Thank you, Wolfie Dear! A Watched Example Never Boils The weather is so very mild That some would call it warm. Good gracious. aren't we lucky, child? Here comes a thunderstorm. The sky is now indelible ink, The branches reft asunder; But you and I we do not shrink; We love the lovely thunder. The garden is a raging sea, The hurricane is snarling; Oh, happy you and happy me! Isn't the lightning darling? Fear not the thunder, little one. It's weather, simply weather; It's friendly giants full of fun Clapping their hands together. I hope of lightning our supply Will never be exhausted; You know its lanterns in the sky For angels who are losted. We love the kindly wind and hail, The jolly thunderbolt, We watch in glee the fairy trail Of ampere, watt, and volt. Oh, than to enjoy a storm like this There's nothing I would rather, Don't dive between the blankets, Miss! Or else leave room for Father.

A Lady Thinks She Is Thirty Unwillingly Miranda wakes, Feels the sun with terror, One unwilling step she takes, Shuddering to the mirror. Miranda in Miranda's sight Is old and gray and dirty; Twenty-nine she was last night; This morning she is thirty. Shining like the morning star, Like the twilight shining, Haunted by a calendar, Miranda sits a-pining. Silly girl, silver girl, Draw the mirror toward you; Time who makes the years to whirl Adorned as he adorned you. Time is timelessness for you; Calendars for the human; What's a year, or thirty, to Loveliness made woman? Oh, Night will not see thirty again, Yet soft her wing, Miranda; Pick up your glass and tell me, then -- How old is Spring, Miranda? Ogden Nash

Pretty Halcyon Days How pleasant to sit on the beach, On the beach, on the sand, in the sun, With ocean galore within reach, And nothing at all to be done! No letters to answer, No bills to be burned, No work to be shirked, No cash to be earned, It is pleasant to sit on the beach With nothing at all to be done! How pleasant to look at the ocean, Democratic and damp; indiscriminate; It fills me with noble emotion To think I am able to swim in it. To lave in the wave, Majestic and chilly, Tomorrow I crave; But today it is silly. It is pleasant to look at the ocean; Tomorrow, perhaps, I shall swim in it. How pleasant to gaze at the sailors. As their sailboats they manfully sail With the vigor of vikings and whalers In the days of the vikings and whale. They sport on the brink Of the shad and the shark; If its windy they sink; If it isn't, they park. It is pleasant to gaze at the sailors, To gaze without having to sail. How pleasant the salt anesthetic Of the air and the sand and the sun; Leave the earth to the strong and athletic, And the sea to adventure upon. But the sun and the sand No contractor can copy; We lie in the land Of the lotus and poppy; We vegetate, calm and aesthetic, On the beach, on the sand, in the sun. Ogden Nash

Riding on a Railroad Train Some people like to hitch and hike; They are fond of highway travel; Their nostrils toil through gas and oil, They choke on dust and gravel. Unless they stop for the traffic cop Their road is a fine-or-jail road, But wise old I go rocketing by; I'm riding on the railroad. I love to loll like a limp rag doll In a peripatetic salon; To think and think of a long cool drink And cry to the porter, allons! Now the clickety clack of wheel on track Grows clickety clackety clicker: The line is clear for the engineer And it mounts to his head like liquor. With a farewell scream of escaping steam The boiler bows to the Diesel; The iron horse has run its course And we ride a chromium weasel; We draw our power from the harnessed shower, The lightning without the thunder, But a train is a train and will so remain While the rails glide glistening under. Oh, some like trips in luxury ships, And some in gasoline wagons, And others swear by the upper air And the wings of flying dragons. Let each make haste to indulge his taste, Be it beer, champagne or cider; My private joy, both man and boy, Is being a railroad rider. Ogden Nash

This last one reminds me of the "Cremation of Sam McGee"

A Bas Ben Adhem ( My fellow man I do not care for ) by Ogden Nash My fellow man I do not care for. I often ask me, What's he there for? The only answer I can find Is, reproduction of his kind. If I'm supposed to swallow that, Winnetka is my habitat. Isn't it time to carve Hic Jacet Above that Reproduction racket? To make the matter more succint: Suppose my fellow man extinct. Why, who would not approve the plan Save possibly my fellow man? Yet with a politician's voice He names himself as Nature's choice. The finest of the human race Are bad in figure, worse in face. Yet just because they have two legs And come from storks instead of eggs They count the spacious firmament As something to be charged and sent. Though man created cross-town traffic, The Daily Mirror, News and Graphic, The pastoral fight and fighting pastor, And Queen Marie and Lady Astor, He hails himself with drum and fife And bullies lower forms of life. Not that I think much depends On how we treat our feathered friends, Or hold the wrinkled elephant A nobler creature than my aunt. It's simply that I'm sure I can Get on without my fellow man.

....and now there are over 6,000,000,000 of us...! How appropriate on this day.

I wasn't even thinking of that. But how right you are to remind us.

