Suffolk
A luscious land of fertile soil,
Upon which there's been years of toil,
The towns and villages appeal,
With somewhat of an old world feel,
Traditionally brewed vintage ale,
Many a bizarre quaint tale,
Out on the broads all is tranquil,
A place to be with time to kill,
Once home of witches and fairies,
Now where to live a life of ease,
A history rearing horses,
Home of the grand national races,
Brilliantly vibrant blue skies,
Folk with Anglo and Celtic ties,
A coast that glows with golden sands,
History built on the fenlands.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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Related quotes
Reflections-11
1 Earth
Good dietician
One fourth mud three fourth water
Fresh, kept up green chaste
2 Land
God-made home for man
Oh, man made Satan invades
Land-made life slumping
3 Soil
Monsoon's friend lush green
Carpeted soil-spread healthy
Beasts dwell happily
4 Bharat
India's prologue
Great grand ancestral expanse
History's proud sigh
poem by Indira Renganathan
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LANDSCAPE WITH FIGURES by carlos bulosan
Homeward again under foreign stars,
history was a strange gush of wind from memory
that came to echo waterfalls of those years:
home to find the place lost among
galaxies of signs. The hills were gone. The river
trail was forgotten... Trying to remember meadowlark
and those who perished in the vanishing land
(bones in the earth where our parents died poor) ,
the journey fell into heavy tides of flowing
scorn that echoed and reechoed time there.
The sun was most unkind to the place:
history: names of men: patterns of life:
all that distant floodtide heaved and moved,
breaking familiar names that immortal tongues
clipped for the heart to cry, 'Home is a foreign address,
every step toward it is a step toward three hundred years
of exile from the truth...'
It was not homeward
to the first known land, nor escape
to white sea sprays blossoming on inland shore,
nor love leaping the boundaries naked in the soul,
but a vast heritage of war and destruction breaking
too soon for the living and willing to die.
Life is a foreign language. Every man mispronounced it...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The History Teacher
Woman!
Where exactly
Did you put me
In the women's history?
Am I History?
Or a part of it?
And for how long you are lacking me in;
Between
Your History,
Women's History, and
Your archives?
Does time make sense to you
As a History teacher or
As a History professor?
Cause', History, buying time, and rejuvenation
Are for emperors.
Are you making me
An emperor?
Or a Faeroe?
If so,
How precise your are?
And if you can't feel my present presence
how possibility could you feel me through your archives?
poem by Atef Ayadi
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The Birth of Celtic
In eighteen hundred and eighty-eight
Brother Walfrid walked along the Gallowgate,
Were immigrants of Ireland walked the streets,
No food in their stomachs, no shoes on their feet.
These souls of the famished Irish nation
Had made their home in Glasgow’s east end,
Ridiculed & provoked by the Protestant majority
Who could not accept the Irish faith & identity.
In Scotland’s east coast, Edinburgh, the capital,
Had saw the rise in the game of football,
Where a team, Hibernian, played under Ireland’s harp,
And brought victory with them onto the park.
And Brother Walfrid, a Marist priest,
Saw poverty prosper in his parish,
He suggested a savior to the Irish nationalist
Who had never seen a ball been kicked on a pitch.
A team would be organized; a stadium would be built,
Players would be sourced who had courage & skill,
And the income generated from watching the team,
Would feed the tables of Irish families & children.
Players were asked, some where even stolen,
From teams like Cowlairs and Renton,
Land was rented that was barren and unkept;
History was about the wake the giant that slept.
Glasgow’s Irish saw Brother Walfrid’s dream come true
As an organized football team now grew,
A Celtic cross was stitched to a white jersey,
As preparations were made for a “friendly”.
Glasgow Rangers, the visitors, took to the field,
Already a threat to the Scottish game,
But the dominance faded for the team in blue,
As the Irish team of Celtic won by a score of 5-2
The birth of Celtic, was Brother Walfrid’s dream,
As history has favoured the bhoys in green,
From the legacy of Jock Stein, to the resurgence of Martin O’Neill,
The passion & commitment can be found on Celtic’s football field.
July'22nd 2003
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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Down South In South Australia
Down south in South Australia in old Port Adelaide
A place of Indigenous history where history has often been made
Home of renowned Australian Rules Footballers men who are known Worldwide
They wore the magpie colours with a certain sense of pride.
In the beautiful Port River the dolphins sport and play
In fancy I can see them in the sunlight of the day
From the pier at Port Adelaide one them often does see
Marvellous memories of such beauty keep on coming back to me.
Those grand old Towns of South Australia by the far southern shore
Port Adelaide and West Lakes, Largs Bay and Semaphore
Fond memories of such beauty one always does retain
And in my flights of fancy I visit there again.
