Wasted
Each day another soldier in the van,
Each day a new young worker in the fields,
And every day more plenteous harvest-yields
From human toil, to bless and not to ban -
A better world, upon a better plan.
And, daily strengthening the arms he wields,
And more disdainful of old shifts and shields,
An ever nobler and diviner Man.
But, oh, how few the saved, how small the gain,
How poor the profit as against the cost,
The waste of life potential, vast and fair,
In soul unfructified and starveling brain,
Of Power that might have been, and might be - lost
For want of common food and common air!
poem by Ada Cambridge
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Profit And Loss
Each day a new sword flashes in the van;
Another leader, brave to do or die,
Comes forth, full- furnished for the strife whereby
He gains his growth and stature as a man.
Each day our world, that under the black ban
Of ignorant custom for so long did lie,
Grows bright and brighter, like a clearing sky,
More good and lovely in its wondrous plan.
Yet oh! how few the saved, how small the gain,
How poor the profit as against the cost —
The waste of life, divinely vast and fair,
Potential in starved soul and unfed brain —
The powers that might have been and might be — lost
Only for want of common food and air!
poem by Ada Cambridge
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September 1815
WHILE not a leaf seems faded; while the fields,
With ripening harvest prodigally fair,
In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air,
Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields
His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields
Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware;
And whispers to the silent birds, 'Prepare
Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields.'
For me, who under kindlier laws belong
To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry
Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky,
Announce a season potent to renew,
'Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song,
And nobler cares than listless summer knew.
poem by William Wordsworth
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On An Engraving Of Hindoo Temples
LITTLE the present careth for the past,
Too little—'tis not well!
For careless ones we dwell
Beneath the mighty shadow it has cast.
Its blessings are around our daily path,
We share its mighty spoil,
We live on its great toil,
And yet how little gratitude it hath.
Look on these temples, they were as a shrine
From whence to the far north
The human mind went forth,
The moral sunshine of a world divine—
That inward world which maketh of our clay
Its temporary home;
From whence those lightnings come,
That kindle from a far and better day.
The light that is of heaven shone there the first
The elements of art,
Mankind's diviner part;
There was young science in its cradle nurst.
Mighty the legacies by mind bequeathed,
For glorious were its pains
Amid those giant fanes,
And mighty were the triumphs it achieved
A woman's triumph mid them is imprest
One who upon the scroll
Flung the creative soul,
Disdainful of life's flowers and of its rest.
Vast was the labour, vast the enterprise,
For she was of a race
Born to the lowest place,
Earth-insects, lacking wings whereon to rise.
How must that youthful cheek have lost its bloom,
How many a dream above
Of early hope and love
Must that young heart have closed on like a tomb.
Such throw life's flowers behind them, and aspire
To ask the stars their lore
And from each ancient store
Seek food to stay the mind's consuming fire.
Her triumph was complete and long, the chords
She struck are yet alive;
Not vainly did she strive
To leave her soul immortal on her words.
A great example has she left behind,
A lesson we should take,
Whose first task is to wake
The general wish to benefit our kind.
Our sword has swept o'er India; there remains
A nobler conquest far,
The mind's ethereal war,
That but subdues to civilize its plains.
Let us pay back the past, the debt we owe,
Let us around dispense
Light, hope, intelligence,
Till blessings track our steps where'er we go.
O England, thine be the deliverer's meed,
Be thy great empire known
By hearts made all thine own,
By thy free laws and thy immortal creed.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Harvest
See! the corn again in ear!
How the fields and valleys smile!
Harvest now is drawing near
To repay the farmer's toil:
Gracious Lord, secure the crop,
Satisfy the poor with food;
In thy mercy is our hope,
We have sinned but thou art good.
While I view the plenteous grain
As it ripens on the stalk;
May I not instruction gain,
Helpful, to my daily walk?
All this plenty of the field
Was produced from foreign seeds;
For the earth itself would yield
Only crops of useless weeds.
Though, when newly sawn, it lay
Hid awhile beneath the ground,
Some might think it thrown away
Now a large increase is found:
Though concealed, it was not lost,
Though it died, it lives again;
Eastern storms, and nipping frosts
Have opposed its growth in vain.
Let the praise be all the Lord's,
As the benefit is ours!
