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In Memoriam A. H. H. 116

Is it, then, regret for buried time
That keenlier in sweet April wakes,
And meets the year, and gives and takes
The colours of the crescent prime?
Not all: the songs, the stirring air,
The life re-orient out of dust,
Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust
In that which made the world so fair.
Not all regret: the face will shine
Upon me, while I muse alone;
And that dear voice, I once have known,
Still speak to me of me and mine:

Yet less of sorrow lives in me
For days of happy commune dead;
Less yearning for the friendship fled,
Than some strong bond which is to be.

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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In Memoriam A. H. H.: Is it, then, regret for buried time

Is it, then, regret for buried time
That keenlier in sweet April wakes,
And meets the year, and gives and takes
The colours of the crescent prime?
Not all: the songs, the stirring air,
The life re-orient out of dust,
Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust
In that which made the world so fair.
Not all regret: the face will shine
Upon me, while I muse alone;
And that dear voice, I once have known,
Still speak to me of me and mine:

Yet less of sorrow lives in me
For days of happy commune dead;
Less yearning for the friendship fled,
Than some strong bond which is to be.

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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That The Rain Rains On

I stand by the grave the old-time grave

In the drift of the falling rain ;
My heart goes back to an afternoon

In the spring of life again,
When mother was carried the churchyard thro',

When April was dead and gone ;
And a voice said ' Happy, happy, happy,

Happy the corpse that the rain rains on.'

My heart went back much further yet,

To a time when mother and I
Stood out on the wet and the shining grass,

While above was the clearing sky ;
She plucked a lilac all drooping wet

And dark with its perfume on,
' The lilac is sweet the lilac is sweet,

The lilac is sweet that the rain rains on.'

Boy as I was when mother died,

I stole thro' the creeping wet,
And placed in her dear white hands a bunch

Of lilacs and mignonette ;
And the rain fell soft in the May morn light

Her glistening coffin on ;
And the voice said ' Happy, happy, happy,

Happy tbe corpse that the rain rains on.'

poem by Robert Kirkland Kernighan
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Little Queen

Do you remember the name I wore –
The old pet-name of Little Queen –
In the dear, dead days that are no more,
The happiest days of our lives, I ween?
For we loved with that passionate love of youth
That blesses but once with its perfect bliss, -
A love that, in spite of its trust and truth,
Seems never to thrive, in a world like this.

I lived for you, and you lived for me;
All was centred in “Little Queen”;
And never a thought in our hearts had we
That strife or trouble could come between,
What utter sinking of self it was!
How little we cared for the world of men!
For love’s fair kingdom, and loves’ sweet laws,
Were all of the world and life to us then.

But a love like ours was a challenge to fate;
She rang down the curtains and shifted the scene;
Yet sometimes now, when the day grows late,
I can hear you calling for Little Queen;
For a happy home and a busy life
Can never wholly crowd out our past;
In the twilight pauses that come from strife,
You will think of me while life shall last.

And however sweet the voice of fame
May sing to me of a great world’s praise,
I shall long sometimes for the old pet-name
That you gave to me in the dear, dead days;
And nothing the angel band can say,
When I reach the shores of the great Unseen,
Can please me so much as on that day
To hear your greeting of “Little Queen.”

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Try Me One More Time

I took away your reality
I took away all your memories
I gave up all the bliss that was made for you
And now I'm sad cause I missed the time
And now I'm sad cause my words were dying
Now that I'm grown and alone
I see my own silent crime
Tonight I drown in pain and beg you please
Just try me one more time
Chorus:
Try me one more time
It takes a mile or a miracle
It takes some tears just for me to tell
It takes a year and fear
To open up my soul for you
With you I'm blessed and you are divine
You turned my life from water to wine
You wame my sleep, are my sun to me
That I need to shine
So I regret, will not forget what I did
So try me one more time
Chorus:
Can't tell you why I could do it
Can't tell you why you should face it
Can't tell you why I could lose it
Can't tell you why you should try it
Why - why - why - just can't tell you why
But please, but please, but please, but please...
Chorus:

song performed by by H-BlockX
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Christmas Past

Oh happy days, the snow fell over-night,
we have a white Christmas in our sight.
Only a few more days and nights,
Christmas will shine bright of white.

Remember those beautiful Christmas Eves,
when we gathered round our colorful trees.
Remember when we caroled down the street,
sang Christmas songs oh so sweet.

Memories are precious let’s not forget,
don’t do anything you might regret.
Christmas is the time of year to share,
to treasure family far and near.

This Christmas with the lights shining bright,
reflecting God’s blanket of white.
Sing sweet songs in memory,
past Christmas’s history.

