Consolation
MINE heart is heavy with an ancient sorrow,
My brain is aching with a clinging grief,
And if I seek to smooth away the furrow
It plougheth in my soul, in the relief
And balminess of Song, the cheat is brief!
One feeling still from which the Past did borrow
Exceeding light, reminds me that the morrow
Must drag me farther from its lost belief.
For solace therefore would I dive with Truth
Into the depths of her remotest lore:
Somewhere in Nature’s motherly breast there’s ruth
Yet for her child though wounded to the core,
Though Life’s first objects may beguile no more
And Misery clothe her with the dreams of youth!
poem by Charles Harpur
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Trench Warfare
From trench to trench
You followed me, to speed
My penance at the midnight hour of life,
Once all was lost, and mine the greater need
You came again, to gloat, and turn the knife.
It’s always been the same
A thrust, then grief;
A few yards forward, then dig in, and damn the cost,
We worried at the borders of belief
To count advantage first, but never loss!
I can’t remember peace,
There’s never been
A time for me when war was not the game,
Each word a bullet, spat from lips that screamed;
You drank your deadly cocktails, then took aim.
‘Til I was sorely wounded,
Sick at heart,
And pounded by the mortars of your mind;
I slept in foxholes, waking with a start
To seek relief in silence, marking time.
While tanks, like thunder
Rolled across my soul
To leave their shadow-tracks upon my brain,
My thoughts were camouflaged, and left untold,
I worked at night, while you explored your pain.
I lost my way, as if
I’d ever known
The forward from the back, the bleak terrain
That you and I once conquered, then disowned
Has left me not a landmark I could claim.
And so to this, the shadow
That at night
Will beckon me toward some ancient death,
When life has lost its paltry appetite
And I, the walking wounded, give it breath.
12 February 1991
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Love, Grief, Death, Peace and Life Make War
Love, grief, death, peace, and life make war.
Within the grasps of victory, here lies grief.
Striving to keep a soul alive, thriving for life
whispers of sanity fade from the sight of death.
An outstretched limb pleading for a touch of peace
as a memory of happiness fills the heart with love.
Controlling senses fester upon a long lost love,
breathing in deep, it’s the smell of a war.
Muffled cries creep into your soul, pleading for peace.
You lick your blood stained lips, tasting the bitter grief.
piercing voices thunder upon the ground, accepting death
as a memory of loneliness fills their heart with an absence of life.
Tears of blood come forth into a dimension of twisted life.
The air, heavy and hot, hover over you ridding the land of any former love.
A chorus of saints and sinners sing to you, singing the song of death,
”O come ye child, come into my arms and rid yourself of this war.
Gather your mind and venture to the morrow, leaving behind this haunting grief,
for it is not your fault that this world does not know peace.”
You close your eyes, feeling the sensation of eternal peace.
You can not move any aching limb, within an inch of life
you follow the scent of reigning mud, caking itself to the world’s own grief.
Wandering past the forgotten lives to seek the one true love
that carries upon it’s shoulders, a burden of war.
This land can no longer hold itself with peace as all the peace has turned to death.
Forging itself upon your spirit, the lies no longer live, now it is only death
that caresses your body like a mother so tender, illuminating the one and only peace.
Taunting you to go and be afraid no more, taunting and taunting, this is war.
With one last plea, you beg and cry for the voices to take your life
as you know that the searching prisms of hope will find your love
and they will abolish the need of any misery and any grief.
Once more do the saints and sinners sing of your grief
only this time, there is no mourning of war and death.
They’ve come to pour into your heart, a sound so divine. It is love.
”Dear child, dear child, no more shall you weep, we are here, we’re your peace.
Come with us to a land so pure, where love is eternal and death is not near. We will give you life.
With a trust so deep, take our hands and no more, no more, shall this be your burden of war.”
In times of sorrow and fear, lost is the value of love and peace.
All is forgotten while caged by grief and watching the slaughter of life.
You watch your fallen brothers, reaching for help, you hear the despair in all their voices.
You’re the saint and sinner, giving them hope.
You cease your thoughts, you must fight on.
You aim your gun, praying for death. This is war.
poem by Mason Letoto
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There's No To-Morrow
Two long had Lov'd, and now the Nymph desir'd,
The Cloak of Wedlock, as the Case requir'd;
Urg'd that, the Day he wrought her to this Sorrow,
He Vow'd, that he wou'd marry her To-Morrow.
Agen he Swears, to shun the present Storm,
That he, To-Morrow, will that Vow perform.
The Morrows in their due Successions came;
Impatient still on Each, the pregnant Dame
Urg'd him to keep his Word, and still he swore the same.
