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Too Much Turkey by Jack Prelutsky

I ate too much turkey,
I ate too much corn,
I ate too much pudding and pie,
I’m stuffed up with muffins
and much too much stuffin’,
I’m probably going to die.

I piled up my plate
and I ate and I ate,
but I wish I had known when to stop,
for I’m so crammed with yams,
sauces, gravies, and jams
that my buttons are starting to pop.

I’m full of tomatoes
and French fried potatoes,
my stomach is swollen and sore,
but there’s still some dessert,
so I guess it won’t hurt
if I eat just a little bit more.

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Pouring himself a second cup
Sits there without a second thought
Continues to read, to see what’s up
The newspaper politics, the column that’s hot

I hold his shirt that I have pressed
He takes no notice that I’m distressed
Does he know I’m in the room?
Oblivious! Geez..! The big baboon!

Our anniversary has come, it’s here today
The clod has forgotten our special day!!
How could he forget?… I think inside,..
The day we became a groom and bride?!!

I had fixed my hair and made my face
I thought we’d go out to some nice place
To celebrate. But what a crock!
The old guy has just gone to pot!

I look around for the rolling pin
To whack him where his hair is thin
He puts the morning paper down
His grin becomes a puzzled frown

“What the he___ is the matter with you??”
“And what the h___ did you plan to do?”
I have these tickets, a trip for two!!
To show you how I still Love You!!”

In an instant, he’s become so handsome
Anniversary trip? well…..HERE I COME!!
It seems this man is still worth keeping
My cup overflows….IN FACT IT’S HEAPING!!

At the Breakfast Table was written by poet Carrie Richards

Daily Poem – Power Outage

November 4, 2014

It took a power outage for me to see the light
Of what it is I am really like
To hear the words that you said without the noise
I could listen close, without distraction of toys
I saw the darkness of how I felt surround me
The candle that you lit, so profound within me
Safety, security, as well as desire
Lit so lovingly by that fire

It took a power outage for me to release pent up fear
To see that you are so very near
Never so far away as I sometimes believe
You are here, here with me
You hold my darkness, always at bay
To keep me happy, chase the blues away
I never saw this until the lights went out
When I made the darkness become my doubt

That same darkness that you made light


Deanna Repose- Reposted from: blog.deannarepose.com

THE wind is without there and howls in the trees,
And the rain-flurries drum on the glass:
Alone by the fireside with elbows on knees
I can number the hours as they pass.
Yet now, when to cheer me the crickets begin,
And my pipe is just happily lit,
Believe me, my friend, tho’ the evening draws in,
That not all uncontested I sit.

Alone, did I say? O no, nowise alone
With the Past sitting warm on my knee,
To gossip of days that are over and gone,
But still charming to her and to me.
With much to be glad of and much to deplore,
Yet, as these days with those we compare,
Believe me, my friend, tho’ the sorrows seem more
They are somehow more easy to bear.

And thou, faded Future, uncertain and frail,
As I cherish thy light in each draught,
His lamp is not more to the miner – their sail
Is not more to the crew on the raft.
For Hope can make feeble ones earnest and brave,
And, as forth thro’ the years I look on,
Believe me, my friend, between this and the grave,
I see wonderful things to be done.

To do or to try; and, believe me, my friend,
If the call should come early for me,
I can leave these foundations uprooted, and tend
For some new city over the sea.
To do or to try; and if failure be mine,
And if Fortune go cross to my plan,
Believe me, my friend, tho’ I mourn the design
I shall never lament for the man.

-THE END-
Robert Louis Stevenson’s poem: The wind is without there and howls in the trees

Young Johnny murdered all his friends.
He brought them all to grisly ends.
‘Twere some he stabbed and some he shot,
And some he clubbed and left to rot.

When Johnny saw what he had done
He knew he’d have to hide his fun.
He would be in jail forever
If Mom saw the limbs he’d severed.

So Johnny put them in a pile—
Stacked every corpse of every child—
And doused them all in gasoline
To cover up his murder scene.

Too bad for Johnny and his plan—
He stood too near the petrol can.
So when he bent to strike the match
Up Johnny went like dryest thatch.

So when you build a fun’ral pyre
To cover crimes by cleansing fire
There’s one important thing to do:
Make sure you don’t get fuel on you.

Some Rotten Poetry for Halloween

Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought
countless ills upon the Achaeans.
Many a brave soul did it send
hurrying down to Hades, and many a hero did it yield a prey to dogs
and vultures, for so were the counsels of Jove fulfilled from the
day on which the son of Atreus, king of men, and great Achilles, first
fell out with one another.

And which of the gods was it that set them on to quarrel? It was the
son of Jove and Leto; for he was angry with the king and sent a
pestilence upon the host to plague the people, because the son of
Atreus had dishonoured Chryses his priest.

Now Chryses had come to the
ships of the Achaeans to free his daughter, and had brought with him a
great ransom: moreover he bore in his hand the sceptre of Apollo
wreathed with a suppliant’s wreath and he besought the Achaeans, but
most of all the two sons of Atreus, who were their chiefs.

“Sons of Atreus,” he cried, “and all other Achaeans, may the gods
who dwell in Olympus grant you to sack the city of Priam, and to reach
your homes in safety; but free my daughter, and accept a ransom for
her, in reverence to Apollo, son of Jove.”

Homer’s The Iliad

Daily Poem – Hollywood

October 26, 2014

Under the long green hair of pepper trees,

The writers and composers work the street.

Bach’s new score is crumpled in his pocket,

Dante sways his ass-cheeks to the beat.

 

The city is named for the angels,

And its angels are easy to find.

They give off a lubricant odor,

Their eyes are mascara-lined;

At night you can see them inserting

Gold-plated diaphragms;

For breakfast they gather at poolside

Where screenwriters feed and swim.

 

Every day, I go to earn my bread

In the exchange where lies are marketed,

Hoping my own lies will attract a bid.

 

It’s Hell, it’s Heaven: the amount you earn

Determines if you play the harp or burn.

 

Gold in their mountains,

Oil on their coast;

Dreaming in celluloid

Profits them most.

 

Hollywood Elegies By Bertolt Brecht