*smile* amazing how things occur to our subconscious mind which later seem to be serendipitous...but, were they really?! Thanks for the timely post of that poem

Mr. Artesians's Conscientiousness by Ogden Nash Once there was a man named Mr. Artesian and his activity was tremendous, And he grudged every minute away from his desk because the importance of his work was so stupendous; And he had one object all sublime, Which was to save simply oodles of time. He figured that sleeping eight hours a night meant that if he lived to be seventy-five he would have spent twenty-five years not at his desk but in bed, So he cut his slumber to six hours which meant he only lost eighteen years and nine months instead, And he figured that taking ten minutes for breakfast and twenty minutes for luncheon and half an hour for dinner meant that he spent three years, two months and fifteen days at the table, So that by subsisting solely on bouillon cubes which he swallowed at his desk to save this entire period he was able, And he figured that at ten minutes a day he spent a little over six months and ten days shaving, So he grew a beard, which gave him a considerable saving, And you might think that now he might have been satisfied, but no, he wore a thoughtful frown, Because he figured that at two minutes a day he would spend thirty-eight days and a few minutes in elevators just travelling up and down, So as a final time saving device he stepped out the window of his office, which happened to be on the fiftieth floor, And one of his partners asked "Has he vertigo?" and the other glanced out and down and said "Oh no, only about ten feet more."

The Cobra This creature fills its mouth with venom And walks upon its duodenum. He who attempts to tease the cobra Is soon a sadder he, and sobra. The Canary The song of canaries Never varies, And when they're moulting They're pretty revolting.

so true, so true!!

Nearly posted The Canary in Aviculture...*grin* Song of the Open Road I think that I shall never see A billboard lovely as a tree. Indeed, unless the billboards fall I'll never see a tree at all. The Sea-Gull Hark to the whimper of the sea-gull; He weeps because he's not an ea-gull. Suppose you were, you silly sea-gull. Could you explain it to your she-gull?

*grin* the canary would be more than appropriate for aviculture!

Might I post it there, as well as here? (Asking permission of the hostess is necessary...*smile*)

of course you may and the sea-gull as well!

Mahalo! (forgot the poor seagull!)

but it was cute! *laugh*

It is too bad that Joyce Kilmer didn't live to read this: Song of the Open Road by Ogden Nash I think that I shall never see A billboard as lovely as a tree. Perhaps unless the billboards fall, I'll never see a tree at all.

Let me interject an bit of information relative to your comment, John...Hawaii does not allow billboards or large signs of any sort. You cannot believe how shocking it is to get used to seeing scenery here, then arriving on the Mainland where all scenery is replaced by the ubiquitous and obtrusive billboard. Ugly!!!

One more reason Hawaii no ka oi! Still, you remember Wyland's original "whaling wall" in Waikiki. The politicians and even the outdoor circle treated it as a billboard for his art. To think that the gorgeous mural of underwater whales was somehow less beautiful than the bare wall of a parking garage. Auwe!

Auwe, indeed! I remember well Wyland's magnificent coverage of a blank cinder-block wall. Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed... The Pig The pig, if I am not mistaken, Supplies us sausage, ham, and bacon. Let others say his heart is big -- I call it stupid of the pig. Arthur There once was a man from Calcutta, Who coated his tonsils with butta, Thus converting his snore From a thunderous roar, To a soft, oleaginous mutta.

The Chipmunk Odgen Nash My friends all know that I am shy, But the chipmunk is twice and shy and I. He moves with flickering indecision Like stripes across the television. He�s like the shadow of a cloud, Or Emily Dickinson read aloud.

The Firefly The firefly's flame Is something for which science has no name I can think of nothing eerier Than flying around with an unidentified glow on a person's posteerier. Malingerer I would live all my life in nonchalance and insouciance were it not for making a living, which is rather a nouciance. Ogden Nash

Possessions are Nine Points of Conversation by Ogden Nash Some people, and it doesn't matter whether they are paupers or millionaires, Think that anything they have is the best in the world just because it is theirs. If they happen to own a 1921 jalopy, They look at their neighbor's new de luxe convertible like the wearer of a 57th Street gown at a 14th Street copy. If their seventeen-year-old child is still in the third grade they sneer at the graduation of the seventeen-year-old children of their friends, Claiming that prodigies always come to bad ends, And if their roof leaks, It's because the shingles are antiques. Other people, and if doesn't matter if they are Scandinavians or Celts, Think that anything is better than theirs just because it belongs to somebody else. If you congratulate them when their blue-blooded Doberman pinscher wins the obedience championship, they look at you like a martyr, And say that the garbage man's little Rover is really infinitely smarter; And if they smoke fifteen-cent cigars they are sure somebody else gets better cigars for a dime. And if they take a trip to Paris they are sure their friends who went to Old Orchard had a better time. Yes, they look on their neighbor's ox and ass with covetousness and their own ox and ass with abhorrence, And if they are wives they want their husband to be like Florence's Freddie, and if they are husbands they want their wives to be like Freddie's Florence. I think that comparisons are truly odious, I do not approve of this constant proud or envious to-do; And furthermore, dear friends, I think that you and yours are delightful and I also think that me and mine are delightful too.

