Best Get On With It Poems
I could not refrain from asking what it was that made her sigh
When each picture that she started she took down. I wondered why.
The young lady was forthcoming; said her thoughts were fresh and bright
Every time she started painting nothing seemed to turn out right.
Then she glanced at my own painting and declared that it was great
She remarked I found it easy to imagine and create.
Well, I smiled and softly told her that it was my special brush
That afforded all the wonders; careful handling with no rush.
So I told her she could use it, to be gentle for a start
Till they reached synchronization so that both could play their part.
What about the other brushes? Do not fret or give a hoot
Mine will be the instigator, all the rest will follow suit!
I went off to have a breather while she went to work anew
Gave her time to get on with it then returned exact on cue.
I could see her face was radiant and her work intense yet cool
She expressed appreciation at my most fantastic tool.
I will let you on a secret; I have played a hidden card
For my brush is only normal. You were trying just too hard!
You can paint, you have it in you. To your talent be not blind.
As you see there is no magic; it was only in the mind.
So good luck with your endeavours. Some advice, precise and brief
You can make the perfect painting; all you need is self belief.
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Note: This poem was written to pass on a message to all those who
suffer from low esteem. Self-belief is the way forward.
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Author: Paul Callus
Contest (Favourite Poem...) sponsored by Carol Eastman
Placed: 1st
The sun did shine,
The day was fine.
That day I was at ease...
"Get on with it" the judge cut in and tailed with a "Jeeze".
As night time fell,
T'was like a spell.
I swear it was not me; was something else besides myself,
Please take account my plea.
Excitement came across me
An urge to simply stroll....
My yoga teacher claimed that's good-
To soothe ones very soul.
All clothed I was when left my home
No harm I really meant,
Honestly was wearing-
Way more than just a tent.
Went six streets into town
Steady paced I was mere walking,
A little did my pants slip down and
strong feeling of a stalking.
Swear it was watching me and
Following in my journey,
I can speak, let me speak
Sit down my good attorney.
My heart was pacing, All eyes on me
The courtroom suddenly silenced,
T'is my time to speak the truth
Which isn't rocket science.....
It followed me from my house
Right to the grand saloon-
For this I was ropeable,
So yes... I mooned the moon.
Have to stamp my innocence-
As the judge adjusted his wig,
When I saw all the people-
I did hide behind a twig!
Then I was arrested and
This a silly trial
I'm a victim of abuse-
For facebook it went viral.
Am innocent I tell you
Am really not a loon,
Most certainly the culprit is-
That creepy scary moon!
"Order in the courtroom
You will be sent to a recluse,
Sentencing your crime for-
Underpants Abuse."
Now I'm locked within this room,
Where cell mates sing this tune...
"It wasn't me, It wasn't me,
I swear it was the moon".
“I think the lemonade was poisoned, Sir,
he’s been murdered!” Watkins said
“I can see no other reasoning
for why the victim is lying here, dead.”
“Let’s not jump to hasty conclusions,”
Detective Inspector Bones, replied
“There’s protocol we have to follow
before we establish how he died.”
“So get on with it, my young Watkins
you know what you have to do.”
Watkins nodded, then put on his gloves
And went off, in search of a clue
The Inspector, a man revered by his peers
For his keen, analytical mind
Bent down, to examine the body
To see what evidence he could find
There were no obvious signs of trauma
No lumps, or bumps on the head
No bullet hole, knife wound, marks on the neck,
Nothing to say why the man was dead
“You can take him now,” the Inspector called
To the men, suited up, from the lab,
“Perhaps we’ll learn more from the Coroner,
once he gets him on his slab.”
Watkins returned, “I can’t find anything, Sir,
it seems our victim was here all alone
there’s no sign to say he had a visitor,
or intruder within his home.”
“Everything’s locked from the inside,”
He continued, a frown on his face
“If someone was here, they’ve been clever,
getting out without leaving a trace.”
The Inspector picked up the lemonade glass
Its smell gave him a vital clue,
“You’re right Watkins, the man was murdered
and I say the murderer, was YOU!”
“While I was here, examining the body
it gave you the opportune time,
to go around the house without hindrance
and remove all trace of your crime.”
“But you can’t put one over on this old dog,
I’ve seen it all in my day,”
He turned to the uniforms, by the door
“This is our killer boys – take him away!”
© Janette Fisher 06.04.10
This was written as a homework assignment for my writing group from last night - we were
given 'I think the lemonade was poisoned' and this is what I came up with.
First a simple lunch –
soup, salad, rolls and dessert
(and wine if we choose).
Then the book.*
We become critics when we read.
That's half the fun of it.
The other half is the pleasure of the word.
Prose can be poetry.
Our preferences are as diverse as our personalities.