One can only imagine in the warm sunshine and breeze
The very first Australians had their corroborees
Long before the coming of the Europeans many centuries ago
Though little of their history or their ways we do know.
Down south in South Australia in old Port Adelaide
Of there I have great memories and great memories never fade
Of an old place that's full of history and the friendly people who live there
It's famous Football Club and renowned Australian Rules Players are well known everywhere.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The time is coming when the pressure of population on the means of subsistence will be felt here as it is now felt in Europe and Asia. Then will the world enter upon a new stage of its history - the final competition of races, for which the Anglo-Saxon is being schooled.
quote by Josiah Strong
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Canada Our Home
The following response to ' Canada, our Home,' was given
at a banquet of the Caledonian Society, Ingersoll.
In responding to the sentiment, 'Canada, our Home,'
perhaps it would be appropriate to point out the prominent
and distinguishing characteristics between the land of our
nativity and the land of our adoption. In this Canada of ours
we have no bonny blooming heath, no banks and braes covered
o'er with daisies and gowans, no fragrant hedges, showering
down white spray in the May time, no whin and broom,
prodigal in their gayety of yellow flowers ; no hills
nor glens, where fairies gambol in pleasent and harmless sport ;
no grand ruins of ancient cathedrals and castles, no feathered
songsters like the mavis and blackbird.
Full oft we did enraptured hark
To heavenly song of the sky lark.
But Canada is a young giant in its infancy. With the noblest chain
of lakes in the world on its frontier, and the most magnificent river,
the St. Lawrence, this land also possesses the largest fertile
wilderness on the globe ; but it is one which will, o'er many years
have passed away, blossom like a garden, and where naught but
grass and flowers now grow in wild luxuriance, soon the
husbandman will plow and sow and reap a rich reward in yellow,
golden grain.
poem by James McIntyre
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Sown Home Town
The world outside don't like us much,
'Cos they ain't got our classy touch,
But they ain't good enough to breathe,
This towns good air we make 'em leave
CHORUS
But it's no, no, no,
you really can't do that,
No, no, no,
down home town
No monkey business in this town,
Well who do you think you're pushing 'round,
This towns respectable and clean,
Just look around you'll see what I mean
CHORUS Repeat
Down home town
Down home town
Down home town
Down home town
Down home town
Down home town
CHORUS Repeat
We got the best town band around,
Just listen to their crazy sound
When they get hot they gonna blow,
You see them running every show
(I wish I was in the land of Dixie
Look Away...)
Down home town,
Gotta get down
Down home town
Gotta get down
Down home town
Down home town
Down home town
CHORUS
(I wish I was in the land of Dixie
Look Away...)
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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237
LANDSCAPE WITH FIGURES by carlos bulosan
Homeward again under foreign stars,
history was a strange gush of wind from memory
that came to echo waterfalls of those years:
home to find the place lost among
galaxies of signs. The hills were gone. The river
trail was forgotten... Trying to remember meadowlark
and those who perished in the vanishing land
(bones in the earth where our parents died poor) ,
the journey fell into heavy tides of flowing
scorn that echoed and reechoed time there.
The sun was most unkind to the place:
history: names of men: patterns of life:
all that distant floodtide heaved and moved,
breaking familiar names that immortal tongues
clipped for the heart to cry, 'Home is a foreign address,
every step toward it is a step toward three hundred years
of exile from the truth...'
It was not homeward
to the first known land, nor escape
to white sea sprays blossoming on inland shore,
nor love leaping the boundaries naked in the soul,
but a vast heritage of war and destruction breaking
too soon for the living and willing to die.
Life is a foreign language. Every man mispronounced it...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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So history is fertile territory for me and I think I could feel happy with any period of history, provided I had the right sources and the necessary time for the initial research.
quote by Rose Tremain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Tell Me Of Your Australian History
You tell me of your Australian history your ancestors were British and Irish pioneers
But your history in this Land is not an old history just two centuries and twenty years
And in time that may seem quite a long span though the combined life spans of three people nothing more
Your ancestors hardly were Aussies they came here from a distant shore.
The first Australians have lived in this Country for longer than most care to know
Their ancestors came here from Asia more than sixty thousand years ago
They are indigenous to this Country all others have links to elsewhere
Yet they still struggle for recognition and that to me seems quite unfair.
Dispossessed by the Northern invaders they never did get back their Land
And that they are now ruled by white people I find that hard to understand
You talk of the history of this Land as if it were only two hundred years old
But then suppose the history of the ancient Dreamtime by white people will never be told.
I was not even born in this Country which makes you more Aussie than I
And though I'm not Nationalistic or Patriotic my heritage I won''t deny
You talk of your pioneering ancestors but why talk of Human history at all
If the history of the first Australians you do not see fit to recall.