Written: Dec.14/06

poem by Melvina Germain
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Days Of Our Lives

How many times have you walked through my door
How many times have you heard my song before
How many lines until the end of time
These are the days of our lives
How many times did you hear mother say
You would do fine if you didn't sleep all day
Oh mother dear, I'll get a job next year
These are the days of our lives
How many times did you walk down the street
Avoiding cracks that were thrown at your feet
These rainy days were sent to make us pay
But these are the days of our lives
How many roads must a woman walk down
How many walls will surround the town
All that I am could get us out of here
These are the days of our lives
Did you believe in the stories at night
Weren't you afraid when they turned out the light
Oh, such a gas, I'm sorry it won't last
These are the days of our lives
These are the days that some of us regret
These are the days we learn to forget
These are the days that turn us out this way
These are the days of our lives
Of our lives

song performed by by Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Old Year And The New

I.

As one in sorrow looks upon
The dead face of a loyal friend,
By the dim light of New Year's dawn
I saw the Old Year end.

Upon the pallid features lay
The dear old smile--so warm and bright
Ere thus its cheer had died away
In ashes of delight.

The hands that I had learned to love
With strength of passion half divine,
Were folded now, all heedless of
The emptiness of mine.

The eyes that once had shed their bright
Sweet looks like sunshine, now were dull,
And ever lidded from the light
That made them beautiful.

II.

The chimes of bells were in the air,
And sounds of mirth in hall and street,
With pealing laughter everywhere
And throb of dancing feet:

The mirth and the convivial din
Of revelers in wanton glee,
With tunes of harp and violin
In tangled harmony.

But with a sense of nameless dread,
I turned me, from the merry face
Of this newcomer, to my dead;
And, kneeling there a space,

I sobbed aloud, all tearfully:--
By this dear face so fixed and cold,
O Lord, let not this New Year be
As happy as the old!

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Romance Is Dead

A glass of cheap vodka tastes just like depression -
It hurts to be sober tonight.
The mirror reflects such a hideous expression
That I promptly turn off the light.
Some porno, then casual sex with my hand...
Oh damn! This is something I shouldn't have said.
Why don't you believe that I need no boyfriend -
No problems, no worries, no tears, no regret?

Romance is dead,
And so am I,
I can't forget
My perfect lie.
I still recall
The times we had.
Oh well, that's all.
Romance is dead.

I can't fall asleep, so I get on the net,
Where I claim to be an online super-wh-,
I find guys like you just to make them all fret,
My tease makes them want me, but they can't get more
Than flirt for some minutes, some sexual tension
And then disconnect. Their muse disappears.
I've had a good time with these cruel intentions -
Enough for today. See you later, my dear.

Romance is dead,
And so am I,
I can't forget
My perfect lie.
I still recall
The times we had.
Oh well, that's all.
Romance is dead.
Romance is dead!

You say it is stupid, it doesn't make sense,
But you are the first to have buried romance.

poem by April Avalon
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April, Dear April

April, dear April, I beg you come soon –
And bring your sweet primroses too.
Let them join in with the daffodils’ play,
As skies offer sunshine anew.

April, dear April, my blessed spring child,
Ornate in your yellow and white,
Teasing the birds into trilling their songs
And dancing to music of flight.

April, dear April, come enter my dreams
And rid me from cold winter chills.
Banish the rain and those blustery winds
And warm up our countryside hills.

April, dear April, I know you can’t stay -
You have to move on ‘till next year.
And though I shall cherish the glory of summer,
You’ll always be my month most dear.

From: Succumbed to Thinking by Mark Raymond Slaughter, lulu.com
Copyright © Mark Raymond Slaughter 2009
All rights reserved

April April April April
April April April April
April April April April

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Moon Does Not Regret Her Winter

The moon does not regret her winter,
Or the torn strands of gray chiffon
That cover her face tonight.

As this dew shelters the dry grass like tears,
And shadows of dark leaves
Wait to wither into morning,
The moon fades,
A goddess,
Empty of desire or light.

No, the moon does not regret
This burial of love.
In the coldness of her solitude,
She will not weep tears of rust,
Or betray herself with petty despair.

The moon does not regret dust,
Or the accumulation of her years,
Or this sadness beneath salt, beneath bone.

She has her own time and place,
that which is eternal surrounds her.
When full, she is round and cold
and then she narrows, changes into perfect crescent.

