Poem For Today


Staff member

Hope is the scaffolding of life
Erected on the edge of a new horizon
Inspired by the after glow of a sunset
Built from the dust of lunar memory
Shaped by the battles of the day
Fuelled by the dreams for tomorrow
Erased by the cold damp thud of clay

Copyright ©2006 Mini
Brilliant.....just brilliant!!!!...xxx
That's lovely Mini....:) xx
Oooh I like taht one :)
Hi Guys,


I hope you will all feel free to post your poem for today or an old favourite as so many of us love reading poetry.

What one's inspire you?

Love Mini xxx
Our Song
My Purple Hat!
Oh! My Purple Hat
My pretty Purple Hat.
The only thing about me
That won’t get fat.
It’s my Purple Hat.
My pretty Purple Hat.
My pretty little Purple Hat.
I wear it in the sun. I wear in the shade.
The only thing about me that will not fade.
It’s for that reason that it was made.
My pretty little Purple Hat.
Oh! My Purple Hat.
My pretty Purple Hat.
I wear it doing this. I wear it doing that.
I go out to Tea with my Purple Hat.
My pretty little Purple Hat.
I go to visit I wear it on my head.
When I’m at home it relaxes on my bed.
You want to know something?
I think I’m in the red.
My pretty little Purple Hat.
Oh! My purple Hat
My pretty Purple Hat.
I wear it doing this. I wear it doing that.
The only thing about me that won’t get fat.
My pretty little Purple Hat.
Wilma Cook
Back to Purple Hat Main Page
Source: http://personal.nbnet.nb.ca/rayjoanc/aboutphlts.htm
That's a great one mini.
What one's inspire you?

I just love If by Rudyard Kipling

Well, yes, I know it's such a well known poem, but it really is fantastic. Grandwitch made me learn this off by heart when I was little. I've never forgotten it and it's served me well at times.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream-and not make dreams your master;
If you can think-and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings, nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And, which is more, you'll be a Man, my son!

Oh...just seen the purple one :D

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple
(written after she found out she was dying from cancer).

I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren't there for the day.

I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.

I would have talked less and listened more.

I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was stained, or the sofa faded.

I would have eaten the popcorn in the "good" living room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to light a fire in the fireplace.

I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.

I would have shared more of the responsibility carried by my husband.

I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.

I would have sat on the lawn with my grass stains.

I would have cried and laughed less while watching television and more while watching life.

I would never have bought anything just because it was practical, wouldn't show soil, or was guaranteed to last a lifetime.

Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy, I'd have cherished every moment and realized that the wonderment growing inside me was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.

When my kids kissed me impetuously, I would never have said, "Later. Now go get washed up for dinner." There would have been more "I love you's." More "I'm sorry's."

But mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute...look at it and really see it...live it...and never give it back. Stop sweating the small stuff.

Don't worry about who doesn't like you, who has more, or who's doing what.

Instead, let's cherish the relationships we have with those who do love us.

Let's think about what God HAS blessed us with. And what we are doing each day to promote ourselves mentally, physically, emotionally. I hope you all have a blessed day.


The Years Of A Woman

Age 3: She looks at herself and sees a Queen.

Age 8: She looks at herself and sees Cinderella.

Age 15: She looks at herself and sees an Ugly Sister (Mum I can't go to school looking like this!)

Age 20: She looks at herself and sees "too fat/too thin, too short/too tall, too straight/too curly"- but decides she's going out anyway.

Age 30: She looks at herself and sees "too fat/too thin, too short/too tall, too straight/too curly" - but decides she doesn't have time to fix it, so she's going out anyway.

Age 40: She looks at herself and sees "clean" and goes out anyway.

Age 50: She looks at herself and sees "I am" and goes wherever she wants to go.

Age 60: She looks at herself and reminds herself of all the people who can't even see themselves in the mirror anymore. Goes out and conquers the world.

Age 70: She looks at herself & sees wisdom, laughter and ability, goes out and enjoys life.

Age 80: Doesn't bother to look. Just puts on a PURPLE hat and goes out to have fun with the world.

Love that one too Mini:)

One of my favourites is by Longfellow. It's about a monk who has to go out to feed the poor at the gates, but before he goes, he has a vision of an angel.

He doesn't want to leave it in case the angel disappears, so he is torn. Should he go? He knows what he must do.....

I don't know it by heart, will google, then will somebody disconnect me, because I am not supposed to be here....so much to do, so many things to rebel against and so little time :D
Found it. Good ol' google. I have to do it in installments as it's too long. It is truly beautiful though

Legend Beautiful
In his chamber all alone,
Kneeling on the floor of stone,
Prayed the Monk in deep contrition
For his sins of indecision,

Prayed for greater self-denial
In temptation and in trial;
It was noonday by the dial,
And the Monk was all alone.