I have a question about this Ogden Nash poem: People expect old men to die. They do not really mourn old men. Old men are different. People look At them with eyes that wonder when... People watch with unshocked eyes, But the old men know when an old man dies. Could the last line possibly mean that the old men know when an old man "dies", as in they know the moment that an old man effectively ceases to be, as opposed to when he physically passes? That was how I read it to myself first time, which gives it an interpretation I now don't think is there at all. But I'm not sure.

That's deeper than I've ever thought about an Ogden Nash poem. Marcia? I am impressed with your thought, Mark, but I'll defer to our resident Nash-o-phile here.

Ah, John! That is the crux of the matter...I am a Nash-o-phile, not a Nash expert. That is a new poem to me (as are several long ones I have posted here.) Mark, I shall check to see if there is a critique of that particular poem and see what is said about it. However, my reading (and upon reading your analysis) I see this happening with the regulars who inhabit the crowds watching the Vulcan (UHHilo) sports. Many are elderly and have been coming for years and years with great regularity. When I was much younger I noted that some were no longer in the audience when it was pointed out to me ("Has so-and-so been here recently? I have't seen him in ages!") Nowadays I note much sooner that some of our elder statesmen are missing and inquire about them. Perhaps I notice them because I am not so self-absorbed as I once was and care about the ones I recognize game after game. Just a guess on my part, but I think the older you are the more you are concerned about others...! Especially the elderly.

Interesting. Thanks, Marcia! I think I was trying to over-complicate. But it is a very detached and un-Nash-like poem, IMO. Your example is very relevant - young people going "who cares if one old man dies or another? Nothing to do with me, I'm young." Until they're not quite so young.

Marcia, re: post 21: Cooler heads prevailed only temporarily. The whaling wall was obscured by another parking garage going up right next to it. In Hawaii, outdoor art is a no-no...another ugly building, though is "economic development."

It has been a while since I have been to Honolulu to drive around. I had no idea some idiot obscured Wyland's mural. How sad...! Mark, sometimes it is a Good Thing to be a little bit older and wiser. This Nash poem shows a depth of the poet which I never knew was there. I just extrapolated my experiences into his words and they seemed to fit. The young are immortal and more than a little shallow...until, as you point out, they are not quite so young anymore.

There's a searchable Ogden Nash site online now.

Thanks, Nan...There is so much more to Ogden Nash that I never knew about...it is hard to know what to ask about in the search...but it will be fun to try. Who know, perhaps I will find more undiscovered (by me) gems of his in there *smile*

For all Fathers who have loved their daughters: Song To Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children by Ogden Nash My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky; Contrariwise, my blood runs cold When little boys go by. For little boys as little boys, No special hate I carry, But now and then they grow to men, And when they do, they marry. No matter how they tarry, Eventually they marry. And, swine among the pearls, They marry little girls. Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays, With parents who feed and clothe him. Their lips are sticky with pride and praise, But I have begun to loathe him. Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless This child who to me is nameless. This bachelor child in his carriage Gives never a thought to marriage, But a person can hardly say knife Before he will hunt him a wife. I never see an infant (male), A-sleeping in the sun, Without I turn a trifle pale And think is he the one? Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls, And then he'll want a pony, And then he'll think of pretty girls, And holy matrimony. A cat without a mouse Is he without a spouse. Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk, And quietly sucks his thumbs. His cheeks are roses painted on silk, And his teeth are tucked in his gums. But alas the teeth will begin to grow, And the bubbles will cease to bubble; Given a score of years or so, The roses will turn to stubble. He'll sell a bond, or he'll write a book, And his eyes will get that acquisitive look, And raging and ravenous for the kill, He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill. This infant whose middle Is diapered still Will want to marry My daughter Jill. Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle! My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle. A fig for embryo Lohengrins! I'll open all his safety pins, I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle, And give him readings from Aristotle. Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring, And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring. Then perhaps he'll struggle though fire and water To marry somebody else's daughter.

i think the old men die poem was indicating how we "young" people notice when young people die but don't blink twice when an older person goes. but, in the same respect, an older person notes when another older person goes which is a sort of countdown for them. ah, but perhaps i'm just stating the obvious and you all already noted that. sorry if i did *smile*

and i just couldn't bear to read the father love daughters poem....maybe another night.

I did... and I sent it to my father!

That was a lovely gesture, Stace, and I know your father got all misty over it. Wolfie, I know how you felt when you said you would read it another night. When I read it before posting it here, I missed my father, I felt for fathers with daughters who are dear to them (and whose fathers are also dear to me). It is a cute poem, but it manages to touch one in unexpected places.