You tell me of your pioneering ancestors but one fact you tend to ignore
That they were not born in this Country they came here from a foreign shore
You''d swear by you the Human history of this Land was only two centuries old
But the true history of this great Country by your type will never be told
poem by Francis Duggan
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Tales of my past
Don't write me down in history,
In reference to my past deeds,
Works I derived no joy from,
Or mistakes of those years.
Don't write me down in history,
The ages gone show little of what I am,
That part of me is truly done,
My dreams now can say it all.
Don't write me down in history,
The lessons of life flows in my blood,
My blunders are now my teachers,
The scars now my daily pledge.
Don't write me down in history,
I am yet to achieve perfection,
Still I strive for redemption,
Searching the soil for my lost glory,
Don't write me down in history,
The tales of my past I recall,
That was then, this is me,
Woes to your judgment.
poem by Venessa Ambrose
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The Rose of England
'Twas a most solemn day
Of that most the world would say.
The Rose of England would pass
Her still form in a gun carriage alas.
Many called it the event of the years
As the cortege the Royal Standard bears.
The clip clop of the horses thru Hyde Park
As on history the Princess leaves her mark.
John Bull's joie de vivre now diminished
It seemed to many that an era had finished.
The clip clop of the horses thru Hyde Park
As on history the Princess leaves her mark.
Yet, even in dying she still lives on
In the heart of many, a love already born.
The clip clop of the horses thru Hyde Park
As on History the Princess leaves her mark.
They'd come from near and far
This massive crowd there'd been no par.
Bless you.Bless you.They cried
For the Queen of their hearts had died.
Many a funeral there had been
But nothing like this the world had seen.
The multitude weepingly lined the way
There was hardly anything you can say.
Two young princes with solemn look
Their precious mother the angels took.
The clip clop of the horses thru Hyde Park
As on History the Princess leaves her mark.
A day one could almost feel wintry's cold
Merry ole England had lost her gold.
Now the winsome princess to be seen no more
Her loving fans no more could adore!
The Queen, Her Majesty, stood at her Palace gate
Had her compassion and caring come too late?
The clip clop of the horses thru Hyde Park
As on History the Princess leaves her mark!
And the bell at the abbey tolls
As the cortege bearing the fallen Rose rolls.
The clip clop of the horses thru Hyde Park
As on History the Princess leaves her mark!
'Twas a day of saddened faces
It seemed the Princess had held all aces.
A flood of tears from the river Thames;
'Twas a time of gloom for the Court of St James.
Do you hear the clip clop of the horses thru Hyde Park
As on History the Princess leaves her mark?
Yes! I hear the clip clop of the horses thru Hyde Park
As on History the Princess leaves her mark!
poem by Enoch John
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Home, Sweet Home
The childhood home wherein children, we stayed;
The cottage old in which we ate and prayed;
The humble garden, on our own, we laid;
The roof that leaked in rain, though rent was paid!
The tranquil place where parents gave us love;
The wonderful compound, where we worked, ‘wow! ’
The trees and plants that grew by heaven’s grace;
The sun, moon, rain, at which we loved to gaze!
That was the lovely place, in which we lived;
The home we kept quite clean and chores were shared;
Our parents slogged for us and deeply cared;
We sometimes fought although amity ruled!
Our father’s strictness taught us good conduct;
Our mother’s fondness disciplined our mind;
The help we rendered, made us feel the warmth;
Home, sweet home, was great despite some faults!
Home, sweet home, brings memories evergreen;
Comfortable, our mother’s house, had been;
Those days were most pleasant, despite our toil;
We lost our hearts upon that very soil!
poem by John Celes
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Black History Month
In January...
There they are making history.
In February...
There they are making history.
In March...
There they are making history.
In April...
There they are making history.
In May...
There they are making history.
In June...
There they are making history.
In July...
There they are making history.
In August...
There they are making history.
In September...
There they are making history.
In October...
There they are making history.
In November...
There they are making history.
In December...
There they are making history.
But...
It's nice to know
The shortest month of the year
Was chosen to celebrate
The great deeds of African-Americans!
However...
It is those LEAP YEARS,
That really have the blacks jumping for joy!
Note: 'Black History Month' along with other
works of interest can be found in...
*'MindPrints from Untouched Places-VOL I'*
~Now available online at a PC near you~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Emigrant’s Address To America
All hail to thee, noble and generous Land!
With thy prairies boundless and wide,
Thy mountains that tower like sentinels grand,
Thy lakes and thy rivers of pride!
Thy forests that hide in their dim haunted shades
New flowers of loveliness rare—
Thy fairy like dells and thy bright golden glades,
Thy warm skies as Italy’s fair.
