Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

With apologies to Longfellow

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the daylight ride of Democrats here,
On the seventeenth of Feb, in Two thousand eleven;
Hardly a tweeter now alive
Who doesn’t remembers that famous day and year.

The protesters said to their friends inside, “If the GOP calls for a vote
count the heads in that chamber to-night,
Keep a bus near the exit ramp
By the side of the steps where we setup our Amps,–
If down by One is what we see;
Then soon to a different state we’ll be,
Ready to ride to foil the plan
Through every village and farm,
For the Union folk to be up and to arm.”

When the count came and the number was known
Onto the bus the Democrats roamed,
The door it did shut and the clutch engaged,
and the waiting Greyhound its progress now made
The State police and Sgt at arms;
Not thinking the Dems would abandon so far
the job the did beg of the voters last qtr,
Through a franchise so dearly bought that they ought to
By their own acts surrender the quota.

Meanwhile, on the left ,through media and tweet
Combined with the Unions there on the street,
With classrooms abandoned and students a wanderin
As teachers threw their trash on the lawn there,
Denouncing the Hitler, the Mubarak of the west,
Who would dare with measured bill try to tread,
Upon the contracts keeping Union coffers fed.

As they climbed the stairs and the buses did roll,
An act by democrats once ‘fore foretold,
Done in Texas repeated up north,
And startled the voters and GOP force
On the somber ride did the dem senate make
Masses and moving shapes of shade,–
Keeping their profile considerably low,
To their presence, denying their foe,
Where they sent the police to listen and look down
A moment to see if they group could be found
Fore the collected members had all skipped town.

Along the highway did the bus roll,
Not heeding gas costs or prices of tolls,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That as the border to the state of Il,
The bus it rolled on with care and with skill
Creeping along now safely felt,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
Did the wheels of the bus go round and go round
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely hotel the group they did fled;
For suddenly to Rockford they plan was to stay
On a shadowy hotel far far away,
Where the voters just anger could be kept at bay,–
A 3 star resort where inside they could lay
Avoiding the tide of the voters just rage.

Meanwhile, impatient the vote on their mind,
Their colleagues sent officers the runners to find
To eschew their abandonment of responsibilities clear.
That the voters had sent them to exercise here,
But though they gazed at landscape far and near,
No sign of the Senators would now appear,
And turned they without hope to the dems pols quirk;
They tried to find with eager search
But yet as the officers of the law,
Their efforts though noble. continued to fall,
Lonely and spectral and somber and still.
And lo! as their failure reached it height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
The citizen army the teaparty strong,
Determined, connected. an uncommon storm
Took ‘pon them selves to right this great wrong.

A hurry of tweets, and Facebook chatter,
A beacon to tell all what was the matter,
And beneath, the radar of the media sly
And the unions determined to hide out those guys;
That was all! The call it was sent,
The fate of a State and their franchise was met;
For borders and boundaries and a bus drivers flight,
Can not confine the electronic might.
that had sent through their village, the army of Davids,
And beneath the unions and the plan broad and deep,
The word it got out and upon them it creeped;
And under the doors of the Clock Tower Resort,
Now soft on the heels their and their clever retorts,
Is heard the tramp of the teaparty force.

It was twelve by the village clock
When they found the Senate confined in their fort.
The camera did roll and the confrontation made,
And the democrats knew, twas the end of the game,
As tea party forces confront and combine,
The dems did regroup and repeat their old ride.

And like a man caught with a lass without ‘pute,
The dems did re-board seeking alternate route.
They saw the assembled teaparty forces
Their films distributed by Breitbarts large hoards there.
So their meeting-house was then now abandoned,
In hopes of finding a refuge more random,
As if they already stood aghast
At the work that they internet foiled and did crash.

Within a few hours the word was around,
That the prodigal legislatures indeed had been found.
They heard the bleating of the union flock,
That insisted the Governor was in fact in the wrong,
But the eyes of the nation had all now did see
And tweets and blog post did public soon read.
So no one was safe, not asleep in their beds
Had the voters obligingly laid down their heads,
No quantity of spin could now re-define,
What the tea party gave and the public did find.

You know the rest. Again they did roll
In the hopes of finding a more secure hole—
How the Governor called for them to come home,
To end their embarrassing of flights as they roamed,
And honor the voters choice in November,
and to their sworn duty asked them to remember
And as the sun set all here could now ponder,
The results of the Dems and their afternoon wanders.

So as was suggested by the great Jimmie Bise;
That the Union’s last move was not very much wise
But To every voter in village and farm,—
A cry of defiance of pocketbook harm,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of post and of tweet,
It is now their judgment that history seeks,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
Will the people waken and listen to hear
Will they decide that this act will cost cowards approval?
Or let them continue with business as usual?