You were like the moon, I never understood
the subtle ways in which you changed.
I only know that like the moon at crescent,
I, too, have lost three-quarters of myself.

poem by Velene Campbell
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Friendship with Roses

Friendship with All red roses
Gain n only gain without any losses
Bond for life in strain or happiness
Always smiles wore on your face

Thousands of cheers for cherishing bond
Even loved by god and always fond
Flowers speak and fragrance is spread
I see the messages between lines to read

Why flowers only and no nature?
Why no stars and sky for sure?
All take us to the different shore
Where joy and only joy to explore

Who will say no to friendship?
Who will not sail along on ship?
Hands to wave and cheers to air
Love and friendship is simply fair

Friends may last but not their love
It will behold and successfully drive
No difference or feelings at any turn
Joy and happiness is surely to return

Day may speak for years to come
We all may speak with one voice and welcome
Let it stay for ever in all the gardens
Even if looses charm or any stand hardens

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Unto This Last

They brought my fair love out upon a bier—
Out from the dwelling that her smile made sweet,
Out from the life that her life made complete,
Into the glitter of the garish street—
And no man wept, save I, for that dead dear.
And then the dark procession wound along,
Like a black serpent with a snow-white bird
Held in its fangs. I think God said a word
To death, as He in His chill heaven heard
Her voice so sweeter than His seraph’s song.

And so Death took away her flower-sweet breath
One darkest day of days in a dark year,
And brought to that strong God who had no fear
My own dear love. Ah, closed eyes without peer!
Ah, red lips pressed on the blue lips of Death!

poem by Victor James Daley
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To Daisies

Ah, drops of gold in whitening flame
Burning, we know your lovely name -
Daisies, that little children pull!
Like all weak things, over the strong
Ye do not know your power for wrong,
And much abuse your feebleness.
Daisies, that little children pull,
As ye are weak, be merciful!
O hide your eyes! they are to me
Beautiful insupportably.
Or be but conscious ye are fair,
And I your loveliness could bear,
But, being fair so without art,
Ye vex the silted memories of my heart!

As a pale ghost yearning strays
With sundered gaze,
'Mid corporal presences that are
To it impalpable - such a bar
Sets you more distant than the morning-star.
Such wonder is on you, and amaze,
I look and marvel if I be
Indeed the phantom, or are ye?
The light is on your innocence
Which fell from me.
The fields ye still inhabit whence
My world-acquainted treading strays,
The country where I did commence;
And though ye shine to me so near,
So close to gross and visible sense, -
Between us lies impassable year on year.

To other time and far-off place
Belongs your beauty: silent thus,
Though to other naught you tell,
To me your ranks are rumorous
Of an ancient miracle.
Vain does my touch your petals graze,
I touch you not; and though ye blossom here,
Your roots are fast in alienated days.
Ye there are anchored, while Time's stream
Has swept me past them: your white ways
And infantile delights do seem
To look in on me like a face,
Dead and sweet, come back through dream,
With tears, because for old embrace
It has no arms.

These hands did toy,
Children, with you, when I was child,
And in each other's eyes we smiled:
Not yours, not yours the grievous-fair
Apparelling
With which you wet mine eyes; you wear,
Ah me, the garment of the grace
I wove you when I was a boy;
O mine, and not the year's your stolen Spring!
And since ye wear it,
Hide your sweet selves! I cannot bear it.
For when ye break the cloven earth
With your young laughter and endearment,
No blossomy carillon 'tis of mirth
To me; I see my slaughtered joy
Bursting its cerement.

poem by Francis Thompson
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A Song Of Comfort

"Sleep, weary ones, while ye may --
Sleep, oh, sleep!"
Eugene Field.

Thro' May time blossoms, with whisper low,
The soft wind sang to the dead below:
"Think not with regret on the Springtime's song
And the task ye left while your hands were strong.
The song would have ceased when the Spring was past,
And the task that was joyous be weary at last."

To the winter sky when the nights were long
The tree-tops tossed with a ceaseless song:
"Do ye think with regret on the sunny days
And the path ye left, with its untrod ways?
The sun might sink in a storm cloud's frown
And the path grow rough when the night came down."

In the grey twilight of the autumn eves,
It sighed as it sang through the dying leaves:
"Ye think with regret that the world was bright,
That your path was short and your task was light;
The path, though short, was perhaps the best
And the toil was sweet, that it led to rest."

poem by John McCrae
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Rime 104

O night to me more splendid and more blessed
Than the most blessed and most splendid of days,
Night worthy of the most exalted praise,
Not just of mine, unworthy and distressed,

You alone have been the faithful giver
Of all my joys; you've made the bitter taste
Of this life sweet and dear, for you've replaced
Within my arms the one who's bound me ever.

I just regret that I did not become
Lucky Alemena then, for whom the dawn
Postponed, against all custom, its returning,
But I can never say such good has come
From you, clear night, for even now my song
Cannot subdue the matter of its yearning.

poem by Gaspara Stampa
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The West A Glimmering Lake Of Light

The West a glimmering lake of light,
A dream of pearly weather,
The first of stars is burning white -
The star we watch together.
Is April dead? The unresting year
Will shape us our September,
And April's work is done, my dear -
Do you not remember?

