Tuesday, November 3, 2009
what makes you happy poem 1 for tyler
Are you happy right now or sad? Are you bitter about your present condition? You wonder what is wrong with your lifeYou wonder why others are happyAnd question why some are so sadAre happy people born that way? Or happiness is a state of mindWhat can make you happy? Will having more money make you happy? How much money do you need to make you happy? If you are single and not happy! Will having a new lover make you happy? Will getting married make you happy? If you are married, and not happy! Will having more children make you happy? Will sleeping with other people make you happy? If you are a professional and not happy! Will changing your profession make you happy? What can make you happy? Will getting drunk everyday make you happy? Will taking a new drug make you happy? Will buying a new car make you happy? What can make you happy? Will moving to a bigger house make you happy? Will been promoted at work make you happy? Will been the head of your organizationMake you happyWhat can make you happy? Always remember that what makes You happy can make the others sad
K sever first poem
The Core of the worlds problems
We sit in our history classes
learnig about the masses
of people dying
we keep trying to understand,
how easily a man,
can handle having blood
on his hamds,
how easily our president
can send our residents
to war without considering
how the murdering of
thousand;
bodies creating moutains;
how easily that anchor man
count off the body count
like it dosen't amount
higher than a baseball score;
how easily millions can die
and people deny
that it ever happend.
we find it so odd
that the graet god
would let this go on;
how easily our president
can see all of this
and still resist
to dismiss our persists
to stop it.
But maybe the problem
isn't any of them.
Maybe we should stop
giving them so much
credit and putting
them on pedastools
and shelves.
maybe we need to better
look at the situation
and relize that the
problem is ourselves.
By Truthtomyheart
We sit in our history classes
learnig about the masses
of people dying
we keep trying to understand,
how easily a man,
can handle having blood
on his hamds,
how easily our president
can send our residents
to war without considering
how the murdering of
thousand;
bodies creating moutains;
how easily that anchor man
count off the body count
like it dosen't amount
higher than a baseball score;
how easily millions can die
and people deny
that it ever happend.
we find it so odd
that the graet god
would let this go on;
how easily our president
can see all of this
and still resist
to dismiss our persists
to stop it.
But maybe the problem
isn't any of them.
Maybe we should stop
giving them so much
credit and putting
them on pedastools
and shelves.
maybe we need to better
look at the situation
and relize that the
problem is ourselves.
By Truthtomyheart
I decided for the next two weeks i am going to right a poem on rock bands and music because music makes me happy. I mean when your mad or just bord or doing somthing I dont know what but its always good to listin to music. It can be any kind of music its whatever you like. I listin to music all the time I can listin to a song once and remember half of it im not a very good singer but if theres a song that I like I would sing half of it or the hole song. I mean whats more exiting than being alone in your car or in your room or any were els alone and theres a song you like and you dont want to sing to it cause if you dont sing to a song when you are alone then you are crazy. Theres a few mane bands that I listin to all the time and when im alone I sing along with the song 1.Chiodos 2.Staind 3.Slipknot 4.Coheed and Cambria 5.Killswitch engage 6.Avenged sevenfold thouse are a few of my favorite bands to listin to and sing along to when im alone. That is why I decided to reserch some poems on for two weeks because I love listining to rock music when im alone and im not a good singer but I still sing to the songs anyways and that is why I picked this to be my EQ for two weeks.
Monday, November 2, 2009
2nd poem from Homer
The Outback Cattle Drive - 2002
4/5/2002 - 9/6/2002
© Neil Hulm
"There's a cattle drive, six hundred head,
Deliver them all;" the boss man said.
"It's a charity run, there's work to do;
down the Birdsville Track, Two Thousand and Two."
The mob was mustered up Queensland way
from the channel country day by day:
where the Cottonbush and Georgina flow
and the desert oak and coolibah grow.
Thousands of visitors came along,
they laughed and cheered and some sang a song;
a few rode on horses and cracked their whips,
while others rode in on their Desert Ships.
There were four wheel drives and jeeps and utes;
many station hands and young recruits
and the planes wheeled in on the landing track
for this is the year of the Great Outback.
