There Was A Young Lady Named Bright: Professor Arthur Buller

Nice reading



There was a young lady named Bright,
Whose speed was far faster than light;
She set out one day
In a relative way
And returned home the previous night.

Professor Arthur Buller 1874-1944

Punch, 19 December 1923
The illustration is copyright: Bruce Rolff via Shutterstock

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Song of Blue


Ripple Poetry

She will play to me
Skipping a beat and finding a beat
All of the memories and the melodies of blue

She will sing the stories
Running up and down this town
She will sing of cyclones and
The rooves as they fell down

She will play to me
She will play to you
She will sing of me
And sing of you – she

She will play to me
Skipping a beat and finding a beat
All of the memories and the melodies of blue

She will sing of youths
Who died before their time
She will sing of Diggers and
How they lost their mates.

She will play to me
She will play to you
She will sing of me
And sing of you – she

She will play to me
Skipping a beat and finding a beat
All of the memories and the melodies of blue


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Dear Juliet

They said there’s a rainbow

After every storm

It’s been raining for so long

I forgot about the sun

I’ve been running for days

Finding for shade

But you run into the rain

As if it can wash away the pain

You dance with the lightening

Go with the beat of the thunder

While I wait for a rainbow

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really nice

Throw me to the sky

Together in a silence
that holds a worry
about the absence of talk,
that holds a preference
in difference to the prevailing
not always companionable.
At times it shrieks
inside my head, giving orders
I cannot obey.
Silence is golden
talk is cheap.
Solitude and writing have become
my conversationalists,
is anything lost,
or gained for those we guide,
for those we love,
when words are sparse
and silence holds us all?

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Something to Nothing

delightful piece


Called me your best friend
I thought of you as a sister
Now that’s gone.

I said you were my best friend
We planned to spend time together
Even as we made the plans I wondered if they’d happen
Remembering the times we made plans that didn’t happen
Movies we intended to see
Places we meant to go

But the proverbial hit the fan
And got in the way.

Wasted time being selfish and childish-something you called me more than once
And that’s what gets to me when I consider our friendship
We could have grown apart
But you ended things between us in a much different way

I think that’s what’s going to bug me in years to come
If I think about how we stopped being friends, I’m going to remember this
Maybe I’ll wonder what would have been

Maybe I’ll have forgotten completely

Either way, we went…

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White Swan

Nice…. really!


Graceful glides through midair
Air resistance supports white, feathered wings
High-pitched notes mock unpleasant silence
Resounding echoes throughout the pine-scented forest
Like white clouds or drunken dreams?
Determined elegance and beauty without approval
As I sit idly by the lake in admiration
Internal desires and fire budding in the heart
Hoping to become the swan that reaches high altitude
But on what basis if high altitude exists in infinity?
What swan flies freely forever in blue skies
And doesn’t descend upon earth to find a resting place?
Dead babies rest on wings of swans
Sacrificial creatures of the ancient past
Odette yearns silently for human form
Calling out in pride or fatigue, who can tell
As swan tears create Swan Lake
Ballets impersonate white swans
Becomes an old-fashioned style
And modern dances model awkward storks
As dancers fall to death on the ground
Applauses that resound in theaters
Break unaccompanied…

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The Lost Years

Beautiful piece



I lurk in the shadows unnoticed,
the days pass me by with gleeful, careless abandon,
as i sit in the shadows, hidden.

there were nights bejeweled with stars so bright
i blink from the glare that hurt my eyes.
there were afternoons so still and airless 

as i lay forgotten, suffocating in the dust.

there were days so dark with storm clouds

i strain to see the road before me.

i stay in the shadows uncertain,
the moonlight bathes my dreams
in a silver blanket that engulfs me
in obscurity.

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Beneath the Darkness of Summer

Wonderful post

Words Unbidden

So soft, the crinkled bough

Sweeps to the path of the

Rain kissed tar.

The scent is sweet and carries far.


I’m there now in summers previous,

When life was new

And love was tedious.

There upon the crown of

Majestic Killiney Hill,

We embraced our lives,

We drank our fill.


There beneath the darkness of summer.


©SD 1997

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Really nice

My Poetry Library

Photo by Barbara Anstie


The depth of it exceptional, and all
at once she lies and sits and stands below.
She smiles, then in her mind she skips, her paws
tread deeply in the soft white powdered snow.

An icy East wind hails from far away,
intemperate continental clime it brings,
that covers food so blackbirds cannot find
sufficient energy to brace their wings.