When tir'd at length, and meaning no Redress,
But yet the Lye not caring to confess,
He for his Oath this Salvo chose to borrow,
That he was Free, since there was no To-Morrow;
For when it comes in Place to be employ'd,
'Tis then To-Day; To-Morrow's ne'er enjoy'd.
The Tale's a Jest, the Moral is a Truth;
To-Morrow and To-Morrow, cheat our Youth:
In riper Age, To-Morrow still we cry,
Not thinking, that the present Day we Dye;
Unpractis'd all the Good we had Design'd;
There's No To-Morrow to a Willing Mind.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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Imperfect Song
It may not be a misery to sing at all,
To sing life's imperfect song,
For if us mortals love or sing,
It is what keeps us from our perfect dream
Life's imperfect song goes on day by day,
But our grief may be set best that way,
As if a music box lost its key,
That's is my life long song of Misery
Misery leaves you like a broken frame,
Guilt and sorrow swallows the pain,
You run from it, but knowing that you can't hide,
Until, the day you run insane
As time passes, I watch you grow,
Still refusing to sing of tomorrow,
Your life long song, now complete,
My child don't wish, go to sleep.
Lost in everything
Lost in thought
lost in pain
lost in fear
that you can never retain!
Lost in trouble
lost in grief
lost in heartbreak
that you can never relief!
Lost in sorrow
lost in death
lost in misery
That you can never refresh!
Lost in life
lost in words
lost in everything
That you can never return!
Lost in chaos
lost in peace
lost in burdens
that you can never release!
Because these are the things
we think and feel
through the good and the bad
It's a forever done deal!
poem by Katarina Bowman
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I, Believe
I have never seen or touched GOD,
I have never seen or heard the Sea,
I have never seen or touched the wind,
But in them all, I do believe.
I have never seen a Man kill another,
I have never seen a Man that was not free,
I have never seen a Man to die for love,
But in them, I do believe.
Many Souls have often told me
That surely they do not believe,
In something you feel in your heart and soul,
Unless you can touch it, hear it, and then see.
My Soul has no ears, but it does hear,
My heart has no eyes, but it does see,
My brain knows the difference between right and wrong,
So in many things, I whole heartily believe.
I have never seen or tasted prejudice,
I have never seen or touched creed,
I have never seen or heard death,
But in them, I do believe.
I believe in the things that I cannot see,
Though people tell me they do not exist,
For I see in my heart, and hear it in my soul,
And its belief feels like a gentle kiss,
Oh wonderful Child how you I do envy,
To live my life through your dreams,
To believe with my heart and then the soul,
And everything lived and loved as it seemed,
Child with you, I do believe,
Your world is much better than mine,
You feel with your heart and touch with your soul,
And you don't know of hate, envy or lying.
In dreams and wishes I do believe,
In the impossible and extraordinary I do believe,
In a Child's hopes and thoughts I do believe,
And in the belief of beliefs, I shall always believe.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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The Real And The Ideal
I feel I have - and who has not?
An inner and outer life:
The one may be a dreary lot,
With sorrow and with suff'ring rife;
While in the other may be found
A magic world of fancies fair,
Where brightest dreams of joy abound,
And never enters dark despair.
The life I live may seem to those
Who gaze upon it outwardly
A drear existence, full of woes
And never-ceasing misery;
But in the mystic life of mind,
Abstracted from earth's things of sense,
Oblivious to my grief, I find
A joy exalted and intense.
My outward life is prison-gloomed,
My life of dreams is fancy free;
The one is ever care-consumed,
The other tranquil as can be.
Existence that is sternly real
As mine would crush the heart with grief,
Were it not that the bright ideal
With visioned joy imparts relief.
There's not a joy the world can give,
There's not a bliss the heart has known,
But in the spirit life I live
I have the power to make my own.
I care not what my actual lot
While thus sustained my soul can be;
My sorrows shall be all forgot
In fairest dreams of poesy.
poem by Owen Suffolk
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On The Banks of The Shore
have i wandered too far this time
to feel the presence of Your hand
i cant say that i've been blind
building castles in the sand
seems kinda funny for me to say
words i've said before
feeling's too heavy for me to pray
on the banks of the shore
on the banks of the shore
at the foot of the cross
my heart's aching and sore
and my soul's feeling lost...
could You spare an angel or two
put a rainbow in the sky
just to let me know that You
care if i live or die
maybe i'll get it right this time
find the key to the door
just need some peace of mind
on the banks of the shore
on the banks of the shore
at the foot of the cross
my heart's aching and sore
and my soul's feeling lost
on the banks of the shore
at the foot of the cross
my heart's aching and sore
and my soul's feeling lost....
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Love In The Summer Hills
Love in the summer hills,
With youth to mock at ills,
And kisses sweet to cheat
Our idle tears away.
What else has Time in store,
Till Life shall close the door?
