Best Bright As A Button Poems | Poetry

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Details | Bright As A Button Poem | Create an image from this poem.

THE WEARING OF THE GREEN

On Roman ruled British isle, to the deacon and his wife fair; 
On a beautiful morn, our Patrick was born, in a forth century lair 

Young and bright as a button; taken by knavish raiders - not fair
At tender age sixteen, long time not be seen, a dutiful slave to Eire

God spoke to devoted Patrick in a dream on this Emerald Isle
Boarded ship and set sail, in Britain to tell the tale; Gaul: priesthood and file
 
In 432, back to Eire to convert the pagans worshiping even a rock 
To explain the Holy Trinity, enlightening them till affinity, he used the shamrock

Pat inspired the Irish festival, history tells his colour was blue,
The wearing of the Green, even if one can't keen - Skyfest invites all parties true


Sung by a tone deaf (they all were) mistrel, tanked up on green beer
   
BALLAD METRE 

See the About section for details on which this poem was based. Thank you.

Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms:
This metre (BALLAD METRE) may also be interpreted (and sometimes printed) as a couplet of seven-stress lines, as in Kipling's ‘Ballad of East and West’ (1889):



Copyright © Suzette Richards | Year Posted 2013


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What's it all about


The final approach

Fuselage shot

Partially sighted

Dim, dull, distant dumb

He’s hurting such a lot



Vague outline of landing lights

In the leaden fog

Voices in the distance

“can you hear me were going to take some blood”

“Is that okay Alfie?”

"What’s it all about”

 he shouts “ I need to land the plane”



The rain spits like automatic gun fire

The wings start flapping

Like an old 6mm film breaking out from its sprockets

As the film frame melts the image onto the whitewashed wall

Eye balls push hard on his sockets

Oh No !Down! Down!  Down!



The gearing jerks and jolts him awake

Eyes flash open briefly

Lucidly

Smiles at me

Waves a hand at me

Talks to be

He knows me



Come back tomorrow

Can’t you see

I’m missing my wife and

I’m busy messing the bed



The nurse just looks at me

Pulls the curtain in front of me

He screams “just leave me”



Then eyes close

Dreams shatter

Like the remains of a cereal bits

At the bottom of a cornflake packet



The final approach

The wind is howling

Oxygen masks dropping

Can’t concentrate anymore

He cries, he screams he cries again and again

He reaches out to touch people who aren’t there



Bright as a button he mind tries to reason

Green berry

North Africa

Desert storm

He knows, aware, he cares not of himself

He reflects on his life

Unstoppable crying, regrets, tear jerking

Muscle spasm, insane pain again and again

He knows he is losing 

The final approach

A bumpy ride

He wants to die

“Please leave me alone”

Morphine calming, dreaming screaming

Touching the shadows

Reaching out to feel what I cannot see

Talking in riddles

The calmway

The runway 

becomes the pathway

They leave him alone

His last assignment

Making adjustment for the final alignment



Calm

Clean

Rested

Lips damping

No Shit!

Waiting patiently in the stack


”Oh god why has thou forsaken me!”

In this hospital bed

He dies horribly





Copyright © Tony Kirk | Year Posted 2013


Details | Bright As A Button Poem | Create an image from this poem.

The sweet scent of lavender

I won a basket of lavender goodies on a local raffle
It bought a smile to my face
And bought back many memories
Of a lovely lady I once knew

Her husband was a retired GP
She had Parkinson’s Disease you see
She couldn’t be left on her own
He would get on the phone and I would run

She was 83 years old and as bright as a button
I would ‘granny sit’ for her to keep her from harm
Her favourite scent was lavender, and I would always hear her say
Can you get the lavender water for my hands today?