From overseas came the cam'ra crews,
the journalists came to spread the news;
down the Birdsville Track to the Marree Pub;
five hundred odd k's through desert and scrub.
With close to two hundred horses there,
and all in use, but a few to spare;
when I looked them over, greys, blacks and bays
my thoughts took me back to my droving days.
To stock routes down on the Kosci' slopes;
the old stockyard and the greenhide ropes;
mustering in the mountains far and wide,
with my trusty pack horse close by my side.
I soon returned to this dried out land,
this waterless waste of desert sand
where a man might leave for a far off run;
another might die `neath the burning sun.
Where the camel trains of long ago
came through the sands where the west winds blow;
with a bale each side of a tortured back,
from the shearing sheds down the Birdsville Track.
Now the camels graze with kangaroos,
with native dogs and the wild emus,
where the bushland horses are running free,
and the Cooper runs to the inland sea.
We hear the cry of a young curlew,
the screeching call of the cockatoo,
and the black swans fly from the river bed,
the water is low and the stream is dead.
A heeler sniffed at the sun-bleached bones;
a beast had died on the desert stones;
he turned away and went back to his job,
and hunted the stragglers up to the mob.
Along the Birdsville day after day,
on through the dust where the whirlwinds play;
ev'ry beast there knew if it made a slip,
it would feel the sting of the drover's whip.
I ran my eye `cross a drover's horse,
his coat was long and dusty and coarse,
but don't be fooled, he's slippery as grease,
he can spin around on a five cent piece.
He'll give you a ride in dust or mud
and he'll swim the river's raging flood;
he'll make you ride and you'll hang there tight,
when the northern bullocks rush off at night.
There's up and down in the droving game,
some livestock wild and others are tame,
and a good day turns to a better night
if the yellow belly are on the bite.
With winter rains the wild flowers stand
in a carpet clear across the land;
then the heat waves bounce `neath a cloudless sky
and the soft young flowers wither and die.
At last we came to the town Marree
where the thousands turned up there to see
drovers, cattle and the big caravans,
blue cattle dogs, red dogs and black and tans
Now town dogs growl with a nasty frown
when the drover's dogs invade their town
and they chase and snarl and turn on the heat,
but the dogs from the bush are hard to beat.
As the sun went down the mob was penned,
the Great Cattle Drive had reached its end;
then the draft was over early next day
and the Charity Sale was on its way.
The Auctioneer in his high-peaked lid
called to the buyers, "What am I bid?
There's a hundred penned and a few to come,
they will grow and fatten, round as a drum:"
"Raise up your hand or give me a word;
what am I bid for this first class herd?
Just put them away and give them a feed
for none do better than the shorthorn breed."
The buyers bid and they stuck like glue
and raindrops fell before night was through.
The corellas were screeching back and forth
and the magpie geese flew back to the north.
Then an old man asked, "What's doing, son?"
I spoke about the Charity Run,
then silently turned and took off my hat
and I knew it was more, much more than that.
We camped around for a few more days
but the crowds had gone their diff'rent ways
and the droving team said they'll all be back -
for the next big Drive down the Birdsville Track.
Boss Drover: Eric Oldfield 2002
4/5/2002 - 9/6/2002
© Neil Hulm
"There's a cattle drive, six hundred head,
Deliver them all;" the boss man said.
"It's a charity run, there's work to do;
down the Birdsville Track, Two Thousand and Two."
The mob was mustered up Queensland way
from the channel country day by day:
where the Cottonbush and Georgina flow
and the desert oak and coolibah grow.
Thousands of visitors came along,
they laughed and cheered and some sang a song;
a few rode on horses and cracked their whips,
while others rode in on their Desert Ships.
There were four wheel drives and jeeps and utes;
many station hands and young recruits
and the planes wheeled in on the landing track
for this is the year of the Great Outback.
From overseas came the cam'ra crews,
the journalists came to spread the news;
down the Birdsville Track to the Marree Pub;
five hundred odd k's through desert and scrub.
With close to two hundred horses there,
and all in use, but a few to spare;
when I looked them over, greys, blacks and bays
my thoughts took me back to my droving days.
To stock routes down on the Kosci' slopes;
the old stockyard and the greenhide ropes;
mustering in the mountains far and wide,
with my trusty pack horse close by my side.