He, in seasons, still affords
Kindly heat, and gentle flow'rs:
By his care the produce thrives
Waving o'er the furrowed lands;
And when harvest-time arrives,
Ready for the reaper stands.
Thus in barren hearts he sows
Precious seeds of heav'nly joy;
Sin, and hell, in vain oppose,
None can grace's crop destroy:
Threatened oft, yet still it blooms,
After many changes past,
Death, the reaper, when he comes,
Finds it fully ripe at last.
poem by John Newton
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Fundamental of Liar Chapter CXV: Common Thing
It’s not a kindness of heart
It’s not strong solidarity
It’s just a common thing
It’s not local wisdom
It’s not old tradition
It’s just a common thing
It’s not call of duty
It’s not sense of right
It’s just a common thing
It’s not formal greeting
It’s not automatic response
It’s just a common thing
It’s not a matter of guessing
It’s not a part of instinct
It’s just a common thing
It’s not natural reaction
It’s not act of compassion
It’s just a common thing
It’s not regular news
It’s not lack of awareness
It’s just a common thing
It’s not general knowledge
It’s not piece of memory
It’s just a common thing
It’s not statistic range
It’s not operational standard
It’s just a common thing
It’s not moral excuses
It’s not people ignorance
It’s just a common thing
It’s not public secret
It’s not rhetoric question
It’s just a common thing
It’s not different mindset
It’s not basic solution
It’s just a common thing
It’s not absolute law
It’s not blind obedience
It’s just a common thing
It’s not sweet revenge
It’s not getting even
It’s just a common thing
It’s not constant worry
It’s not planted fear
It’s just a common thing
It’s not usual bickering
It’s not daily fight
It’s just a common thing
It’s not die hard habit
It’s not strange behavior
It’s just a common thing
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Who Should I Write
When I want to write history
Apparently there are many facets that must be written
Side of the Master, winner of the war
Side of Mr. Small, who lost the war
But his position could be reversed
Mr. Little and Mr. Big winners who lost
Winning and losing in war is common
But the victim is always
the common people, who have sacrificed everything
gentlemen for gentlemen
or a victim of the ideas that are still abstract
the problem is not that common people
clothing, food, shelter
and education
poem by Prasetya Utama
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The Record
HE sleeps, his head upon his sword,
His soldier's cloak a shroud;
His church-yard is the open field,--
Three times it has been plough'd:
The first time that the wheat sprung up
'Twas black as if with blood,
The meanest beggar turn'd away
From the unholy food.
The third year, and the grain grew fair,
As it was wont to wave;
None would have thought that golden corn
Was growing on the grave.
His lot was but a peasant's lot,
His name a peasant's name,
Not his the place of death that turns
Into a place of fame.
He fell as other thousands do,
Trampled down where they fall,
While on a single name is heap'd
The glory gain'd by all.
Yet even he whose common grave
Lies in the open fields,
Died not without a thought of all
The joy that glory yields.
That small white church in his own land,
The lime trees almost hide,
Bears on the walls the names of those
Who for their country died.
His name is written on those walls,
His mother read it there,
With pride,--oh! no, there could not be
Pride in the widow's prayer.
And many a stranger who shall mark
That peasant roll of fame,
Will think on prouder ones, yet say
This was a hero's name.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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I Am (Blunt Edge)
i am...
the blunt edge, the jagged rim.
the cold shock of truth,
the common sense statement.
the nuclear missiles dismantled,
and the guns laid down.
the food needed for the hungry,
and the collapse of systems.
i am equal distribution,
the need and right to work.
i am Friday night, and Sunday morning,
the wedding dress put away.
i am education for the poor,
and rehab for the addict.
i am the dignity of death
made by the dignity of life!
i am the rose and the broken mower,
the cow milked every morning.
i am the poetry of the common,
and the sacred ground they walk.
i am the baby born in poverty,
and the chance that must be.
i am the prisoner who did his time,
and the job that he needs.
i am the long haul trucker,
the steel worker, and the nurse.
i am the doctor who runs the clinic
on the poor side of town.
i am the young couple making love,
twenty five years later!
i am the stink of garbage,
the incense, and the candle!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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My Boss
My Boss keeps sporty girls, they say;
His belly's big with cheer.
