Old Town Types No.11
As first I remember him: A red man, and tall,
Great Toll, the blacksmith, filled my childish eye.
At its first crisp, clamorous stroke,
Every morning I awoke
To the ringing of his anvil as the years lagged by.
And, when the season came for them, he made us iron hoops
And iron hooks to trundle them: for children were his joy,
And then down the village street we raced with joyous whoops;
For little things contented us when I was a boy.
A glad giant toiling in his little tin shop
The great swelling arms he had, the great rugged head
There he loomed beside the forge
Calling to his striker, george,
'Smite it, laddie! Smite it while the iron glows red!'
So simply joyous in his strength, he made of life a song;
A straight man, a proper man, on no swift fortune bent,
He went about his heavy tasks humming the whole day long,
Accepting, simply as it came, his great gift of content.
The boasting tales his townsmen told he feigned were half untrue,
And blushed to find his feats of strength had won him wide renown;
Of how, long since, he flung his sledge
Fron Grogan's to the river's edge,
And bore two bags of wheat a-back the whole length of the town;
Of how he raised a mighty beam to save a child from fire
When Simpson's store was gutted in the blaze of 'eighty-six.
'They talk,' said he; 'and tales will grow. But, Lord, 'tain't my desire
For to figure as a hero thro' a brace of silly tricks.'
As last I remember him: A grey man and spare,
Sitting in his sons' garage, now from toil withdrawn,
Calling with a mighty roar,
Startling in a man so hoar,
'Smite it, laddie! Smite it! Lord, the young 'uns lack the brawn!'
But, as the cool of even comes to oust the day-long heat,
He is mindful of 'the missus.' ''Tis the rheumatiz,' he owns.
Then, shoulders back, grey head erect, he toddles down the street
Old Toll, the ex-smith, a brave old bag of bones.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Beggar's Prayer
Precious Lord;
I have much to ask,
and you have much to do;
But Lord,
I need your Mighty strength...
for I know not what to do.
I know my place is humble,
and you are the King of Kings;
But Lord,
I need your Mighty strength...
for I know not what to do.
I'm certain that I am unworthy,
of your mercy and saving grace;
But Lord,
I need your Mighty strength...
for I know not what to do.
I walk the road that I choose,
and stumble most of the time;
But Lord,
I need your Mighty strength...
for I know not what to do.
I want to walk your path,
and help others along the way;
But Lord,
I need your Mighty strength...
for I know not what to do.
I ask for your guidance,
in setting my feet back straight;
But Lord,
I need your Mighty strength...
for I know not what to do.
I turn to you O Lord,
with open arms and bleeding heart;
Because Lord,
I need your Mighty strength...
for You alone know what to do.
poem by George Aul
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The Sons Of Shamrod
And then came the sons of Shamrod
who with their magical powers
did smite the forces of evil
that brought death and destruction
throughout the land.
The great battle raged on
for many a full moon.
Great were the evil forces that
inhabited the land and mocked the people.
But the sons of Shamrod emerged victorious
for it was said long ago
that there would come a day
which would be one to remember.
When the spirit of our forefather's
would once again rise and give birth to
hope instead of desperation.
And the hope came in those who dare defy
the hand of death to strike them,
for the time foretold had come.
No longer would the will of man
be taken from him and used against him.
Peace and happiness again reign supreme over the land.
--------------------
Note:
This poem was inspired by after reading 'The Lord of The Rings' over 35 years ago.
poem by George Krokos
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The Church Bells
The Viennese authorities have melted down
the great bell in St. Stephen's to supply metal
for guns or muntions. Every poor village
has made a similar gift.—Lokal Anzeiger.
The great bell booms across the town,
Reverberant and slow,
And drifting from their houses down
The calm-eyed people go.
Their feet fall on the portal stones
Their fathers' fathers trod;
And still the bell, with reverent tones,
From cottage nooks and purple thrones
Is calling souls to God.
