buckets,

like a tardy bell.



jose chaves

---

"See, see the nagging sky
Marvel at its big transparent depths.
Tell me, Adolf do you
Wonder why the slug ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel reluctant.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your Djinnan-Twannix facial growth
That looks like
A mold.
What's more, it knows
Your dam potting shed
Smells of booger.
Everything under the big nagging sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm poops."

.o0(Nah... let's use the really bad poem...)

Oh freddled gruntbuggly,
Thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits
On a lurgid bee.
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes
And hooptiously drangle me
with crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon
See if I don't.
- Douglas Adams (probably drunk off his you-know-what), The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

---

My father's death poem:


When I come to the end of the day,
And the sun has set for me.
I want no rites in a gloom-filled room.
Why cry for a soul set free?
Miss me a little, but not too long,
And not with you head bowed low.
Remember the love we once shared---
Miss me, but let me go.

For this is a journey we all must take,
And each must go alone.
It's all part of the maker's plan,
A step on the road to home.
When you are lonely and sick at heart
Go to the friends we know.
And bury your sorrows in doing good deeds---
Miss me, but let me go.

[i]Author unknown

---

Account frozen...

About 12 years have passed since I read this one...
Making jazz swing in
seventeen syllables AIN'T
no square poet's job
I still don't know who it "belongs" to.
I think I read it on a subway wall...

---

The Shooting of Dan McGrew
by
Robert Service
(1874-1958)

The bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune;
Back in the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o’-love, the lady that’s known as Lou.

When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare,
There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.
He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse,
Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.
There was none could place the stranger’s face, though we search ourselves for a clue;
But we drink his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.
here’s men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell;
And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell;
With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done,
As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one.
Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he‘d do,
And I turned my head – and there watching him was the lady that’s known as Lou.
kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm,
And “Boys,” says he, “you don’t know me, and none of you care a damn;
But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I’ll bet my poke they’re true,

****************************************************
Go to link to finish 'The Shooting of Dan McGrew'
<a>