He squanders in a single day
What I make in a year.
For I must toil with bloody sweat,
And body bent and scarred,
While my whole life-gain he could bet
Upon a single card.
By Boss is big and I am small;
I slave to keep him rich.
He'd look at me like scum and call
Me something of a bitch . . .
Ah no! he wouldn't use that phrase
To designate my mother:
Despite his high and mighty ways,
My Boss is my twin-brother.
Conceived were we in common joy
And born in common pain;
But while I was a brawny boy
My brother stole my brain.
As dumb was I as he was smart,
As blind as he could see;
And so it was, bang from the start
He got the best of me.
I'm one of many in his pay;
From him I draw my dough;
But he would fire me right away
If he should hap to know
A week ago he passed me by;
I heard his wheezing breath,
And in his pouched and blood-shot eye
I saw, stark-staring - Death.
He has his women, cards and wine;
I have my beans and bread.
But oh, the last laugh will be mine
The day I hear he's dead.
Aye, though we shared a common womb
(I gloat to think of it)
Some day I'll stand beside his tomb
And loose my glob and . . . spit.
poem by Robert William Service
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The Forgotten Hungry And Homeless
The forgotten hungry and homeless nowadays to be found everywhere
There are millions of them close to a billion in the bigger World out there
The refugees of drought stricken Lands and of warlords and the homeless of Poverty Street
Basic human rights of them are denied shelter from the weather and enough for to eat
In a Human World where everyone is supposed to be equal after all we breathe in the same air
But the poor and the homeless and the hungry cannot feel that life is very fair
The minority those who are too wealthy people with too much of everything
Are people that many look up to though their praises I cannot sing,
In an egalatarian Human World everyone would have a home to live in
And nobody would be without food and well dressed and not ragged and thin
The poor by the day growing poorer and that does seem a sad thing to say
And the refugee camps of the World are all overcrowded today,
'Tis sad to think that from the poverty of many that a minority does stand to gain
And I with enough of food and shelter have no reason for to complain.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Harmonious Soul
I remember a dark arm after a being of favours,
He was one who owned no common soul;
This food of pride kept the world revolving,
Against all enemies prepared.
In solitude a soul has been sustained,
Then the soul would gaze for unfruitful life;
For so it thought, at a distant scene,
Of a young imagination in the sky.
Now, in this harmonious beginning
I complain with my soul so that I think
A rest is achieved and never demanded,
Over the mountains we echo the images of the soul.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Professor Newcomer
Everyone laughed at Col. Prichard
For buying an engine so powerful
That it wrecked itself, and wrecked the grinder
He ran it with.
But here is a joke of cosmic size:
The urge of nature that made a man
Evolve from his brain a spiritual life --
Oh miracle of the world! --
The very same brain with which the ape and wolf
Get food and shelter and procreate themselves.
Nature has made man do this,
In a world where she gives him nothing to do
After all -- (though the strength of his soul goes round
In a futile waste of power.
To gear itself to the mills of the gods) --
But get food and shelter and procreate himself!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Lonely Soldier And An Enemy
The soldier cleaned his gun in anticipation
for the battle he would be fighting. His mind
was focused on his job. His heart was centred
on his illusions. Lonely soldier in a uniform
without a mind of his own. His officers
received their orders from somewhere else,
from men and women who were fighting a
war of greed. Death was nothing more then
a statistic which would be tabulated and
toned down for the media. Not good to let
the world know the actual cost of human
life in the adventure. A tear fell from his
eyes at the thought of how many men he
had killed. He remembered sitting in his kitchen
talking to his wife and making plans for
the future. That was until somebody
somewhere far away had determined
the future was not his to plan. So he worked
at his task in mind of constant wonder at
the waste he was trained to create. His
entire purpose in life was to kill and so he
killed as best he could. The faces of the
enemy reminded him of himself. Other men
who had sat at home with their wives talking
about their futures together. Such a waste of
young ambition by the old men and women who
sat comfortable in the governments of life.
Lonely soldier surrounded by his comrades
all of whom equally trained to hate and kill.