Still let me sing love's lore,
Come sorrow when it may.
Rain on the weeping hills,
With Death to end our ills,
And only thought unsought
To point our joys' decay.
Oh Life is wounded sore
And Grief's mad waters roar.
Yet will I love once more
To--day as yesterday.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Fruit Of The Spirit
Though broken 'neath the weight of grief,
The heart beats on in sorrow.
It seeks to meet some soon relief
But finds none in the morrow.
The heart is crushed; it's bruised to tears
And cannot sense the reason
For life that would but disappear
Before it's own due season.
The child who grew next to my heart,
Transfused such love and laughter;
But soon his young life would depart
Ascending the Hereafter.
Oh, Heart, produce your fruit of grief-
Much sweeter than the vine.
For though you're trampled 'neath the Thief,
You're left to pen these lines.
You must beat on against the foe
For Death must be defeated.
Allow your tears of grief to flow
Until with Christ we're seated.
poem by Jean Mallette
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A Meeting
Queen, widowed Mother of a widowed child,
Whose ancient sorrow goeth forth to meet
Her new-born sorrow with parental feet,
And tearful eyes that oft on hers have smiled,
Will not your generous heart be now beguiled
From its too lonely anguish, as You greet
Her anguish, yet more cruel and complete,
And, through her woe, with woe be reconciled?
Or if this may not be, and all the years
Of love's bereavement be withal too brief
To bring slow solace to still lengthening grief
For loss of One whom distance but endears,
Surely to Both will come some sad relief,
Sharing the comfort of commingled tears.
poem by Alfred Austin
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At Sunset Time
A DOWN the west a golden glow
Sinks burning in the sea,
And all the dreams of long ago
Come flooding back to me.
The past has writ a story strange
Upon my aching heart,
But time has wrought a subtle change,
My wounds have ceased to smart.
No more the quick delight of youth,
No more the sudden pain,
I look no more for trust or truth
Where greed may compass gain.
What, was it I who bared my heart
Through unrelenting years,
And knew the sting of misery's dart,
The tang of sorrow's tears?
'Tis better now, I do not weep,
I do not laugh nor care;
My soul and spirit half asleep
Drift aimless everywhere.
We float upon a sluggish stream,
We ride no rapids mad,
While life is all a tempered dream
And every joy half sad.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Life's Tragedy
It may be misery not to sing at all,
And to go silent through the brimming day;
It may be misery never to be loved,
But deeper griefs than these beset the way.
To sing the perfect song,
And by a half-tone lost the key,
There the potent sorrow, there the grief,
The pale, sad staring of Life's Tragedy.
To have come near to the perfect love,
Not the hot passion of untempered youth,
But that which lies aside its vanity,
And gives, for thy trusting worship, truth.
This, this indeed is to be accursed,
For if we mortals love, or if we sing,
We count our joys not by what we have,
But by what kept us from that perfect thing.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Stay Away and Go Away Pains!
stay away from me
all earthly
joys;
Evenly joy is mine.
Break tender ties and Knots;
Eternal joy is mine.
Dark and the wilderness,
Dove can fear and hide in its nest
Earth has no resting place than own heart,
God alone can bless;
Now bliss is mine. Tempting desires not in my mind
my soul sail away;
moral king Is mine.
Here would I ever stay;
infinite peace is mine.
Toys and things made of clay,
Born and soon worn out
Solid but for a few day,
Life melts and boils some day
only flow but can't burn,
Pass from my heart away;
Guardian is mine.
Farewell, ye dreams of day n night;
Humble Soul of mine.
Lost in this dawning
bright;
Source of all light is mine.
All that my soul has tried
Left but a dismal void;
Lord has satisfied;
Lord of lords is mine.
Farewell, mortal nature;
Eternal love is mine.
Welcome, eternal Truth;
Joy and smile is mine.
Welcome, O Loved and my Beloved, Welcome, sweet events of test,
Welcome, sweet nectar in my breast;
all that sweetness is mine.
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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To-Morrow
When you’re suffering hard for your sins, old man,
When you wake to trouble and sleep ill—
Oh, this is the clack of the middle class,
‘Win back the respect of the people!’
You are weak, you’re a fool, or a drunken brute
When you’re deep in trouble and sorrow;
But walk down the street in a decent suit,
And their hats will be off to-morrow! Old Chap—
And their hats will be off to-morrow!
They cant and they cackle—‘Redeem the Past!’
Who never had past worth redeeming:
Your soul seems dead, but you’ll find at last
That somewhere your soul lay dreaming.
You may stagger down-hill in a beer-stained coat,
You may loaf, you may cadge and borrow—
But walk down the street with a ten-pound note
And their hats will be off to-morrow! Old Man—
Yes, their hats will be off to-morrow!
