"I strayed about the deck, an hour, to-night"
I strayed about the deck, an hour, to-night
Under a cloudy moonless sky ; and peeped
In at the windows, watched my friends at table,
Or playing cards, or standing in the doorway,
Or coming out into the darkness. Still
No one could see me.
I would have thought of them
- Heedless, within a week of battle - in pity,
Pride in their strength and in the weight and firmness
And link'd beauty of bodies, and pity that
This gay machine of splendour 'ld soon be broken,
Thought little of, pashed, scattered. . . .
Only, always,
I could but see them - against the lamplight - pass
Like coloured shadows, thinner than filmy glass,
Slight bubbles, fainter than the wave's faint light,
That broke to phosphorus out in the night,
Perishing things and strange ghosts - soon to die
To other ghosts - this one, or that, or I.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1915)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Self Pity
Nothing is fair outside the gates of Eden
She cries and cries and can't see it's self pity
Why me? Why not you?
Upon the ships of rebellion she sighs
Pride languishes its depraved armies
The battle cry blows with trumpets of woe
They lower the casket into the dust
Who can stand before the throne of light
Take your golden idols and pawn them
Images of happiness and success fail
Promises of the perfect life crumble
Her sanity is nothing but a sham
Soldiers lay dying shot in the head
Prisons fill with the petty outlaw
refugees flee the great war machines
Silver eyes peer in the night of ghosts
Silence haunts her empty hall ways
Castles filled with lonely portraits
The past is always becoming a museum
Life is a march into choices
Between two eternities we grovel
Look at the stars and marvel
Hear the broken hearted and comfort
Leave your self pity for the lost shadows
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Ionicus
With failing feet and shoulders bowed
Beneath the weight of happier days,
He lagged among the heedless crowd,
Or crept along suburban ways.
But still through all his heart was young,
A courage, a pride, a rapture, sprung
Of the strength and splendour of England's war.
From ill-requited toil he turned
To ride with Picton and with Pack,
Among his grammars inly burned
To storm the Afghan mountain-track.
When midnight chimed, before Quebec
He watched with Wolfe till he morning star;
At noon he saw from Victory's deck
The sweep and splendour of England's war.
Beyond the book his teaching sped,
He left on whom he taught the trace
Of kinship with the deathless dead,
And faith in all the Island race.
He passed : his life a tangle seemed,
His age from fame and power was far;
But his heart was night to the end, and dreamed
Of the sound and splendour of England's war.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Haunted
THE house is haunted; when the little feet
Go pattering about it in their play,
I tremble lest the little one should meet
The ghosts that haunt the happy night and day.
And yet I think they only come to me;
They come through night of ease and pleasant day
To whisper of the torment that must be
If I some day should be, alas! as they.
And when the child is lying warm asleep,
The ghosts draw back the curtain of my bed,
And past them through the dreadful dark I creep,
Clasp close the child, and so am comforted.
Cling close, cling close, my darling, my delight,
Sad voices on the wind come thin and wild,
Ghosts of poor mothers crying in the night--
'Father, have pity--once I had a child!'
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Ghost Of The New World
'_There are no ghosts in America._'
There are no ghosts, you say,
To haunt her blaze of light;
No shadows in her day,
No phantoms in her night.
Columbus' tattered sail
Has passed beyond our hail.
What? On that magic coast,
Where Raleigh fought with fate,
Or where that Devon ghost
Unbarred the Golden Gate,
No dark, strange, ear-ringed men
Beat in from sea again?
No ghosts in Salem town
With silver buckled shoon?
No lovely witch to drown
Or burn beneath the moon?
Not even a whiff of tea,
On Boston's glimmering quay.
O, ghostly Spanish walls,
Where brown Franciscans glide,
Is there no voice that calls
Across the Great Divide,
To pilgrims on their way
Along the Santa Fe?
Then let your Pullman cars
Go roaring to the West,
Till, watched by lonelier stars,
The cactus lifts its crest.
There, on that painted plain,
One ghost will rise again.
Majestic and forlorn,
Wreck of a dying race,
The Red Man, half in scorn,
Shall raise his haughty face,
Inscrutable as the sky,
To watch our ghosts go by.