O gracious eve! O happy star,
Still-flashing, glowing, sinking! -
Who lives of lovers near or far
So glad as I in thinking?
The gallant world is warm and green,
For May fulfils November.
When lights and leaves and loves have been,
Sweet, will you remember?

O star benignant and serene,
I take the good to-morrow,
That fills from verge to verge my dream,
With all its joy and sorrow!
The old, sweet spell is unforgot
That turns to June December;
And, tho' the world remembered not,
Love, we would remember.

poem by William Ernest Henley
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Irresistable Force

In the name of love and life
Turn your face to the lonely night
But you're not alone when she calls you home
And this your world is on the edge
As good as lost but you know the way
Through this faceless town and she pulls me down
I know the place and the time (of our lives)
So long ago, and all through the years (never dies)
All things must pass
Irresistible force meets an immovable object and
Human animal madness and blood starts to flow
Invisible fingers and indescribable pleasure
I get to find my personal god
I get to find my personal god
God of love, God of gold
Ring of fire in the days of old
It's what I'm living for
And love's the only law
So answer mayday SOS
Search me north south east or west
It's all I miss, just the one last kiss
This is goodbye to the days (of our lives)
My fair-weather friend
I feel your sorrow and tears (they are mine)
I share to the end
Irresistible force meets an immovable object and
Human animal magic, how far can you go
The rolling of thunder and you decide what your after
I get to find my personal god
I get to find my personal god
I surrender all or nothing
You must spread your wings and fly
I know the place and the time (of our lives)
My fair-weather friend
I feel your sorrow and tears (they are mine)
I share to the end
When an irresistible force meets an immovable object
Human animal madness and blood starts to flow
There's bound to be a heartbreak
You make it the hard way
I surrender all or nothing
You must spread your wings and fly

song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Beauty Hint

Sweet, think how much the better it would be
If you thro' life should thus preserve your beauty.
It really doesn't matter much to me;
But don't you think you owe the world a duty,
And don't you think that thro' some kindly thought -
Of me, for instance - beauty were well bought?

Those wrinkles on your face, dear,
Those bags beneath your eyes
Are but the evil trace, dear,
Of temper, spite and lies.
Why can't you be a saint, dear,
Like dear old Joan of Arc;
Be pleasant - which you ain't, dear,
And do not be a nark.

Consider, sweetheart, if you smiled always
How much, thro' weeks, your face might be improving;
In place of which, in these unhappy days,
You go to beauty shops for the removing
Of wrinkles, blemishes and ugly warts.
Why, when a smile will serve, seek these resorts?

Why can't you raise a grin, sweet,
And be a little beauty?
For ugliness is sin, sweet,
And loveliness a duty.
So, for my sake, why can't you make
An effort to he glad.
Just think of me and joyful be;
For I am not too bad.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Merry Christmas, My Dear

My Dear...
Merry Christmas to you
We're apart that's true
Wish I could be there with you
On Christmas Eve
Kissing under the mistletoe
Merry Christmas my dear
Happy new year too
I've just one wish on this Christmas Eve
I wish I were with you

Oh, How I wish you could see
The lights on my tree
The snowman I made outside
It looks bad but at least I tried
Share with me this time of grace
Oh, How I miss your embrace
The smile on your face
and the smell of your hair
Life isn't fair
It's the most wonderful time of the year
How I wish you were near
I wish you a Merry Christmas
And a happy new year

poem by Abdulaziz Almontashri
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In Early Spring

O Spring, I know thee! Seek for sweet surprise
In the young children's eyes.
But I have learnt the years, and know the yet
Leaf-folded violet.
Mine ear, awake to silence, can foretell
The cuckoo's fitful bell.
I wander in a gray time that encloses
June and the wild hedge-roses.
A year's procession of the flowers doth pass
My feet, along the grass.
And all you sweet birds silent yet, I know
The notes that stir you so,
Your songs yet half devised in the dim dear
Beginnings of the year.
In these young days you meditate your part;
I have it all by heart.
I know the secrets of the seeds of flowers
Hidden and warm with showers,
And how, in kindling Spring, the cuckoo shall
Alter his interval.
But not a flower or song I ponder is
My own, but memory's.
I shall be silent in those days desired
Before a world inspired.
O dear brown birds, compose your old song-phrases,
Earth, thy familiar daisies.

The poet mused upon the dusky height,
Between two stars towards night,
His purpose in his heart. I watched, a space,
The meaning of his face:
There was the secret, fled from earth and skies,
Hid in his gray young eyes.
My heart and all the Summer wait his choice,
And wonder for his voice.
Who shall foretell his songs, and who aspire
But to divine his lyre?
Sweet earth, we know thy dimmest mysteries,
But he is lord of his.

poem by Alice Meynell
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