But stick to it, man! for your old self’s sake,
Though to brood on the past is human;
Hold up for the sake of the mate who was true,
And the sake of the Other Woman.
And as for the rest, you may take off your hat
And banish all signs of sorrow;
You may take their hands, but in spite of that,
Can they win your respect to-morrow? Old Man—
Can they win your respect to-morrow?
poem by Henry Lawson
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So Long Ago
'To thee, who lost a love as I,
Allow this little book of living song
To bring thee solace, and the comfort
That is thine, to know thou livist not alone,
To bear a burden such as mine.
Addie Marketier,1853.'
As if it were a live, hot coal
That seared my heart,
I held this little book of love sonnets
That she had held so long ago.
I turned the pages she had turned. I touched
The teardropp stains on lines of verse
That she had underscored,
And left the pressed rosebud
Where it had lain a century or more.
I thought of what the past had wrought
With images of her soul-grief.
I seemed to feel her presence, as a being
Without shape or form.
A disquieting sensation sat upon my heart,
That she had lived in solitude
Within the shadow of the shatter
Of her dreams.
There is no separation between the soul
And its deep pain, except the grand sweep
Of passing time, which does not erase
But, only softens sorrow.
poem by Lynn W. Petty
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Only a Simple Rhyme
Only a simple rhyme of love and sorrow,
Where 'blisses' rhymed with 'kisses,' 'heart,' with 'dart:'
Yet, reading it, new strength I seemed to borrow,
To live on bravely and to do my part.
A little rhyme about a heart that's bleeding—
Of lonely hours and sorrow's unrelief:
I smiled at first; but there came with the reading
A sense of sweet companionship in grief.
The selfishness of my own woe forsaking,
I thought about the singer of that song.
Some other breast felt this same weary aching;
Another found the summer days too long.
The few sad lines, my sorrow so expressing,
I read, and on the singer, all unknown,
I breathed a fervent though a silent blessing,
And seemed to clasp his hand within my own.
And though fame pass him and he never know it,
And though he never sings another strain,
He has performed the mission of the poet,
In helping some sad heart to bear its pain.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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My Aching Bones
Deep in my soul
all the way to my aching bones.
My love for you is just that strong.
The feeling reaches all the way down
to my aching bones.
It flows through my body
like blood through my veins;
all the way down to my aching bones.
To you my heart, soul and love belongs.
I am yours completely all the way down to
my aching bones.
There's Solace In Verse
A song's but a way of telling a story,
It can be about love even sadness or glory,
Whatever the lyrics you can guarantee,
By singing those words you can set yourself free.
While listening to music be it night or day,
The song takes you over you get carried away
Before you know it you are singing along,
You become that person, the singer of that song.
When you're writing the lyrics ensure they're kept terse,
For that's when you will find,
‘' There's Solace In Verse ''
That's the wonder of music regardless of type,
It makes you feel good you believe all the hype,
A song can lift you when you're feeling grief,
If you need cheering up it will bring you relief.
That's the wonder of music for like it or not,
It stirs up a feeling which just cannot be bought,
Next time you feel down if you just want to cry,
Put on some music go on give it a try.
Before you know it those thoughts will disperse,
Very soon you'll believe,
‘' There's Solace In Verse ''
So become a believer play your favourite song,
If you don't feel the vibes you can say I was wrong,
But that won't happen for I know that it's true,
When you play the right music it will happen to you.
From that special feeling you will not want to hide,
It will change your perspective; it can turn the tide,
Before you know it your life has unfurled,
You'll be back to your best, on top of the world.
In the lyrics and music you will soon immerse,
It's then you'll have learned,
‘‘ There's Solace In Verse ‘'
From Faust - VII. MARGARET, Placing Fresh Flowers In The Flower-Pots.
O THOU well-tried in grief,
Grant to thy child relief,
And view with mercy this unhappy one!
The sword within thy heart,
Speechless with bitter smart,
Thou Lookest up towards thy dying son.
Thou look'st to God on high,
And breathest many a sigh
O'er his and thy distress, thou holy One!
Who e'er can know
The depth of woe
Piercing my very bone?
The sorrows that my bosom fill,
Its trembling, its aye-yearning will,
Are known to thee, to thee alone!
Wherever I may go,
With woe, with woe, with woe,
My bosom sad is aching!
I scarce alone can creep,
I weep, I weep, I weep,
My very heart is breaking.
The flowers at my window
My falling tears bedewed,
When I, at dawn of morning,
For thee these flow'rets strewed.
When early to my chamber
The cheerful sunbeams stole,
I sat upon my pallet,
In agony of soul.
Help! rescue me from death and misery!
Oh, thou well-tried in grief,
Grant to thy child relief,
And view with mercy my deep agony!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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