Suddenly, as if it lightened,
An unwonted splendor brightened
All within him and without him
In that narrow cell of stone

And he saw the Blessed Vision
Of our Lord, with light Elysian
Like a vesture wrapped about Him
Like a garment round Him thrown.

Not as crucified and slain,
Not in agonies of pain,
Not with bleeding hands and feet
Did the Monk his Master see;

But as in the village street,
In the house or harvest-field,
Halt and lame and blind He healed,
When He walked in Galilee.

In an attitude imploring,
Hands upon his bosom crossed
Wondering, worshipping, adoring,
Knelt the Monk in rapture lost.

Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest,
Who am I, that thus thou deignest
To reveal thyself to me?
Who am I, that from the centre
Of thy glory thou shouldst enter
This poor cell, my guest to be?

Then amid his exaltation,
Loud the convent bell appalling,
From its belfry calling, calling,
Rang through court and corridor

With persistent iteration

He had never heard before.
It was now the appointed hour
When alike in shine or shower,

Winter's cold or summer's heat,
To the convent portals came
All the blind and halt and lame,

All the beggars of the street,
For their daily dole of food
Dealt them by the brotherhood;
And their almoner was he

Who upon his bended knee,
Rapt in silent ecstasy
Of divinest self-surrender,
Saw the Vision and the Splendor.

Deep distress and hesitation
Mingled with his adoration;
Should he go, or should he stay?
Should he leave the poor to wait,
Hungry at the convent gate,
Till the vision passed away?
Should he slight his radiant guest,
Slight this visitant celestial,

For a crowd of ragged, bestial
Beggars at the convent gate?
Would the Vision there remain?
Would the Vision come again?

Then a voice within his breast
Whispered, audible and clear,
As if to the outward ear:
"Do thy duty; that is best;
Leave unto thy Lord the rest!"

Straightway to his feet he started,
And with longing look intent
On the Blessed Vision bent,
Slowly from his cell departed,
Slowly on his errand went.

At the gate the poor were waiting,
Looking through the iron grating,
With that terror in the eye
That is only seen in those
Who amid their wants and woes

Hear the sound of doors that close,
And of feet that pass them by;
Grown familiar with disfavor.
Grown familiar with the savor
Of the bread by which men die!
But to-day, they know not why,

Like the gate of Paradise
Seemed the convent gate to rise,
Like a sacrament divine
Seemed to them the bread and wine.

In his heart the Monk was praying,
Thinking of the homeless poor,
What they suffer and endure;
What we see not, what we see;

And the inward voice was saying:
"Whatsoever thing thou doest
To the least of mine and lowest,
That thou doest unto me!

Unto me! but had the Vision
Come to him in beggar’s clothing,
Come a mendicant imploring,
Would he then have knelt adoring,
Or have listened with derision,
And have turned away with loathing?

Thus his conscience put the question,
Full of troublesome suggestion,
As at length, with hurried pace,
Towards his cell he turned his face,

And beheld the convent bright
With a supernatural light,
Like a luminous cloud expanding
Over floor and wall and ceiling.

But he paused with awe-struck feeling
At the threshold of his door,
For the Vision still was standing
As he left it there before

When the convent bell appalling
From its belfry calling, calling,
Summoned him to feed the poor
Through the long hour intervening
It had waited his return,

And he felt his bosom burn,
Comprehending all the meaning,
When the Blessed Vision said,
"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!"

Sorry....what am I like...soooo long. Hope you enjoy it if you did manage to read it all :)
Ode to a VLCDer!!!

The Rumbles.​

There's Rumbles in my tummy,
How they grizzle, grunt and groan!
They're unhappily residing,
Doing nothing there but moan!​

They're grumbling with hunger,
And complaining more and more!
These Rumbles in my tummy,
That I simply can't ignore!​

They're building to crescendo,
Getting louder than before!
So I guess I'll have to feed them,
3 packs, water and not a thing more!​

Came across this and it made me smile, had to change the last line!​
Small Girlfriends

He treads on them by accident,
they slip behind the settee,
they can't see out of car windows
and they're lost in a crowd of three

They're his small girlfriends,
compact and neat,
but I'm 5 foot 7
with size 8 feet.

He'd to rescue one from Toys R Us
when she nearly fetched ten quid,
mistaken for a Barbie Doll
or a life size cabbage patch kid

They're his small girlfriends
vulnerable and sweet,
while I'm 5 foot 7
with size 8 feet.

He heard a scrabbling and a scratching,
persistent little squeaks,
not a mouse behind the cooker
someone he hadn't seen for weeks

It was his small girlfriend
delicate and neat,
but I'm 5 foot 7
with size 8 feet.

He can pop them in his pocket
and carry them round all day,
if he takes one to a theme park,
he doesn't have to pay

They're his small girlfriends,
economical to treat,
and I'm 5 foot 7
with size 8 feet.

They make him look so masculine
they make him feel so strong
and next to their tiny tootsies-
his willy looks really long!

They're his small girlfriends
difficult to beat
when you're 5 foot 7
with size 8 feet.