Classic poem of the day
Men called him just a poet,
A beggar, blithe and boon,
Who lived up in a garret
Near the moon.
Men called him just a dreamer,
Whose world was far away,
Who strangely kept on singing,
Night and day.
Men called him just a minstrel,
Whose ballads charmed the throng,
Who saw in life but beauty,
Joy, and song.
Men called him then a poet,
A vagabond of rhyme,
Men call him now a prophet,
Such is time!
Member poem of the day
I wish there was a quick hand signal one could give
To tell
A pedestrian that one is quickly passing by in one’s car
That one thinks that they are swell
But doesn’t condone their smoking
And wants them to quit
But as for now they just drive by
It’s so very cold
But snow doesn’t fall
There are thick clouds but no lightning strikes
No thunder rolls
No rain
No hail
No sleet
A woman sit...
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