I soon returned to this dried out land,
this waterless waste of desert sand
where a man might leave for a far off run;
another might die `neath the burning sun.
Where the camel trains of long ago
came through the sands where the west winds blow;
with a bale each side of a tortured back,
from the shearing sheds down the Birdsville Track.
Now the camels graze with kangaroos,
with native dogs and the wild emus,
where the bushland horses are running free,
and the Cooper runs to the inland sea.
We hear the cry of a young curlew,
the screeching call of the cockatoo,
and the black swans fly from the river bed,
the water is low and the stream is dead.
A heeler sniffed at the sun-bleached bones;
a beast had died on the desert stones;
he turned away and went back to his job,
and hunted the stragglers up to the mob.
Along the Birdsville day after day,
on through the dust where the whirlwinds play;
ev'ry beast there knew if it made a slip,
it would feel the sting of the drover's whip.
I ran my eye `cross a drover's horse,
his coat was long and dusty and coarse,
but don't be fooled, he's slippery as grease,
he can spin around on a five cent piece.
He'll give you a ride in dust or mud
and he'll swim the river's raging flood;
he'll make you ride and you'll hang there tight,
when the northern bullocks rush off at night.
There's up and down in the droving game,
some livestock wild and others are tame,
and a good day turns to a better night
if the yellow belly are on the bite.
With winter rains the wild flowers stand
in a carpet clear across the land;
then the heat waves bounce `neath a cloudless sky
and the soft young flowers wither and die.
At last we came to the town Marree
where the thousands turned up there to see
drovers, cattle and the big caravans,
blue cattle dogs, red dogs and black and tans
Now town dogs growl with a nasty frown
when the drover's dogs invade their town
and they chase and snarl and turn on the heat,
but the dogs from the bush are hard to beat.
As the sun went down the mob was penned,
the Great Cattle Drive had reached its end;
then the draft was over early next day
and the Charity Sale was on its way.
The Auctioneer in his high-peaked lid
called to the buyers, "What am I bid?
There's a hundred penned and a few to come,
they will grow and fatten, round as a drum:"
"Raise up your hand or give me a word;
what am I bid for this first class herd?
Just put them away and give them a feed
for none do better than the shorthorn breed."
The buyers bid and they stuck like glue
and raindrops fell before night was through.
The corellas were screeching back and forth
and the magpie geese flew back to the north.
Then an old man asked, "What's doing, son?"
I spoke about the Charity Run,
then silently turned and took off my hat
and I knew it was more, much more than that.
We camped around for a few more days
but the crowds had gone their diff'rent ways
and the droving team said they'll all be back -
for the next big Drive down the Birdsville Track.
Boss Drover: Eric Oldfield 2002
1 poem from Homer
THE COWBOY
He's wonderin what he's doin there
holdin his tin cup tight
the north winds blowin hard
and the stars are shinin bright
He's thinkin of his past
the days of long ago
the fencin,the brandin,
and ridin the rodeos.
He remembers pushin those cattle
across the wide open plains
over mountains,thru valleys
and in all kinds of terrain.
Thru the heat and the sun
thru the cold and the snow
he kept pushin on
when others would have said no.
They made him the RANGEBOSS
because he never shirked a task
everyone said it was his job,
but it's the LEGACY of his past.
His name..... THE COWBOY.
© John Day
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
He's wonderin what he's doin there
holdin his tin cup tight
the north winds blowin hard
and the stars are shinin bright
He's thinkin of his past
the days of long ago
the fencin,the brandin,
and ridin the rodeos.
He remembers pushin those cattle
across the wide open plains
over mountains,thru valleys
and in all kinds of terrain.
Thru the heat and the sun
thru the cold and the snow
he kept pushin on
when others would have said no.
They made him the RANGEBOSS
because he never shirked a task
everyone said it was his job,
but it's the LEGACY of his past.
His name..... THE COWBOY.
© John Day
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
poems
Revved motors
echo and swell. Those trees
are now gone.
Boston driver screams
the car in front goes twenty
old lady smiling
echo and swell. Those trees
are now gone.
Boston driver screams
the car in front goes twenty
old lady smiling
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