What I like, you don't, and vice versa.
No book appeals to everyone,
just as no work of art is universally appreciated.
This particular book drew various reactions –
first "enjoyment" and then disappointment.
We agreed that the images were vivid
and the metaphors enlightening,
but the story dragged a bit.
The tragedy's resolution,
arriving at the tale's end, was anticlimactic .
Why had the author waited so long
to get the accused off the hook.
The ample evidence could have been revealed sooner, much sooner,
saving us from suffering endless descriptive passages.
Clearly, dangling was the writer's intent.
No one appreciated being dangled.
We wanted the case resolved posthaste,
with fewer stalling tactics.
"Get on with it,"
seemed the general opinion.
Critics should be aware
(alas, we sometimes are not),
criticism is infinitely easier than creation.
Creation is inspiration
mixed with plain hard work.
Authors, like all artists,
have their way with us.
We're simply along for the ride.
As critics we agreed –
a fine journey: long and well worth it.
"Snow Falling on Cedars" by David Guterson
Mother Nature met Old Father Time, and what a good time they had
They cavorted for quite along while, she a girl, him a bit of a lad.
Then one day when Father Time, a wrinkle set in mother natures plan
All those things she gave birth too, he decided he's not a fan.
The renewal of all things good, Mother Nature sent our way
Father time lets them flourish, and then sends them on their way.
Mother Nature keeps giving birth, a wondrous mother she proves to be
But Old Father Time throws his tantrums, he tries to be the boss of she.
So the mother and father that we all know are still battling day by day
But let’s let them get on with it, and try not to get in either ones way.
© ~GG~ 07’03’2013
I never knew her as a big talker,
but to me, she was a very keen
observer and one great listener.
I have always remembered the 8 words
she said when sending us to the store.
She’d say, “Go in a haste; come in a pace”.
As a kid at the time, I never questioned what
she meant by those words. Like my siblings,
I simply listened to her, and away I went.
I didn’t know if she was trying to be poetic
or encouraging us to get the job done quickly.
But now I know that she was a great teacher.
To me, those 8 words have taught me lessons
in life. I have always heard that “Haste makes waste”
So, Grandma wasn’t telling us to hurry up.
In my departure, she was saying, "Get on with it; get it done”. And upon my return, she was saying, “Have a sense of order and precision as you return”.
I must say that as I look back over my life, I can say,
Thank you, Grandma, I did what you said in the way
you told me to. I had the initiative to pursue my
dreams; and with a sense of timing, order, and
organization, I got things done”.
cj07182015
I thought of you this morning Ma, as I do most every day.
I miss the crazy things you did, your laughter and your way.
Your sunny disposition, your optimistic light.
Remembering the songs you used to sing to us at night....zzzz
And now I must, "Get on with it", as you would like to say.
Just had to say I Love You, because it's Mothers Day.
By Johanne R. Deschamps
Time slipped like a shadow in the dying moonlight
Locked in yesterday’s dreams
I wished to sense the warmth inside her cradling embrace
Once again
Thoughts of you penetrated my anxiety
But like a squirming fish in my hand
You slithered away
Turning time into bits of elusive sand
Sand that continues to pour out of my hourglass
Becoming part of yesterday's eternal fun sandbox
That lovers dwell and play in as their youth wanes
And later, vainly try to hold on to their vanishing years
But Time? What is Time?
If not God’s joke to make us hurry to get on with it
Mine is no joke but to keep the sand from pouring out
And hasten my urgency to dwell in your playpen
~The Male Menopause~
Did you know girl's, men run on hormones too?
They are not so different girls from me or from you
But when a man reaches his fifties he becomes unstable
To blame it on the woman though, - that he is still able.
He never likes to think that his hormones are shot
He fancies all the woman, and still tries a lot.
When his fancy lets him down it never is his fault
He blames the woman he’s with - she’s not worth his salt.
They like to talk dirty it gets them aroused and all hot
But talking about dirty clothes and dishes, is what we have got
They have strange fancies and talk to each other
“What I could do for her never mind her mother...”
They never once think, that what they have got
Is certainly what all the girls want - NOT
Their hair grows in their ears and in their nose
But from the top of their heads that’s from where it goes.
Their brains seem to disappear, along with their hair
Gosh hormones are hard - life isn’t’ that fair.
The male menopause it tends to be of a shorter length
But they think its your fault when they begin to lose their strength.
Things start to fail and they may look elsewhere
But whoever would have them - has already been there
They are too old for the young, yet to young for the coffin
So just carry on loving them and try to stop scoffing.
Tell them they are still - muscular and hot
They do it for you, even if they do not
They will repay you your kindness when your turns comes around
They will show you how to shave, when your beard does abound.