Update:
And nothing for traffic does better enhance
Then to receive from the Blogfather an Instalanche

The unknown debt

Posted: November 11, 2010 by datechguy in opinion/news
Tags: , ,

As the TV droned the Nurses aide
Came to clear the tray
No note of the ancient
Who seemed a world away

Down at the park the gang hung out
Sampling their weed
With no thought to the wizened guy
Whose bench was near the tree

The teller felt her day crawl on
As the customer line grew long
It was a pain that people waited
As the old man counted wrong

On the subway the teen rocked on
His earbuds rang its din
Noting of his ancient fellow
an unripe smell within

The code came through
and DNR was stamped upon the chart
a waste of dough the panel said
to fix his creaky heart

So many times when they go by
Do we avert our gaze
Forgetting what these men accomplished
In their Halcyon days

Noting not the beaches
Dyed a bloody red
That age before through firestorm
The man before them tread

Through sky and bursts
With steady eye upon the bomber sight
Ignoring their fellows fall
Through the terror of the night

At station stood upon his quad
While cruising through the slot
Upon a wet and oily death
The seaman. he dwelt not.

Those old eyes that we ignore
Avenged the dead at Pearl
But for them South Korea
Would be unknown to the world

In cold peacetime
They did confine
The iron curtain reach
And twas by their M1 Garands
The 1000 year Reich ceased

Yet every day we walk away
We have no time you see
What interest does that gray ole mane
Have for the likes of me?

If but a word
was asked them: “Sir
What happened in those days?”
Then first hand we’d know the path
They trod for all our sakes

So give a thought
To that old lot
Not just on Veterans Day
For in their youth
They gave to you
A gift you can’t repay

Tuesday Night poetry: The touch of the Master’s Hand 

Posted: August 10, 2010 by datechguy in hobbies
Tags: , ,

I often read from the 1936 Volume The Best loved Poems of the American People. It’s amazing how much quality poetry has likely been forgotten by my generation.

So in that spirit I’d like over the next month or two share a few poems for the next few Tuesdays.  Let’s start with  Myra Brooks Welch

The Touch of the Masters Hand

Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
thought it scarcely worth his while to waste much time on the old violin,
but held it up with a smile;

“What am I bidden, good folks,” he cried,
“Who’ll start the bidding for me?” “A dollar, a dollar”; then two!” “Only
two? Two dollars, and who’ll make it three? Three dollars, once; three
dollars twice; going for three..”

But no, from the room, far back, a
gray-haired man came forward and picked up the bow; Then, wiping the dust
from the old violin, and tightening the loose strings, he played a melody
pure and sweet as caroling angel sings.

The music ceased, and the auctioneer, with a voice that was quiet and low,
said; “What am I bid for the old violin?” And he held it up with the bow.

A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two? Two thousand! And who’ll make
it three? Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice, and going and
gone,” said he.

The people cheered, but some of them cried, “We do not
quite understnad what changed its worth.” Swift came the reply: “The touch
of a master’s hand.”

And many a man with life out of tune, and battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd, much like the old violin

, A “mess of pottage,” a glass of wine; a game – and he travels on. “He is
going” once, and “going twice, He’s going and almost gone.” But the Master
comes, and the foolish crowd never can quite understand the worth of a soul
and the change that’s wrought by the touch of the Master’s hand.

With thanks to Tim Blair for the idea and Kipling who did all the work.

Take up the Green Man’s burden–
Send forth the best ye breed–
Go bind your children to exile
To serve your planet’s need;
To wait in conference meetings,
And airports expanses–
To change the western masses,
From carbon them to wean.

Take up the Green Man’s burden–
In patience to abide,
To ease the fear of Polar Bears
And all the creatures mild;
By dire speech and warnings,
A hundred times made plain
To stop that corporate profit,
For mother Gaia’s gain.

Take up the Green Man’s burden–
Impose your ways to bring,
And end for planets glory–
Those common comfort things.
Escew the modern toilet,
Water/paper,that they use,
And change to greener lightbulbs,
In cool neat windy tubes.

Take up the Green Man’s burden–
And reap his old reward:
The jobs at Boards and NGO,
And make old Berkley proud–
At dinners, conferences and parties
express your deep concern:–
“And oh that private Jet I took…
From Carbon Credits earned!”

Take up the Green Man’s burden–
Ye dare not stoop to less–
Nor worry too loud on Freedom
The movement it knows best;
By all ye cry or whisper,
By all ye leave or do,
Make the masses one with nature
As ‘fore population grew.

Take up the Green Man’s burden–
Remove their childish ways–
The electricity, heat, and travel,
Those common people crave.
In schools and Media make them see
That Red, oops green is true.
Then they will learn to live and love,
The benevolence of your rule!

Take up the Green Man’s burden–
The savage ways of green–
Cull surplus population
For Earth’s abiding need;
And when your goal is nearest
The end that Al Gore sought,
Watch e-mails and true science
Bring all your hopes to naught.

Update: Camp of the Saints links, thanks muchly.

Update 2: Mad Minerva links too, thanks.