I would gently rub the water onto her gnarled hands
She would smell the sweet scent and smile
And tell me stories of her life
Of happy times and tragedy, the hours spent would fly by

I would hear the same stories time after time
Her mind would wander, but I didn’t mind
I could smile and laugh at the appropriate place
She would shed a tear and I would wipe them from her face

The tragedy in her life was her daughter Rosamund Yvonne
She was born with Down’s Syndrome – even now I can still see her smiling face
Her photo took pride of place on the grand piano
We would look at that faded picture and the old lady would smile

Her daughter passed away at five years old
But still the stories I was told every day
If I smell lavender now it brings back many a memory
Of that lovely old lady and Rosamund Yvonne


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2014


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THE WEARING OF THE GREEN DETAILS

On Roman ruled British isles,
   On a sunny morn
Forth century on the day of Ides  
   Our Patrick was born
To the deacon and his wife fair; 
   A beautiful morn
And priest grandfather who care’
   Their Patrick was born

He, young and bright as a button 
   This could be clearly seen
Was Patrick the lad and glutton
   Tall for his age at sixteen 
 Taken as a slave to nearby Eire 
   At tender age sixteen
by knavish raiders – this not fair
    Long time not to be seen

God visited Patrick in a dream 
    On this Emerald Isle
 When revealed to him to stream
   Patrick broke rank and file
He boarded a ship and set sail 
    left this unwelcome isle
In Britain to tell all the tale
   Then Gaul - priesthood and file

In 432, back to Eire to convert them 
   A land green with shamrock
From their polytheism to stem
   Worshiping even a rock
To explain the Holy Trinity 
   He used the shamrock
Enlightened them till affinity
   They accepted *The Rock

To explain the Holy Trinity 
   He used the shamrock
Enlightened them till affinity
   They accepted The Rock
They are wearing the Green
They are wearing the Green...

*Rock of Ages

21 January 2013


BALLAD METER


Copyright © Suzette Richards | Year Posted 2013


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Doing as I am told

They tell me I was a most annoying child, not good looking like everyone else's son - 

ugh! nor bright as a button, but the 'thick' one. One of those who just tried to help 

both teachers and pupils, to do things the easy way, or so brainless or bored not to do 

anything anyway, anything at all. After all one cannot be criticised then? - you bet! 

So, here am I and I try to write a poem on my faithful laptop so that my mediocre 

ideas (that good?) but crystal clear English (yeah right!) before accessing the best 

poets' website I have come across - and then I - UR!!!- run out of time blaming my 

baby boomer typing mis-skills and you dear web bosses that are only doing your best 

with a Peter pest, trying to help, trying to do better so his better becomes his best.

Let's hope that when my poem goes online my gentle critics will see I aspire to play 

poetry like cricket - damn I was absolutely crap at playing the the poetry of leather 

upon willow so unlike that New Yorker Joseph O'Neill, who probably bowls a Yorker too, 

with his trinity of Irishnes, Dutchness and Americanism souping up as 'NETHERLAND' 

please intercede for me to type faster or have more time to jot down these musings as 

I know you do LOL at my poetry. Please, please be patient and so gentle, gentle my 

esteemed fellowe poets in this our republic of letters by stirring it hot and meaty fit for 

                                                       any rhyme royal.

   


Copyright © Peter Dorr | Year Posted 2013


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The Ballad of Miss Dutton

THE BALLAD OF MISS DUTTON

Little Miss Dutton, 
Bright as a button
Sits with hands in her lap just so
Neat and petite, 
Friendly and sweet,
With little girls all in a row

Quiet and demure,
Polite and pure
She teaches girls how to behave
Not like the rough boys
Scuffing shoes, making noise,
Shooting guns, the things little boys crave

But little Miss Dutton
Bright as a button 
Has a secret, her own rough boy
Though with her he is gentle
He's a force regimental
Has a gun and it's not just a toy

They'll live life in clover
When this trouble's all over
But meanwhile they'll make the best
Who can say what's to be
Before the world is made free
'til then hope that their lives are blessed

Little Miss Dutton
Bright as a button
Today has an extra bright gleam
For one sacred day's leave
To themselves they can cleave
Live each hour in a blissful dream

They have sworn true love now
And he's made solemn vow
To return when he's finished his chore
He tries fears to dispel
Kisses fondest farewell
Then he's gone  - and it's June ' 44.

Little Miss Dutton
Bright as a button
Sits there now and a sad smile she yields
But for him it's all over
He touched the clover
Now at peace in a Normandy field

Quiet and demure,
Polite and pure
Girls follow in every way true
Not like the rough boys
Scuffing shoes, making noise,
Shooting guns - that's what little boys do.


Copyright © Geoffrey Brewer | Year Posted 2017