Illuminations
Smith is a loyalist good and true,
And a lad of the 'whole hog' class:
And yesterday, when he went to view
The Royal procession pass,
He'd flags in his buttonhole, flags in his hat,
Flags all gaudy and gay;
And he splintered the welkin from where he sat
With many a loud 'Hooray!'
Last night when the town was a blaze of light
Smith was still on his way;
And I saw him pass thro' the brilliant night,
Gaudy, vociferous, gay;
He was still in the fashion and going strong,
And I gather he'd been to sup
For he chortled a song as he went along,
Thoroughly well 'lit up.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Related quotes
Burning Flags
they're burning flags again....
sit down stand up protesting,
cracking heads like eggs,
yolk running down on hallowed ground....
they're burning flags again...
soldier boys coming home
to no work, living in cars,
no help, without a country...
they're burning flags again...
your sister died giving birth.
your brother-in-law cant get work,
making meth in the tub...
crying at night 'neath a picture
of Jesus hanging on the cross....
they're burning flags again...
small town football heroes
in prison cells learning
to live outside the law....
they're burning flags again....
and the words of Jefferson
fall in the empty rooms
where justice and equality lived....
they're burning flags again!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ye Flags of Picadilly
Ye flags of Piccadilly,
Where I posted up and down,
And wished myself so often
Well away from you and town--
Are the people walking quietly
And steady on their feet,
Cabs and omnibuses plying
Just as usual in the street?
Do the houses look as upright
As of old they used to be,
And does nothing seem affected
By the pitching of the sea?
Through the Green Park iron railings
Do the quick pedestrians pass?
Are the little children playing
Round the plane-tree in the grass?
This squally wild northwester
With which our vessel fights,
Does it merely serve with you to
Carry up some paper kites?
Ye flags of Piccadilly,
Which I hated so, I vow
I could wish with all my heart
You were underneath me now!
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
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Give Us Rain
'Give us Rain, Rain,' said the bean and the pea,
'Not so much Sun,
Not so much Sun.'
But the Sun smiles bravely and encouragingly,
And no rain falls and no waters run.
'Give us Peace, Peace,' said the peoples oppressed,
'Not so many Flags,
Not so many Flags.'
But the Flags fly and the Drums beat, denying rest,
And the children starve, they shiver in rags.
poem by Robert Graves
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Vegematic
Fell asleep last night with the TV on,
Oh, what a dream I had.
Dreamed I went and answered ev'ry single
One of those late night mail order ads.
Then four to six weeks later,
Much to my surprise,
The mailman came to my front door
And I couldn't believe my eyes.
He brought the Vegematic
And the Pocket Fisherman, too,
Illuminated, illustrated History of Life
And Box Car Willie with a ginsu knife,
A bamboo steamer and a garden weasel, too,
And a tie dyed day-glow souvenir shirt
From Six Flags Over Burbank.
Well, the doorbell rang all mornin',
All through the afternoon,
And I shook with fright as it rang all night
By the light of the Mastercard moon.
There was Federal Express in the pantry,
Parcel Post in the hall,
COD to the ceiling,
And I just couldn't pay for it all.
I got an egg scrambler
With a seal-a-meal carryin' case,
A set of Presidential Commemorative Plates
So I could eat my eggs off a President's face,
A minute mender
And a needle that'll knit or crochet
And an autographed photograph of Rin Tin Tin
At Six Flags Over Burbank.
Well I know that I was dreamin'
So I gave a mighty cheer
When I awoke, it was no joke
'Cause all that shit was here,
So if you fall asleep with the TV on
Let me tell you what to do.
Rip the telephone out of the wall
Unless you want this to happen to you.
You get Vegematic and the Pocket Fisherman, too,
Iluminated, illustrated History of Life
And Box Car Willie with a ginsu knife,
A bamboo steamer and a garden weasel, too,
And a tie dyed day-glow souvenir shirt
From Six Flags Over Burbank.
(by Steve Goodman, Mike Smith, Shel Silverstein)
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Pink Butterflies
Unfurled flitting pink
butterfly flags flutter
in forests
near
unfurled flags of
phlox
in the meadows of Fairfax
poem by Saiom Shriver
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My fears...