Here Plenty has lovingly smiled on the soil,
And ’neath her sweet, merciful reign
The brave and long suff’ring children of toil
Need labor no longer in vain.
I ask of thee shelter from lawless harm,
Food—raiment—and promise thee now,
In return, the toil of a stalwart arm,
And the sweat of an honest brow.
But think not, I pray, that this heart is bereft
Of fond recollections of home;
That I e’er can forget the dear land I have left
In the new one to which I have come.
Oh no! far away in my own sunny isle
Is a spot my affection worth,
And though dear are the scenes that around me now smile,
More dear is the place of my birth!
There hedges of hawthorn scent the sweet air,
And, thick as the stars of the night,
The daisy and primrose, with flow’rets as fair,
Gem that soil of soft verdurous light.
And there points the spire of my own village church,
That long has braved time’s iron power,
With its bright glitt’ring cross and ivy wreathed porch—
Sure refuge in sorrow’s dark hour!
Whilst memory lasts think not e’er from this breast
Can pass the fond thoughts of my home:
No! I ne’er can forget the land I have left
In the new one to which I have come!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Egypt
(9/15/12)
Stories have been written, movies have been shown
Of this land of mystery the world has known.
"Egypt"
History and bibles tell of the plights
Of pyramids being built for the pharaohs delight.
Stories have been told of an unknown civilization
Who showed them how to build this nation.
It is said they came from out of space
To teach technology to the human race.
Why was these structures built in the desert sands
Where it took thousands of lives
And millions of hands.
The story of aliens is a tale you see
Which was made up for you and me.
Take a trip down the Nile
And visualize that for a while.
© L. RAMS
poem by Louis Rams
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Blue Mesa
Blue Mesa
Land of the Sioux and Crow
Blue Mesa
No matter where I go
You will always be
Home, sweet, home to me
Blue Mesa.
Moonlight shines as
Purple shadows fall
Silence broken by the lonesome
Cototes call on:
Blue Mesa
Land of the Sioux and Crow
Blue Mesa
No matter where I go
You will always be
Home, sweet, home to me
Blue Mesa.
Herds of buffalo
Graze peacefully
I can almost hear
Those black hills callin' me to:
Blue Mesa
Land of the Sioux and Crow
Blue Mesa
No matter where I go
You will always be
Home, sweet, home to me
Blue Mesa.
Ridin' high above the prairie floor
With every passin' day
I swear I love you more:
Blue Mesa
Land of the Sioux and Crow
Blue Mesa
No matter where I go
You will always be
Home, sweet, home to me
Blue Mesa.
Blue Mesa
Land of the Sioux and Crow
Blue Mesa
No matter where I go
You will always be
Home, sweet, home to me
Blue Mesa.
You will always be
Home, sweet, home to me
Blue Mesa...
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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West Of Fanny O'Dea's
You’ll not find the name in geography books,
It isn’t marked on the map,
Nor mentioned in atlas or history,
Yet you’ve heard of the place mayhap.
The fairies lurk in the boreens there,
And the scent of the black-thorn haunts the air
Where Atlantic batters the coast of Clare
“West of Fanny O”Dea’s”
Now the old folk tell, in their cheerful chat
By the kitchen fire’s bright glow,
Of hurling matches, or dance or fair,
Of happenings of long ago.
How the heftiest fighters came from there,
Women and men who could do and dare,
From the very heart of the heart of Clare,
West of Fanny O’Dea’s.
From “West o’ Fanny’s” the folk went forth,
To the uttermost parts of the earth;
And the forest fell ‘neath their sturdy stroke,
The cabin rang with mirth.
They builded homes, and the faith was there
Living circles of love and prayer,
Far from the rocky coast of Clare,
West of Fanny O’Dea’s.
As the old folk chat at the kitchen fire
Of doings of long ago,
The young ones smile, with a tender scorn,
At a well-worn phrase they know:
“Now many strange countries and climes there be,
And many queer names o’er land and sea,
But
where
in the name of geography
Is ’West of Fanny O’Dea’s?”
poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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Beauty Life
Where will I live?
Where would I call it home?
Where's my only land?
Where can I teach?
Where is it leading?
Where is my life?
Where will I die?
Where's everything gone to?
This is where I live,
This is my home,
This is my land,
This is where I teach,
This is my future,
This is my only way of life,
This is where I'll die,
This is my life.
This life is Beauty
This life is hard
This life is very difficult
This life isn't easy
This life is flowing
This life is teaching
This life is where I can find life of my own
I live in a beauty world
I live in a beautiful lake
I live in a land
I live in the wilderness of my land
I live in the world of tomorrow
Live in the Beautiful world where life is there
poem by Hunter Kejick
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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