Thursday, October 12, 2017

The Old Man from Brazil

    Graphic by Rebekah Plett
                Limerick by Dawn Pisturino          
The Old Man from Brazil
       There was an old man from Brazil
       Who ate 'til he made himself ill.
        "It's always a treat to eat mangled meat.
      I relish the taste of road kill!"
July 14, 2011
Published July 16, 2011 on the
Published in the August 2011 issue of Underneath the Juniper Tree.
The Old Man from Brazil I
There was an old man from Brazil
Who ate 'til he made himself ill.
He gave up the ghost, said good-bye to his host,
And flew home to his house on the hill.
July 7, 2011
 Copyright 2011-2017 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.

Wednesday, September 27, 2017

The Man in Galloway Bay

Graphic by Rebekah Plett
Limericks by Dawn Pisturino

The Man in Galloway Bay

A man lost in Galloway Bay,
Cried out in a very loud bray,
"Please come rescue me, hungry sharks can't agree,
Am I breakfast or dinner entree?"

July 11, 2011

Published on Underneath the Juniper Tree website, July 12, 2011

The Man in Galloway Bay II

A man lost in Galloway Bay,
Cried out in a very loud bray,
"I'm lost in the sea, someone please rescue me!
The fishermen think I'm filet!"

July 11, 2011

The Man in Galloway Bay I

A man lost in Galloway Bay,
Cried out in a very loud bray,
"I'm lost in the sea, someone please rescue me!
I've been swimming for more than a day!"

July 7, 2011

Wednesday, August 2, 2017


by Dawn Pisturino

For My Grandmother
A handful of trinkets.
All that remains of a life which spanned for sixty years
Through childbirth labor and marital pain,
Poverty and hunger and religious faith.
Everything you touched and cherished and dreamed,
Lost forever to mildew and decay,
And the least which survives --
Just a tiny fragment of yesterday.
The old home place no longer stands:
Its groaning walls were bulldozed to the ground;
And the Dutiful Daughter who stayed by your side
Rots away in a back ward dungeon.
How you would writhe and torment in your grave,
Realizing the legacy you left behind
Is nothing more than ashes and dust;
As dead as yourself; and mourned as much.
October 4, 1987
Won Honorable Mention in World of Poetry's New Golden Poetry Contest. Published in the New American Poetry Anthology, 1988. Won Golden Poet Award for 1988 from World of Poetry.
Copyright 1987-2017 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.

Monday, July 3, 2017

America's Poet -- Walt Whitman

Selections from Leaves of Grass
by Walt Whitman
I Hear America Singing
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing
       on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning,
       or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl
       sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day -- at night the party of young fellows,
       robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
For You, O Democracy
Come, I will make the continent indissoluble,
I will make the most splendid race the sun ever shone upon,
I will make divine magnetic lands,
       With the love of comrades,
         With the life-long love of comrades.
I will plant companionship thick as trees along all the rivers of
       America, and along the shores of the great lakes, and all over
       the prairies,
I will make inseparable cities with their arms about each other's necks,
       By the love of comrades,
         By the manly love of comrades,
For you these from me, O Democracy, to serve you ma femme!
For you, for you I am trilling these songs.
Long, Too Long America
Long, too long America,
Traveling roads all even and peaceful you learn'd from joys and prosperity only,
But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish, advancing, grappling with direst fate and recoiling
And now to conceive and show to the world what your children en masse really are,
(For who except myself has yet conceiv'd what your children en masse really are?)
Centre of equal daughters, equal sons,
All, all alike endear'd, grown, ungrown, young or old,
Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich,
Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law, and Love,
A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother,
Chair'd in the adamant of Time.
One Song, America, Before I Go
One song, America, before I go,
I'd sing, o'er all the rest, with trumpet sound,
For thee -- the Future.
I'd sow a seed for thee of endless Nationality;
I'd fashion thy Ensemble, including Body and Soul;
I'd show, away ahead, the real Union, and how it may be accomplish'd.
(The paths to the House I seek to make,
But leave to those to come, the House itself.)
Belief I sing -- and Preparation;
As Life and Nature are not great with reference to the Present only,
But greater still from what is to come,
Out of that formula for Thee I sing.
BIO: Walt Whitman (1819-1892) worked as a printer, newspaper editor, and school teacher. He published the first edition of Leaves of Grass in 1855 at his own expense. During the Civil War, he nursed wounded and dying soldiers in military hospitals. He is best known for his observations about 19th century American life and the Civil War -- and his poems dedicated to President Abraham Lincoln. 

Thursday, May 18, 2017

The Queen of Hearts


The Queen of Hearts made cherry tarts
On Cupid's Special Day.
The Knave of Hearts threw out those tarts
And stole the Queen away.