I am not afraid of dying,
But ' twould be no falsehood to say I am afraid of death;
This is my life, this is the irony, the satire-
I can be nude and plain in the concluding embrace of death,
Yet I cannot don the funeral attire.
I am not afraid of committing sin,
Yet, I am afraid of forgiving those who err (and then admit) -
I condemn hypocrisy and all that lies within,
But yet I fear I am a hypocrite.
I am not afraid of the flags in a funeral procession,
As long as they drag behind a coffin within which it is I who is sheathed;
But if I were the driver of the hearse of another,
The flags would signal the toll of one's victory and the silence of another's defeat.
poem by Samah Khan
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Harry’s Come Marching Home Again (Written In March 2008)
Harry’s come marching home again, Hooray! Hooray!
From Afghanistan, not to roam again, he is back, to stay.
Whilst the flags are out and the bugles blare
I am sure he wishes he still were there.
And we all feel proud Prince Harry has come back home.
Harry’s come flying home again, Hooray! Hooray!
Since media hacks have hunted him down as prey, for pay.
They’ve snitched and let the cat out of the bag
And he’s had to fly home and brave jet lag
And I’m sure he’s sick he’s had to come flying home.
Harry’s come sailing home again, Hooray! Hooray!
It would just have been a security risk to stay, they say.
Now the papers groan and wonder what
They can do with him, now he can’t get shot
But they’ve got their scoop now Harry’s come sailing home.
Harry’s come driving home again, Hooray! Hooray!
Now he can go back on the town again, to play and stray
And the paparazzi will take their snaps
While he’s on the booze with a few of the chaps
And they’ll take their cut now Harry’s come driving home.
Harry’s come marching home again, Hooray! Hooray!
From Afghanistan, not to roam again. Is he back to stay
Till the next time he is sent off to fight,
If they hush it up? Will it all be right?
Do we all feel proud Prince Harry has come back home?
poem by C. Richard Miles
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Red Faces
Red flags the reason for pretty flags.
And ribbons.
Ribbons of flags
And wearing material
Reason for wearing material.
Give pleasure.
Can you give me the regions.
The regions and the land.
The regions and wheels.
All wheels are perfect.
Enthusiasm.
poem by Gertrude Stein
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The Home-Coming
My boy's come back; he's here at last;
He came home on a special train.
My longing and my ache are past,
My only son is back again.
He's home with music, flags and flowers;
With peace and joy my heart's abrim;
He got here in the morning hours
With half the town to welcome him.
To hush my grief, night after night,
How I have digged my pillow deep,
And it would be the morning light
Before I sobbed myself to sleep.
And how I used to stare and stare
Across the harbour's yeasty foam,
Thinking he's fighting far out there . . .
But now with bells my boy's come home.
There's Mrs. Burke, she has her Ted,
But less the sight of his two eyes;
And Mrs. Smith - you know her Fred -
They took his legs off at the thighs.
How can these women happy be,
For all their bravery of talk,
One with a son who cannot see,
One with a boy who'll never walk.
I should be happier than they;
My lad came back without a scar,
And all the folks are proud they say,
To greet their hero of the war.
So in the gentle eventide
I'll give God thanks my Bert's come home. . . .
As peacefully I sit beside
His tiny mound of new-turned loam.
poem by Robert William Service
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And The World We Crave
We live in a word
full of flags of different colours
that dance in the wind.
Flags of many nations,
if were united as one
would bring peace
to every beleaguered land.
When we realise
we can be proud of our flag
and respect someone else’s one.
Only then, the seeds of peace
will start to be sown,
and the world will crave
wars no more.
24 May 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stolen By The Lie
chained down, spread-eagled,
to the floor of a van....
being taken back to the lie...
that, waving flags, kills babies
not yet born to mothers
without faces or names...
subdue and enslave
in the name of holy freedom...
only held by those
not of color....
marching to the M16 beat
of tyranny driven by oil....
no flags burning?
perhaps they should...
wrapped on the bodies
of souls stolen by the lie!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Form the Green Helmet And Other Poems
HIS DREAM
I SWAYED upon the gaudy stem
The butt-end of a steering-oar,
And saw wherever I could turn
A crowd upon a shore.
And though I would have hushed the crowd,
There was no mother's son but said,
'What is the figure in a shroud
Upon a gaudy bed?'