The chapel bells with ardor spake
Above the poplars tall,
And perfumed Sabbath seemed to wake.
Responsive to their call
From dappled vale and green hillside
And nestling village hives
The peasants came in simple pride
To hear how their Lord Jesus died
To sweeten all their lives.
They boom beyond the battered town;
The hills are belching smoke;
And valleys charred and ranges brown
Are quaking 'neath the stroke.
The iron roar to Heaven swells,
And domes and steeples nod;
Through cities vast and ferny dells
And village streets the clamant bells
Are calling souls to God!
poem by Edward George Dyson
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Essence of essence is the birth of the weaker sex
Essence of essence is the birth of the weaker sex,
For her strength alone can please the mighty hero!
What's the use of this manliness, friend,
When it is of no use to the lord at all?
Essence of essence is the birth of the weaker sex!
A man might attain the ultimate release,
If he sticks to the path of virtue,
But to indulge in the scrumptious joys of pretended anger
And the lord pleading to make up and other such games,
You simply have to be a woman!
Essence of essence is the birth of the weaker sex!
For her strength can please the mighty hero!
Even the gods like Indra and the great sages
Revere the very dust of gopis' feet,
Considering themselves lesser than the gopis
As they find their manhood insipid!
Essence of essence the birth of the weaker sex,
For her strength can please the mighty hero!
Woman, the treasure trove of fortune
Experiences and enjoys all day and night
The very nectar, the Vedas and the Scriptures
Struggle to express!
Essence of essence is the birth of the weaker sex!
Let my dreams come true
My dark one, my lifter of the mountain, life of my life!
For just like the master dragging the meek beast
The leash of love draws Narsinh!
Essence of essence is the birth of the weaker sex,
For her strength can please the mighty hero!
poem by Narsinh Mehta
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Ultima Thule: From My Arm-Chair
Am I a king, that I should call my own
This splendid ebon throne?
Or by what reason, or what right divine,
Can I proclaim it mine?
Only, perhaps, by right divine of song
It may to me belong;
Only because the spreading chestnut tree
Of old was sung by me.
Well I remember it in all its prime,
When in the summer-time
The affluent foliage of its branches made
A cavern of cool shade.
There, by the blacksmith's forge, beside the street,
Its blossoms white and sweet
Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive,
And murmured like a hive.
And when the winds of autumn, with a shout,
Tossed its great arms about,
The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath,
Dropped to the ground beneath.
And now some fragments of its branches bare,
Shaped as a stately chair,
Have by my hearthstone found a home at last,
And whisper of the past.
The Danish king could not in all his pride
Repel the ocean tide,
But, seated in this chair, I can in rhyme
Roll back the tide of Time.
I see again, as one in vision sees,
The blossoms and the bees,
And hear the children's voices shout and call,
And the brown chestnuts fall.
I see the smithy with its fires aglow,
I hear the bellows blow,
And the shrill hammers on the anvil beat
The iron white with heat!
And thus, dear children, have ye made for me
This day a jubilee,
And to my more than three-score years and ten
Brought back my youth again.
The heart hath its own memory, like the mind,
And in it are enshrined
The precious keepsakes, into which is wrought
The giver's loving thought.
Only your love and your remembrance could
Give life to this dead wood,
And make these branches, leafless now so long,
Blossom again in song.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Great Grey Plain
Out West, where the stars are brightest,
Where the scorching north wind blows,
And the bones of the dead gleam whitest,
And the sun on a desert glows --
Yet within the selfish kingdom
Where man starves man for gain,
Where white men tramp for existence --
Wide lies the Great Grey Plain.
No break in its awful horizon,
No blur in the dazzling haze,
Save where by the bordering timber
The fierce, white heat-waves blaze,
And out where the tank-heap rises
Or looms when the sunlights wane,
Till it seems like a distant mountain
Low down on the Great Grey Plain.
No sign of a stream or fountain,
No spring on its dry, hot breast,
No shade from the blazing noontide
Where a weary man might rest.
