Best Bright As A Button Poems | Poetry
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The Best Bright As A Button Poems
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Bright As A Button Poem
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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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Bright As A Button Poem
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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 ****!
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
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Bright As A Button Poem
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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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Bright As A Button Poem
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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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Bright As A Button Poem
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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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Bright As A Button Poem
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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