And after running at the brim
Cried out upon that thing beneath
-- It had such dignity of limb --
By the sweet name of Death.
Though I'd my finger on my lip,
What could I but take up the song?
And running crowd and gaudy ship
Cried out the whole night long,
Crying amid the glittering sea,
Naming it with ecstatic breath,
Because it had such dignity,
By the sweet name of Death.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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His Dream
I swayed upon the gaudy stem
The butt-end of a steering-oar,
And saw wherever I could turn
A crowd upon a shore.
And though I would have hushed the crowd,
There was no mother's son but said,
"What is the figure in a shroud
Upon a gaudy bed?'
And after running at the brim
Cried out upon that thing beneath
- It had such dignity of limb -
By the sweet name of Death.
Though I'd my finger on my lip,
What could I but take up the song?
And running crowd and gaudy ship
Cried out the whole night long,
Crying amid the glittering sea,
Naming it with ecstatic breath,
Because it had such dignity,
By the sweet name of Death.
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Sound Of The Crowd
Put your hand in a party wave
Pass around
Make a shroud pulling combs through a backwash frame
Find the copies in a carbon mount
Pass around
Stroke a pocket with a print of a laughing sound
Get around town
Get around town
Where the people look good
Where the music is loud
Get around town
No need to stand proud
Add your voice to the sound of the crowd
The shades from a pencil peer
Pass around
A fold in an eyelid brushed with fear
The lines on a compact guide
Pass around
A hat with alignment worn insde
Get around town
Get around town
Where the people look good
Where the music is loud
Get around town
No need to stand proud
Add your voice to the sound of the crowd
Get in line now
Get in line now
Stay in time with the rhythm and rhyme
Get around town
Get around town
Where the people look good
Where the music is loud
Get around town
No need to stand proud
Add your voice to the sound of the crowd
Get around town
Get around town
Where the people look good
Where the music is loud
Get around town
No need to stand proud
Add your voice to the sound of the crowd
Get around town
Get around town
Where the people look good
Where the music is loud
Get around town
No need to stand proud
Add your voice to the sound of the crowd
song performed by by Human League
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Little John Smith
LO, AS I WALKED PAST SMITHSONS MEADOW,
I SAW A NAKED INFANT RUN OUT OF A BARN,
HE LAUGHED AS HE RAN TOWARDS ME,
HO, WHAT BE THY NAME LAD?
AND THE YOUNG LAD REPLIED?
I AM JOHN SMITH! HE SAID AS HE RAN OFF,
THIS WAS TWENTY AND SIX YEARS AGO,
AYE, I RETURN FROM MY MANY QUESTS FROM LANDS AFAR,
AND A STRONG MALE VOICE STOPPED ME AND SAID,
WHO BE YE AND WHENCE GOEST THOU? HE ASKED
AND I SAID, AH MY GOOD MAN, I AM HARRY BOLDS OF BOLDS FARM AND I RETURN FROM MY MANY JOURNEYS AFTER TWENTY AND SIX YEARS AWAY FROM HOME, SAID I,
GOOD THEN, I AM LORD JOHN SMITH!
LORD OF THE LANDS OF SMITHSONS AND I SAY THIS TO YOU,
TELL THIS TO MY WARRIORS AS YOU PASS TROUGH THE TOWN,
THAT I, LORD SMITH HAS GRANTED YOU SAFE PASSAGE THROUGH MY LANDS FOR I KNOW OF THE BOLDS FARMS, STATED THE LAD AND HE TURNED AND WALKED OFF,
WHAT A MARVEL! TOUGHT I, LITTLE JOHN SMITH IS NOW A WARRIOR LORD AND NOW GRANTS ME SAFE PASSAGE THROUGH THIS LANDS!
IT IS WELL THEN, THE INFANT IS NOW AN ADULT,
WATCH THY STEP, LEST YOU OFFEND A LITTLE JOHN SMITH WHO MAY BE THE ONE TO GRANT YOU YOUR LIFE IN THE FUTURE!
poem by Overlord Don Manuel Ihcakeyno
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The Jungle Bhoys
On the terracing at Parkhead we gather
Watching the Bhoys in green play,
we’ll sing you a song of the Celtic
And of the players who played down Parkhead’s way.