They will pretend that your sweats, is them making you hot
Just let them get on with it because it happens a lot
When your hair goes thin they will say they love it more
That’s what a loving relationship and growing old together is for
©~GG~10/07/2012
I used to walk carefree around this world,
My shoulders light and free of any chips
Not thinking fate would ever come unfurled
By nonsense escaping naïve lips
I thought Murphy ’s Law was ludacris
Karma for a mind that over thinks
Superstition existed to dismiss
All part of fate’s anxiety hijinks’
Until it came to my moving day
I lived high up on the 11th floor
Casually to the moving guys, “Hey,
Do this quick, I’ll tip you a little more.”
A few shortcuts to speed things up a bit
“What’s the very worst that could happen?
Throw straps on that piano, get on with it,
Hurry up now, I’m too busy to tap in.”
Off I went to an important meeting
Signed the client that made everyone wary
Called 3 times for this face to face greeting
I wonder why they call her bloody Mary
No bad ever gets to me, nothing could
I stepped on cracks all the way home, too
And I refuse to ever knock on wood
Who could be so down with a sky so blue!
I peered up toward the aforementioned sky
A feeling unfamiliar appeared
A trick of the reflection in my eye?
Or warnings come to fruition I feared
Hurtling down due to a broken pulley
Was my big beautiful baby grand
No one took the time to check it fully
And I stood right where it was to land
I wish now I watched my fate testin’ talk
Cuz that piano is really hummin’
Whose ivories tickled me into sidewalk
Damn, I guess I shoulda seen it comin’
January 27, 2023
Shoulda Seen it Comin' Contest
Sponsor: John Lawless
I looked in the mirror and shook at the knees
T’was enough to give a gal, the Hebe jibes
Where was that young girl men looked at with glee
Who was that old ding bat, No that couldn’t be me
Wrinkled old prune with aching vertebrae
Mutton dressed as lamb in a silly red beret
You’ve got to be dreaming, it’s a temporary disguise
Wake up girlie, time passes, the mirror never lies
I’d like to be the girl who still should be there
But with her, past memories, I just cannot share
Inside I’m still that youngster filled with jeux de vie
No use complaining of things that used to be
So get on with it gal with no tantrums or sighs
Dress to the nines and remember to exercise
Don’t worry if gorgeous hunks no longer at your stare
Find lots of new beginnings and great moments to share
That mirrors very sneaky folks and it will come visit you
So embrace life who cares about a wrinkle or two!
I haven't got what it takes to quit
'just play my hand n' get on with it
some might pray or say it's written in the stars
Holding up answers with exclamation marks
toss an easy catch, all passions are released!
strike another match, noncommittal and care-free
you wanna' slow't down, then I'm gonna' get off
'paid for my ticket, now I'm not gonna' stop
'swear it's like a habit to be hoodwinked n' short changed
but this time we're gonna' go the whole, damn way
this time I'll go the, whole, damn way
down in the valley we were almost lost
with the sounds of the river n' the light so soft
th' jury dispersed when the judge didn't show
th' accused left standing n' th' case was never closed
deft slight of hand, murder in the first degree
void of reprimand, footloose n' fancy-free
the wraith on your mast and your blinking ****
will guide my stars until my days are done
but did you ever stop for a moment t'ponder
the loneliness of the wonder that precedes the thunder
the loneliness of the wonder that precedes the thunder
Blue **** are singing outside my bedroom window,
Every time I look there seems to be a bird you know,
And their vocalisations make me aware of myself,
Under the cuff sometimes and only on a shelf;
They take me to nature, that vast canopy bright,
Into truth and morality’s mechanisms of height,
For a glimpse of who I am essentially, credentially,
Unknown to me otherwise, were it not for that tit truly,
Longing to get on with it, I go, more of my seeds to sow.
We're done for now I hope you see.
You're left field antics aren't for me.
The more you write the more I'm bored.
I truly do not understand, Good Lord!
The more I think, the more I feel.
What we have shared does not feel real.
When egos' search for reassurance.
You better have some good insurance.
The time has come and now we're through.
I'd get on with it if I were you.
For P. D.'s I'm breaking up with you contest. Love you P. D. :)
A new landscape presents itself upon waking.
Places that were dreams drift outward.
Past becomes present; stars earth; flight, a grounded stride.
I might assess these thoughts as if I have a choice -
as if I might climb back into slumber; reestablish a cloud,
reshape a fog already escaping.
Thoughts of coffee with cream creep in,
old latticework mends itself even as I try to stop it.
"Reality, it's not for me, and it makes me laugh." Ha.
FORGET IT. May as well shower and get on with it.
Yet along the drive, my mind keeps wandering...
Will I ever catch that dream again?