Ah, but the bands would play and the magic
of hero dust would fall upon the shoulders
of the men at arms. How brave they would
be in the battle with their blood splattered
all over their clean uniforms. The solider knew
he fought for a cause but it was odd that
the cause was never quite explained, save
for speeches on freedom and destruction
and illusions of happiness when the enemy
were all dead. Lonely soldier was startled by
an enemy as he cleaned his gun. The two
men glared at one another wondering who
would die first. Soldier and enemy came to
a major decision. Each stripped off their clothes
and stood naked in front of one another.
Two naked men. Without their uniforms.
Now which of them was the enemy?
poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt
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Harvest For The World
All babies together
Evry one a seed
Half of us are satisfied
The other half of us in need
Loves bountiful in us
Tarnished by our greed
Oh, when will there be a harvest.. for the world?
(harvest for the world)
A nations planted
So concerned with gain
As the seasons come and go, we wont wait in vain
Far too many, feelin the strain
(chorus)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest for the world)
Dress me up for battle
When all I want is peace
Those of us who pay the price
Come home with the least
And nation after nation, tuning into beasts
(chorus)
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest..
song performed by by Duran Duran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paid In Full
There are wars that are to be won
And there are wars to be lost
There are lives to be saved
And there are lives to be lost
But mine will come at a higher cost
There are victories that are deserved
And even in those wins, something is lost
There are deaths that are deemed necessary
Despite that, their honor is never lost
But mine will come at a higher cost
There are people that do not agree
And believe that the world is lost
There are others that say it’s saved
Only if the doubt and negativity are lost
But mine will come at a higher cost
There are soldiers that believe in a cause
And believe that American values are not lost
There are my bothers that fight on the line
And there are the brave ones that we have lost
It is those who have paid the higher cost
poem by C.R. Ebowski
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A Farmer's Value
The worker in the field plays a vital role
Without him to operate the tractors and combines
The crop will not be quickly harvested
Without workers in the field
Supply will diminish; demand will go through the roof
The human will then be carnivorous
Relying solely on the animal for food
Meanwhile, the animal eats the crop
That the worker does not harvest
I appreciate and praise the hard worker
For he is harvesting the crop I consume.
poem by Nick Leary
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Democracy is zera
Democracy is zero
Common man is hero.
Common man is called
Janata janardan
Common man is called
Nara narayan.
Common man is omnipresent
Common man is Omniscient
Common man is omnipotent.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Dispossessed
this heart sees no hope!
eyes see no water to drink
eyes see no food to eat
eyes owning poverty die daily
die daily deemed dead millions!
lips parch taste no relief water
stomach shrinks tastes no food
eyes cloud see no compassion
misericorde starvation is the mercy stroke!
share surplus resources?
share surplus life food?
or waste surplus drive up prices?
stiletto needle wealth controls markets!
this soul thirsts
this soul hungers
still no place is found
still no place within world to reside!
death abides death abides?
soul cry soul cry soul cry out to heaven?
starvation plea mounts up appeals to throne in heaven?
the poor are always with us condemning indifference!
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Common Language
Common Language
The common language of Earth and galaxies everywhere,
is Soul Language, which sentient beings all do share.
Share their thoughts about conflict and strife,
bring back “peace” and end killing of life.
Life of course cannot die,
but can be needs to be respected, cherished and not denied.
Like Peter of Galilee,
was speaking Soul Language to 1,000 people times 3.
They all knew what he had said,
Pilgrims followed the teachings in which they were lead,
and became followers of The Way,
teachings for daily living of Jesus on that Pentecost Sunday.
Now nations of Earth can speak from a common ground,
hear the purist voice in the purist form without a sound.
Soul language has the presence of the divine,
it’s wisdom is used in Soul Language all the time.
Soul language can heal the conflict of the nations
Of Earth, make had a new world view in it’s rebirth.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on August 19,2011
www.purplepoems.com www.christinasunrise.com
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Limit
Tempo!
Limit;
My brain,
Your brain,
Einstein's brain! !
In common,
But, to drive us apart with negative minds.
Tempo!
Limit;
My brain,
Your brain,
Einstein's brain! !
In common,
But to hold us together with positive works.
Toad, load, road, broad!
Ignominious,
Tent, intent;
test, attest;
Mutter, butter, cutter, utter, gutter, putter! !
But, let us all try to do positive works only in this life.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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