Out there, beyond the hill, the homeless lie,
reciting tunelessly an unheard poem,
they fight an urge to yield to hopelessness,
and longing for a crackling log-fired home.

We look in warmth, contentment unalloyed,
at children with their snow dog, overjoyed.

© 2013 John Anstie


[Poetic notes: This poem looks like a sonnet, in that it has fourteen lines, arranged into four quatrains and a concluding couplet, and it is written in iambic pentameter. But that is where the similarity ends. The…

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Broken Masterpiece

Agony soaking in blues.
Scared, angry and slightly confused.
You have the power.
You don’t have to lose.

Hold on with all your might.
After darkness will come light.
This is your battle. This is your life.
Don’t run.
You turn and you fight.

Hold your head. You hold your weight.
Stop running. You stand and you wait.
Too long you’ve hurt and you’ve cried.
Over and over you’ve fought and you’ve tried.
Life is baking. It’s not yet fried.
Take control– you still have time.

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Herminia Chow

Started at the bottom

Worked my way to the top

Climbed the rungs of the ladder

Just to stand on top

Continued to strive

Learned the ropes over time

Arrived at the end

Just to start again


Started with nothing

Worked all day and night

Climbed many mountains

Just to see the sunrise

Continued my passions

Learned to follow my heart

Arrived at my destinations

Just to seek a head start

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Little White Lie

Haven’t heard the words ‘White lie’ in a long time


“I haven’t seen your cupcake”

My heart stammers at my first mistake

“Really? Because I couldn’t find my last one

And it took me forever to bake!”


A guilty look proceeds me

I look for others to set me free

But no one comes to my rescue

And she won’t leave and let me be.


“Okay, okay, I admit it! I’m a disgrace!

I won’t do it again, you put me in my place!”

She looks at me with a smirk and says

“I just wanted you to admit it. You still have frosting on your face.”


NaPoWriMo 2013


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The words speak volumes


One road leading outwards
One road left untraveled
The only road leading outwards
Into the dawn.
Of course it will be taken
The only road,
The last chance, the only chance
To see the dawn.

If it ends
The only remaining road
Into the dawn
Keep walking.
Close your eyes
Breathe deeply
And cry
At the beauty of the dawn.

Don’t let them persuade you
To turn back.

Surrender is your freedom.

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The Maiden Voyage of the Amalthea

interesting read

Embrangle Root

(and the curious events that followed)

They called it the Amalthea. It was the first unmanned aircraft to successfully navigate the skies above the curdled woods that have consumed the ruined city of Nolenthee.

Contains interview and testimony by Byrom and Arista Kenley, the father-daughter team who invented and controlled the remarkable contraption. Ribbons guides us through the experiences of the Amalthea’s inventors, and several key eye-witnesses to the events that transpired on its return. What could have happened to the Amalthea to drive it back into the sky, not only unmanned, but untamed?! How is it that the Amalthea is still so often spotted hovering low over the tree-tops, overgrown with tree-roots and moss?!

This book is a somewhat overblown examination of what is an otherwise overlooked historic event. The author is extremely excitable. Neil has a theory or two of his own.

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simply delightful

A Small Price To Pay For Sanity

Every time I sit down,
and decide that it is time to write,
I cannot think up but two words that
might sound satisfying,
and as for writing a poem full
with meaning,
I have yet to find one
when the time is intentional.

It is always while I am walking,
or pacing with no pen that I remember
a time when my Grandfather was still alive,
or the homeless man I stopped and talked
with for an hour just before I dropped five
dollars in the guitar case of a rugged street
performer, and sitting down to recollect these
memories, I realize that I am sitting on the very
bench in the park where I sat in silence
next to a women that I loved, and was never
able to tell her exactly how I felt.
And suddenly a pen seems no substitute
for her smile that night, and…

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Beautiful poem, well written

I Spy the Beautiful

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

– Wendell Berry, The Peace of Wild Things

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She walks in beauty like the night
Passing backs like.door steps
ever so mighty , ever so great
She roams under darkness cloak
tell morning strikes , magic desolves.
fear comes back in full forces
A shaky figure slumps on walls.
Or even crawls .
She hates the light
It steals her powers
She hates the light it burns her mask
She hates the night
It covers her naked feeble soul
she can’t get out of this hole.
neither night nor day had served her justice
Torn like a strand between two bulls
can’t go on any longer
No more magical crowns,or majestic walks.
Just curl hear embrace this cocon
Maybe shell break through in one after noon .

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