Chorus
With our banners and flags of the Celtic
We’re the sound of the Paradise voice
Our culture, we’ll bring back to Parkhead
Hail Hail to the bold Jungle Bhoys
We’ve grown in our years with the Celtic
Raised on the history and pride
Wishing we could play for the Celtic
And wear the jersey of the old green & white
Chorus
With our banners and flags of the Celtic
We’re the sound of the Paradise voice
Our culture, we’ll bring back to Parkhead
Hail Hail to the bold Jungle Bhoys
As we travel to the east end of Glasgow
Wearing our colours of green, white & gold,
We’ll celebrate and sing of the Celtic
Who live forever in our green and white soul.
Chorus
With our banners and flags of the Celtic
we’re the sound of the Paradise voice
our culture, we’ll bring back to Parkhead
Hail Hail to the bold Jungle Bhoys.
With our banners and flags of the Celtic
we’re the sound of the Paradise voice
our culture; we’ll bring back to Parkhead
Hail Hail to the bold Jungle Bhoys.
Nov’2005
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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I really do see the good in people, and I don't want to change that. That's really how I view things, so sometimes I'll look past a lot of huge red flags because I see something else in someone. Then of course it always comes back to haunt me in the long run.
quote by Jennifer Morrison
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Here Comes President Kill Again
Here comes president kill again,
Surrounded by all of his killing men.
Telling us who, why, where and when,
President kill wants killing again.
Hooray, ring out the bells,
King conscience is dead.
Hooray, now back in your cells,
Weve president kill instead.
Here comes president kill again.
Broadcasting from his killing den.
Dressed in pounds and dollars and yen,
President kill wants killing again.
Hooray, hang out the flags,
Queen caring is dead.
Hooray, well stack body bags,
For president kill instead.
Aint democracy wonderful?
Them russians cant win!
Aint democracy wonderful?
Lets us vote someone like that in.
Here comes president kill again,
From pure white house to number 10.
Taking lives with a smoking pen,
President kill wants killing again.
Hooray, everythings great,
Now president kill is dead.
Hooray, Ill bet you cant wait,
To vote for president kill instead...
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Here Comes President Kill Again
Here comes president kill again,
Surrounded by all of his killing men.
Telling us who, why, where and when,
President kill wants killing again.
Hooray, ring out the bells,
King conscience is dead.
Hooray, now back in your cells,
Weve president kill instead.
Here comes president kill again.
Broadcasting from his killing den.
Dressed in pounds and dollars and yen,
President kill wants killing again.
Hooray, hang out the flags,
Queen caring is dead.
Hooray, well stack body bags,
For president kill instead.
Aint democracy wonderful?
Them russians cant win!
Aint democracy wonderful?
Lets us vote someone like that in.
Here comes president kill again,
From pure white house to number 10.
Taking lives with a smoking pen,
President kill wants killing again.
Hooray, everythings great,
Now president kill is dead.
Hooray, Ill bet you cant wait,
To vote for president kill instead...
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Victory
The schools marched in procession in happiness and pride,
The city bands before them, the soldiers marched beside;
Oh, starched white frocks and sashes and suits that high schools wear,
The boy scout and the boy lout and all the rest were there,
And all flags save Australia's flag waved high in sun and air!
The Girls' High School, and Grammar School and colleges of stone
Flew all flags from their walls and towers – all flags except our own!
And down here in the alleys where Premiers never come,
Nor candidate, nor delegate, nor sound of fife and drum,
They packed them on the lorries, seared children of the slum.
Each face seemed soiled and faded, though scrubbed with household soap,
And older than a mother-face, but with less sign of hope:
The knowledge of things evil, of drunken wreck and hag,
Of sordid sounds and voices, the everlasting "nag" –
Oh, men without a battle-song! Oh, men without a flag!
They breed a nation's strength behind each shabby little door,
Where rent-collectors knock for aye, and Christ shall knock no more;
The sounds that hurt the mother's heart affright the children there –
Alarm-clocks on an empty tin, the tin tray on a chair;
For weary folk are hard to wake in hot and heavy air.
They sang in Pride's Procession that Mammon might endure –
Oh, wistful singing faces, the children of the poor!
Oh, hideous fiends of commerce! Oh, ghouls of business strife!
I wait the coming of the things to wake the land to life;
The flag without a cross or bar, the drum without a fife!
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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