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Lou Schreiberg Poem
It was a dark and dreary night
Hardly a star shone bright
For the dance of life in the ring of fire
And the gypsies brought the light
I had come upon them by chance
And eyed their spirited prance
From behind a tree, secretly
Enthralled of their exotic dance
A fiddle cried in magic hands
Melody remind of ancient Pan
As a softly breeze kissed the cheeks
Of the twirling gypsy man
Their garb glistened in colored choir
Raising the music higher
The frolic of the night emanated
From that mystic ring of fire
Dance, O gypsy, spark my eve
Allow my thoughts to never tire
Of the watch from behind my tree
near that enchanting ring of fire
Copyright © Lou Schreiberg | Year Posted 2010
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Lou Schreiberg Poem
Most of life,
I thought being busy
is not the same
as being hectic,
and the question
and answer remain
Then, I thought,
how does
being productive fit in?
Choosing productive
made sense
Yet, who is my judge,
that was time to look up,
look for an angel
to judge from Heaven
I never found one
which strangely
declared me confused,
my first judgement
so arrived
But, when one is hectic,
one is busy,
quite a merry-go-round,
a never ending whirl
Whoops, I know my answer,
I'll look at the blue sky,
Wave at some bird,
Smell some flowers,
and
do absolutely
nothing at all
Now, I feel productive!
Copyright © Lou Schreiberg | Year Posted 2010
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Lou Schreiberg Poem
Tickablee, woe is me
'Tis the blane of fantlee tree
Where buds of greenlee
Sweel and slerl
Magiclee whynd in fantlee curl
One tickablee just fell 'pon me
Ouch! i-vouch, i-pain to me
If I ponder as a perl
'Pon the highest fantlee tree
To breen a bud so green grandlee
Sweel and swerl, woe is me!
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Copyright © Lou Schreiberg | Year Posted 2010
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Lou Schreiberg Poem
I met a man, forever wishin'
Who could not align of his condition
His head , he knew, was in his mouth
Which certainly hurt his health
He found a friend on the roof
Whose shoe, exactly, fit his tooth,
Together, they found a prognostician
To advise of their conditions
“Lucky, both, I will paint your perditions
Toes in mouths, with arty renditions,
Perhaps, you’ve heard of me,
I’m Dali from Paree”
Copyright © Lou Schreiberg | Year Posted 2010
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Lou Schreiberg Poem
A worthy man would hope to be
With esteem that stays his course
That from youth will ere agree
To carry pride thru best or worse
Though mind may own a driving storm
He withers not from errant stray
And when the sun appears each morn
He rises high to meet the day
Choice may come to essay worth
With shoulders high in redress of luster
Softly, quietly, he values berth
With dignity of life's muster
Copyright © Lou Schreiberg | Year Posted 2011
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Lou Schreiberg Poem
Assume a world, our planet, in full destruction.......the total outcome of nuclear war. The
ultimate battle is now over and all in sight is in ashes, a gray mist in eerie silence broken by
the tired wisp of wind without a target to bend.
The questionable token of victory is a lone survivor. His face is in shadow as his identity is
meaningless, his lines a grimace known only to his soul that perhaps may rename Adam. He
stands in garb of rag, desolate and forlorn, an empty sheath, wondering of his next step, his
direction, a wander of path. A thought occurs to him. Could there be one more monster to
slay and, if so, where is his sword? He thinks, 'could he be the monster, the vestige of ill
directed humanity?' Never before, had he thought of himself that way. Now, he is not sure.
He had made a pact with Death, a prayer of sorts. He wished being on the victorious side,
not ever thinking he would be the lone survivor. Life was to be his reward, but not in demise,
a wish now hoping he had never asked.
Man is tired with anger spent, wondering why his ire was ever ablaze. Are the vanquished
the losers, he wonders. What has he won? The sound of taps is no more.... Nevermore, a
parade.
Death does not ask for more. The Last Warrior is the vanquished!
Copyright © Lou Schreiberg | Year Posted 2010
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Lou Schreiberg Poem
O Mighty Zeus, your anger roars
Casting whelm each ravaging storm,
Is your ire so driven as to show disdain
Of nights for those so worn?
This mortal mire, so spent with drear
Has bent to the limits of homage,
Grant us ease and quiet lee,
Our tire wears no plumage.
Ask us not to bear your pains
Or the thunderbolts of your cyclops,
Soothe us with welcome patter
Thru rains of gentler drops.
Copyright © Lou Schreiberg | Year Posted 2010
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Lou Schreiberg Poem
Quite often,
We give thought
to the meaning of mitzvah,
not thoughts loosely thrown,
but deeds with passionate undertone,
that give the good in life a dressing,
it rewards with Godly blessing.
Oft given,
it's a balm for the heart
when the unfortunate occurs,
it may be a mitzvah in rise,
becoming God's 'word for the wise'.
Though many tears have been wept
we graciously accept.
A mitzvah, in deed
is not just a token,
but a gift from the heart,
with best intent, not for show,
most important to know
that mitzvahs are God sent,
for true mitzvahs never end.
Copyright © Lou Schreiberg | Year Posted 2011
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Lou Schreiberg Poem
In this age of various disturbance,
whether fuss, aggrevation, outbursts,
spirits in ruffle,
take a deep breath, close your eyes,
think of serenity as better wise,
be calm, read a favorite psalm
and forget that word, 'kerfuffle'
Copyright © Lou Schreiberg | Year Posted 2010
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Lou Schreiberg Poem
heads or tails
which is mine,
the toss of coin
a somewhat sign
it seems that world
is divided up
with what Is base
and what divine,
what be ours
and what be theirs,
the lack of feeling
or most of care,
a selfish bent
of song to spare,
of all the treasures
so precious mine,
i covet deeply
my love of rhyme,
it’s here I bare
my deepest thoughts,
unsaid to some,
to others sought,
but, just mine
Copyright © Lou Schreiberg | Year Posted 2010
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