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Friday Poetry Corner: Isn't Life Strange ?

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    Friday Poetry Corner: Isn't Life Strange ?

    Nations , religions , economies may come and go but the Friday Poetry corner remains eternal.

    Dedicated to the Memory of our dear friend Fleet



    Isn't Life strange ?


    -A turn of the page
    Can read like before

    Can we ask for more ?

    Each day passes by
    How hard man will try

    The sea will not wait
    You know it makes me want to cry

    Isn't Love strange ?

    -A word we arrange
    With no thought or care

    - Maker of despair

    Each breath that we breathe
    With love we must weave

    To make us as one

    You know
    it makes me
    want
    to cry


    Isn't Time strange ?


    A turn of the page
    A book without light

    Unless with love we write

    To throw it away -
    To lose just a day

    The quicksand of Time

    You know
    it makes me
    want
    to cry
    Last edited by AlfredJPruffock; 8 January 2010, 09:32.

    #2
    As it is friday...

    Women and song now are all very fine
    but there isn’t a lot to compare
    to the various, glorious fruits of the vine
    put in bottles, and just over there.

    Savour the vintage of ’79
    that’s the best in the world, and it shows.
    (It’s really no better than cheap turpentine
    with a vastly inferior nose.)

    Saccharomyces seems quite anodyne
    but sugar’s converting itself
    to flavours God gave us to ensure when we dine
    that we toast everybody: Your health!

    Comment


      #3
      Ah Fleety. where are you now

      I've got a little black book with my poems in.
      Got a bag with a toothbrush and a comb in.
      When I'm a good dog, they sometimes throw me a bone in.

      I got elastic bands keepin my shoes on.
      Got those swollen hand blues.
      Got thirteen channels of tulip on the T.V. to choose from.
      I've got electric light.
      And I've got second sight.
      And amazing powers of observation.
      And that is how I know
      When I try to get through
      On the telephone to you
      There'll be nobody home.

      I've got the obligatory Hendrix perm.
      And the inevitable pinhole burns
      All down the front of my favorite satin shirt.
      I've got nicotine stains on my fingers.
      I've got a silver spoon on a chain.
      I've got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains.

      I've got wild staring eyes.
      And I've got a strong urge to fly.
      But I got nowhere to fly to.
      Ooooh, Babe when I pick up the phone


      There's still nobody home.
      (\__/)
      (>'.'<)
      ("")("") Born to Drink. Forced to Work

      Comment

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