His bow was strong, his arrows sharp,
He drew with deadly force.
His missile pierced the tender heart,
Killing her, of course.
With hungry zeal, he yanked the heart

From Queenie's bloody chest
And feasted on her royal blood,
Rating it the best!
Dawn Pisturino
December 16, 2011
Copyright 2011-2017 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Poems by Joaquin Miller

The Voice of the Dove
Come, listen O love, to the voice of the dove,
Come, hearken and hear him say,
"There are many Tomorrows, my love, my love,
There is only one Today."
Dedicated to his daughter, Juanita, on her 10th birthday.



To lord all Godland! lift the brow

Familiar to the moon, to top

The universal world, to prop

The hollow heavens up, to vow

Stern constancy with stars, to keep

Eternal watch while eons sleep;

To tower proudly up and touch

God's purple garment-hems that sweep

The cold blue north! Oh, this were much!

Where storm-born shadows hide and hunt

I knew thee, in thy glorious youth,

And loved thy vast face, white as truth;

I stood where thunderbolts were wont

To smite thy Titan-fashioned front,

And heard dark mountains rock and roll;

I saw the lightning's gleaming rod

Reach forth and write on heaven's scroll

The awful autograph of God!

The Ship in the Desert
By Arizona's sea of sand
Some bearded miners, gray and old,
And resolute in search of gold,
Sat down to tap the savage land.
They tented in a canñon's mouth
That gaped against the warm wide south,
And underneath a wave-wash'd wall,
Where now nor rains nor winds may fall,
They delved the level salt-white sands
For gold, with bold and hornéd hands.
A miner stood beside his mine,
He pull'd his beard, then look'd away
Across the level sea of sand,
Beneath his broad and hairy hand,
A hand as hard as knots of pine.
"It looks so like a sea," said he.
He pull'd his beard, and he did say,
"It looks just like a dried-up sea."
Again he pull'd that beard of his,
But said no other thing than this.
A stalwart miner dealt a stroke,
And struck a buried beam of oak.
An old ship's beam the shaft appear'd,
With storm-worn faded figure-head.
The miner twisted, twirled his beard,
Lean'd on his pick-axe as he spoke:
"'Tis from some long-lost ship," he said,
"Some laden ship of Solomon
That sail'd these lonesome seas upon
In search of Ophir's mine, ah me!
That sail'd this dried-up desert sea." ...
Nay, nay, 'tis not a tale of gold,
But ghostly land storm-slain and old.
BIO: "Joaquin Miller" was the pseudonym for Cincinnatus Heine Miller, who was born September 8, 1837 and died February 17, 1913. He is celebrated as the "Poet of the Sierras." He moved to California during the Gold Rush Era and became a frontier man. His adventures in the West included Indian fighting, mining camp cook, lawyer, judge, newspaper writer and editor, Pony Express Rider, and horse thief. He was a Confederate sympathizer. In 1897, he traveled to Alaska as a newspaper correspondent. He had a lifelong reputation for dishonesty and womanizing. His wife, Theresa Dyer Miller, divorced him for neglect.

Monday, March 6, 2017

Silly Poems by Dawn Pisturino

My Grandmother's Nose

My grandmother's nose was too long for her face
So it lay ninety years on the floor.
It was longer by half than my poor Grandma Grace,
And it weighed not a feather-weight more.

She was scorned on the morn
Of the day that she was born,
But my grandmother took it in stride.
She colored that schnozzola
With a cherry red Crayola
And painted yellow polka dots inside!

April 12, 2012

Raggedy Ann Loses Heart

Raggedy Ann liked to dress up and play
By the fire on a cold winter day.
When flames burned her dress, she cried in distress
As her candy heart melted away.

November 1, 2011

The Postman and the Snail

A postman delivering mail
Was attacked by a slithery snail.
Quickly, he trod on that fierce gastropod,
Fighting him off tooth and nail!

July 19, 2011

The Sailor and the Whale (1)

A sailor who kidnapped a whale
Got the ransom but landed in jail.
"Am I dumb!" said the crumb,
As he sucked on his thumb.
"I shouldn't have sent him by mail!"

July 19, 2011

The Sailor and the Whale (2)

A sailor who kidnapped a whale
Got the ransom but landed in jail.
"Am I dumb!" said the crumb,
As he sucked on his thumb.
"There isn't enough to make bail!"

July 19, 2011

The Man from New York

There was a young man from New York
Who stuffed down a very large pork.
He doubled in size, for he wasn't too wise,
And popped off his head like a cork!

July 11, 2011

Dawn Pisturino
Copyright 2011-2017 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.