Favourite Poems - Miscellaneous

Flying Free - Don Besig

There is a place I call my own
Where I can stand by the sea
And look beyond the things I've known
And dream that I might be free.

Like the bird above the trees
Gliding gently on the breeze
I wish that all my life I'd be
Without a care and Flying Free.

But life is not a distant sky
Without a cloud, without rain
And I can never hope that I
Can travel on without pain

Time goes swiftly on its way
All too soon we've lost today
I cannot wait for skies of blue
Or dream so long that life is through

So life's a song I must sing
A gift of love I must share
And when I see the joy it brings
My spirits soar through the air

Like that bird up in the sky
Life has taught me how to fly
For now I know what I can be
And now my heart is Flying Free!

Love Guppy - Sam Jones

          You mean all the world to me.
          Without you I can't be free.
          You make me pant considerably.
          You're my love guppy.

          You have the finest rosebud's taste.
          Without you my life is waste,
          I'll stick to you like Elmer's paste.
          You're my love guppy.

          I'd break through a citadel.
          I'd fight with a raging bull, 
          Though winning would seem improbable.
          You're my love guppy.

          My love's as strong as the mid-ocean ridge.
          You shine like the rainbow bridge
          or like that light inside my fridge.
          You're my love guppy.

          For you I'd consume haggis,
          or lose the joys of Bacchus,
          or live in sin with Mike Dukakis.
          You're my love guppy.

          No time's too long for me to wait.
          For you, I'd fight against Fate,
          though maybe you could lose some weight,
          You're my love guppy.

          Without you, I'd be not whole,
          I would have to sell my soul,
          or gulp a quart of Tide-E-Bowl.
          You're my love guppy.

          My passion is always mounting.
          I'm like a geyser founting.
          Well, maybe not, but who's counting?
          You're my love guppy.

          The love that is the more intense
          always has the most silence,
          like quiet bursts of flatulence.
          You're my love guppy.

          I know that my love is true.
          I know that you'll love me too,
          or I'll hold my breath 'till I turn blue
          You're my love guppy.

          I'd not forget you if I tried.
          You make me all warm inside.
          My love's as pure as Naugahyde.
          You're my love guppy.

          Then I hear the words let slip
          From betwixt impatient lips,
          "I want to have a relationship.
          You're my love guppy."

Unknown Title (Romantic) - Unknown Author

           If I am in heaven and you're not there,
           I will wait for you on the Golden stair.
           If you're not there on the chosen day,
           I will know you have gone the other way.
           So I will give the angels back their wings,
           The Golden ring and other things.
           Just to show that love is true,
           I will go through hell to be with you.

Pretty Good - Charles Osgood

        
             There once was a pretty good student,
             Who sat in a pretty good class
             And was taught by a pretty good teacher,
             Who always let pretty good pass.
             He wasn't terrfic at reading,
             He wasn't a whiz-bang at math.
             But for him education was leading
             Straight down a pretty good path.
             He didn't find school too exciting.
             But he wanted to do pretty well.
             And he did have some trouble with writing,
             Adn nobody had taught him to spell.
             When doing arithmetic problems,
             Pretty good was regarded as fine.
             Five plus Five needn't always add up to be ten,
             A pretty good answer was nine.
             The pretty good class that he sat in
             Was part of a pretty good school.
             And the student was not an exception,
             On the contrary, he was the rule.
             The pretty good school that he went to
             Was there in a pretty good town.
             And nobody there seemed to notice
             He could not tell a verb from a noun
             The pretty good student in fact was
             Part of a pretty good mob.
             And the first time he knew what he lacked was
             When he looked for a pretty good job.
             It was then, when he sought a position.
             He discovered that life could be tough.
             And he soon had a sneaky suspicion
             Pretty good might not be good enough.
             The pretty good town in our story
             Was part of a pretty good state,
             Which had pretty good aspirations.
             And prayed for a pretty good fate.
             There once was pretty good nation,
             Pretty proud of the greatness it had,
             Which learned much too late,
             If you want to be great,
             Pretty good is, in fact, pretty bad.

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 out 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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped 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. 
 
- Wilfred Owen (first published in 1921)