What? Is earth dreaming still?
Shall not the night disgorge
The ghosts of Bunker Hill
The ghosts of Valley Forge,
Or, England's mightiest son,
The ghost of Washington?
No ghosts where Lincoln fell?
No ghosts for seeing eyes?
I know an old cracked bell
Shall make ten million rise
When one immortal ghost
Calls to the slumbering host.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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The Ghosts of the Sea
The ghosts of the sunken ships remember the fog,
Reminiscent of the danger of a wild, mad dog.
Hidden it the darkness it came into the night,
everyone aboard the sailing ship became affright.
They lost their way in that thick cloud as they fell the rhythm of the waves,
They could hear the water as it crashed against the shore and the caves.
Before the sailor knew it they were in the sea among the rolling, foaming crests,
The deep sea was calling them as the waves broke across their breasts.
The high seas had taken another ship as it lay battered among the rocks, moving
slowly with tide,
Softly they could hear the whispering of the fog as it spoke to the ocean wide.
The ghosts of the sea beckon as the ocean becomes a sheet of glass,
The fog has lifted and the ghosts for the deep invite the ships who would dare pass.
poem by Ron Dawson
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How Wide The Dawn
How wide the Dawn
Is smiling!
How silent-new
The air is breathing!
How raw the sea
Without a wave
Is looking!
And in the night –
Id est last night
How strange
The owl chanteth!
How far, how far
Its cry did seem
And yet
It was so near!
How thrilled the tree
Below my lighted window
And in the night
The solemn night
The owl was still a-calling
To spirits wild
Perhaps
Or long white ghosts
Perhaps!
And in the eyes
Of the pale moon
The lake nearby glistened:
How white
How thin
The rays that fall
In midst of the dark waters!
And from the lake
A soundless sound
Is coming:
For in the waves
And from the waves
There comes a little gurgling
And in the night
In the long night
The owl is speaking, speaking!
Ah! this night – in the night
The people in the house
Are all a-sleeping
I – only I
The vigil, the night-vigil
Am making:
And I
And only I
Will my reward receive
For I
And only I
Am seeing
For I
And only I
Am hearing
And I
And only I
Am feeling!
How strange how sere
The feeling!
How from the clear night
The mist of sudden riseth!
And from afar
Past ten long fields
The cemetery is burning
With the pale light
Of the swift moon
That fall
On every wall
This long, long night!
It seems
It seems
That the cemetery’s open:
And yet
And yet
There is no noise
No sound
But from the yews
A soundless sound
Is coming:
A restless sound
Like souls
This night all-aching
And restless
Restless
At some thing
I am not hearing!
Ha! We on earth
Make prisons
And lodge
Bodies – human bodies in them:
And we on earth
Make cemeteries
And lodge
Bodies – human bodies in them
And the long night
Under the light
Of heaven
How waning-blue
And tight
Is coming!
So:
At long last
We fall into a prison
If not the one
In fine to the other
And at the last
And in the last
We enter our last prison:
And in the night
The long and lonely night
The cemetery is shining!
poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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Benghazi Graves -2012
As the light dawns
On knights in graves
Who fought
For cause
Not known
Not known, to them
For whom they fought
And seventy years hence,
On a dark moonless night
Those vivid shadows
Overtook the darkness of moonless night
Razed, ravaged those graves
Whose habitants home had made
Prayed they
Oh Lord!
Direct them
With gumption.
Help them leave their bodies
In environs
Where
Their childhood was not plundered
poem by Sanjay Mehta
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Pity, pity, pity
Look at to the unwanted child
Look at to the divorced wife
Look at to the homeless man
What people do other than saying
“Pity, pity, pity”
Look at to the tragic hero
Look at to the sympathized villain
Look at to the clueless victim
What witnesses do other than staring
“Pity, pity, pity”
Look at to the crazy dreamer
Look at to the unlucky gambler
Look at to the stubborn fighter
What friends do other than whispering
“Pity, pity, pity”
Look at to the withering flower
Look at to the starving animal
Look at to the extinct nature
What human do other than howling
“Pity, pity, pity”
Look at to the empty spaces
Look at to the blank faces
Look at to the lost traces
What devils do other than laughing
“Pity, pity, pity”
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Moonless Night
The air is cold in this moonless night
its so beautiful
this moonless night
the night for an eclipse
three years of waiting for this night is so wonderfull
the beauty of this world
you never want to end this moment
of joy
this moonless night is wonderful
with you here
i will never forgett this night
with the cool waves and the beautiful moonless night sky.....
poem by Aurora Lockwood
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The darkness of my soul
My soul is dark.
Darker than the night sky on a moonless night.
Darker than my room on a moonless night.
If I shall die on this moonless night.
My soul shall rise nor fall within the darkness of the night.
Without any light in the sky of this moonless night.
poem by Charles Howard
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Faith II
THROUGH the long night, the deathlong night,
Along the dark and haunted way,
I knew your hidden face was bright--
More bright than any day.
And when the faint, insistent moan
Rose from some weed-grown wayside grave,
I said, 'I do not walk alone;
'Tis easy to be brave.
I never turned to speak with you,
For all the way was dark and long,
But all the shadows' menace through
Your silence was my song.
I never sought to take your hand,
For all the way was long and rough;
I taught my soul to understand
That love was strength enough.
Then, suddenly, the ghosts drew near,
A ghastly, gliding, tomb-white band;
I called aloud for you to hear,
My hand besought your hand.
No voice, no touch--the thin ghosts glide
Where in my dream I dreamed you were--
Night, night, you are not by my side,
You never have been there!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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This Desirable Mansion
THE long white windows blankly stare
Across the sodden, tangled grass,
Weed-covered are the pathways where
No footsteps ever pass;
No whispers wake, no kisses die,
No laughter thrills the dwindling flowers,
Only the night hears sigh on sigh
From ghosts of long-dead hours.
None come here now to laugh or weep;
The spider spins on stair and hall,
And round the windows shadows creep,
And loathly creatures crawl.
Cold is the hearth; the door is fast;
No guest the silent threshold sees
Save ghosts out of the happy past,--
And one who is as these.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Shadows
The rising of the moon wakes up the shadows
and commands them to emerge from the dark.
The daylight shadows are disappearing fast
with the sparrows the dove and the lark.
As always the light makes way for darkness
as it’s chased from night’s time and space.
The dark shapes seek out those of the light,
at this hour there’s no hiding place.
The shadows of the darkness will not submit,
away from the light they’re there.
Instinctively they wait until it’s eerie
then venture where nothing else dare.
After a night of changing shape and haunting
the shadows themselves feel fear.
The daylight is coming up on the horizon
and the night shadows flee and disappear.
poem by Orlando Belo
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A Winter Romance
The air cold, crisp to the lung
Breath circles skyward bound
Days fall short, shadowed by the night
Nature climbing into hibernation
Trees standing bare, flowers wilt away
A world still beautiful to the eye
Yet emptied of all its colour
Still my heart it does rejoice
Warmed by another’s kind grace
A muse of such beauty to the soul
Playing out this winter romance
Early evening the moon stands proud
Casting its light through windows
The streets line solitary in shadows
There is not a care but for love
But for love there is not a care
All the beauty of a romantic thought
Is shared amongst friends
A winter romance begins
The beauty of the season
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Lakota
Words by joni mitchell
Music by larry klein and joni mitchell
I am lakota!
Lakota!
Looking at money man--
Diggin the deadly quotas--
Out of balance--
Out of hand
We want the land!
Lay down the reeking ore!
Dont you hear the shrieking in the trees?
Everywhere you touch the earth--shes sore
Every time you skin her all things weep
Your money mocks us--
Restitution--what good can it do? --
Kennelled in metered boxes
Red dogs in debt to you
I am lakota!
Lakota!
Fighting among ourselves
All we can say with one whole heart
Is we wont sell--
No well never sell
We want the land!
The lonely coyote calls
In the woodlands--footprints of the deer
In the barrooms--poor drunk bastard falls
In the courtrooms--deaf ears--sixty years
You think were sleeping--but
Quietly like rattlesnakes and stars
We have seen the trampled rainbows
In the smoke of cars
I am lakota
Brave
Sun pity me
I am lakota
Broken
Moon pity me
I am lakota
Grave
Shadows stretching
Lakota
Oh pity me
I am lakota
Weak
Grass pity me
I am lakota
Faithful
Rocks pity me
I am lakota
Meek
Standing water
Lakota
Oh pity me
I am lakota!
Lakota!
Standing on sacred land
We never sold these black hills
To the missile-heads--
To the power plants
We want the land!
The bullet and the fence--broke lakota
The black coats and the booze--broke lakota
Courts that circumvent--choke lakota
Nothing left to lose
Tell me grandfather
You spoke the fur and feather tongues--
Do you hear the whimpering waters
When the tractors come?
Repeat chorus
Sun pity me
Mother earth
Mother
Moon pity me
Father sky
Father
Shadows
Stretching on the forest floor
Mother earth
Oh pity me
Father sky
Father
Grass pity me
Mother earth
Mother
Rocks pity me
Father sky
Father
Water
Standing in a wakan manner
Mother earth
Oh pity me
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Denial
for every tear
that we shed
on the grave of
our loved one
another soul
up there
becomes restless
disturbed.
do not cry anymore.
let them have the
needed rest.
you must learn
to forget and learn
to live
your own life
of loneliness
the woman
standing next
to the grave
of your husband
mourns too
fighting her own
battle of
loneliness
look at her
she is broken
too with so much
sorrow
pity, have pity on her.
pity, have pity on yourself too
why should one be overwhelmed with so much sorrow?
when happines lurks just behind you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Nothing More Than A Memory
Outside in the pouring rain
I walked the lonely streets and searched in vain
Every corner of every street
And every doorway where we used to meet
As I turned to walk away I could swear I saw your face
Long into the night I see
Shadows dancing alone with me
I know it must be
Nothing more than a memory
I try to keep my hurt inside
With some resemblance of my broken pride
Ive done everything that I can do
I cant face the thought of losing you
And as I turn to walk away
I thought I saw your face again
Long into the night
People say that Im crazy
Im being weak when I should be strong
Ive got to pull myself back together before too long
song performed by by Paul Carrack
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ghostly Plateau
Ghosts make across the plateau due to their skill at being wanderers of great precision. Their ghoulishness makes a point for those on the plateau, so snowy now that we have ghosts. Ghost after ghost made journeys too long ago, too far away are their destinations, forming pity and concern. These graves remove the ghosts’ laughter, for the death of a young person is like theirs.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Lover And The Gamber
She sat on a bar stool,
her long legs dangling there,
drinking a coloured mix,
they called The Country Fair.
He sat at a table,
deck of cards in his hand,
laying them down for a game of solitaire,
the lover and the gambler.
For a brief few seconds,
as they looked around,
their eyes met in sweet seduction,
in that smoky bar downtown.
As the evening wore,
and customers began to leave,
it just left the two of them there,
the lover and the gambler.
Now if he played his cards,
close to his chest,
maybe with a bit of luck,
love would do the rest.
They looked again,
with a long lingering look.
She joined him at the table,
watched the hand that he dealt.
Each card was a heart;
cupid caught them both that night.
For now the lover and the gambler,
are now man and wife.
poem by David Harris
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This Too Shall Pass
In the middle of the turbulence surrounding you
These trying times that are so hard to endure
In the middle of what seems to be your darkest hour
Hold fast your heart and be assured
This too shall pass
Like every night that's come before it
He'll never give you more than you can bear
This too shall pass
So in this thought be comforted
It's in His Hands
This too shall pass
The Father knows the tears you cry before they fall
He feels your pain, His heart and yours are one
The Father knows that sorrow's heavy chains are strong
But with His strength, you'll overcome
This too shall pass
Like every night that's come before it
He'll never give you more than you can bear
This too shall pass
So in this thought be comforted
It's in His Hands
This too shall pass
So set your eyes upon the mountain
And lift your hands up to the sky
And let His arms of love surround you
And take you to the other side
This too shall pass
Like every night that's come before it
He'll never give you more than you can bear
This too shall pass
So in this thought be comforted
It's in His Hands
This too shall pass
song performed by by Yolanda Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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