Whole years go by when the glowing
Sky never clouds for rain --
Only the shrubs of the desert
Grow on the Great Grey Plain.
From the camp, while the rich man's dreaming,
Come the `traveller' and his mate,
In the ghastly dawnlight seeming
Like a swagman's ghost out late;
And the horseman blurs in the distance,
While still the stars remain,
A low, faint dust-cloud haunting
His track on the Great Grey Plain.
And all day long from before them
The mirage smokes away --
That daylight ghost of an ocean
Creeps close behind all day
With an evil, snake-like motion,
As the waves of a madman's brain:
'Tis a phantom NOT like water
Out there on the Great Grey Plain.
There's a run on the Western limit
Where a man lives like a beast,
And a shanty in the mulga
That stretches to the East;
And the hopeless men who carry
Their swags and tramp in pain --
The footmen must not tarry
Out there on the Great Grey Plain.
Out West, where the stars are brightest,
Where the scorching north wind blows,
And the bones of the dead seem whitest,
And the sun on a desert glows --
Out back in the hungry distance
That brave hearts dare in vain --
Where beggars tramp for existence --
There lies the Great Grey Plain.
'Tis a desert not more barren
Than the Great Grey Plain of years,
Where a fierce fire burns the hearts of men --
Dries up the fount of tears:
Where the victims of a greed insane
Are crushed in a hell-born strife --
Where the souls of a race are murdered
On the Great Grey Plain of Life!
poem by Henry Lawson
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Old Town Types No. 7
Well I remember him - Big Jack Herrington;
Big Jack, the lumper, tanned and honest-eyed,
The clean, straight limbs of him,
The strength in those limbs of him
Strength that was the end of him, and once had been his pride:
Big Jack Herrington, toiling up the stack,
Hefting up the wheat sacks on his mighty back.
One year, two years he labored when the wheat came;
Three years, four years, in the grimy heat,
Toiling up the planks there
The crazy, narrow planks there.
Folk said, 'A wonder! Why, there's nothing got him beat!'
Never had he faltered beneath a heavy bag
Big, Jack, the lumper, never known to sag.
For five years, for big pay he larbored there.
'Ten bob a day!' they said. 'Jack's the boy to score.'
And then came the end of him
A false step, and the end of him;
And Big Jack, the lumper, he toiled no more.
Twisted now and broken - his body and his pride,
Big Jack lingered on, a cripple till he died.
Old Jack Herrington, sitting in the bar-room,
Hoping for a kind friend, waiting for a 'shout.'
Men said, 'Remember him?'
Course I remember him.
Best about the stock yard till his strength gave out.
Booze never beat him till that tumble turned him queer....
Hey! Old Jack, there! Have another beer?'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Village Blacksmith, The
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The Smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can
And looks the whole world in the face
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming furge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church
and sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach.
He hears his daughter's voice
singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, rejoicing,-sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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A Zimbabwean asks a question
O Great Spirit,
You who in Your form of the Chapungu,
the great eagle with sharper eye than any aeroplane,
watches over us and knows all things;
who even descends from your great circles of flight
over our beautiful land of stone and earth and tree
to show a child lost in the bush
the way back to the village and to home,
please show us, too, the way back home, to You.
You know I talk to you each day in my heart,
but today a man has asked me to speak some words
that many people may hear.
So I speak for Zimbabwe, and for the Africa
of which we are so proud:
for we in Africa are proud; and proud for You:
that in a mad and busy world, we have not forgotten
that every blade of grass and flower,
lizard, singing bird, lion, elephant,
are You in all your great disguises
and that all that we see around us
is You in the spirits of our ancestors
who listen to us and guide us;
and so we know that we must listen
to every creature to hear news of You...
and in the evening of each day
(which, we cannot now forget, may be our last)
as the men come home from work
and the women and children back from the fields,
and the smoke from the evening fires
rises above the huts,
and the smells of cooking fill the air,
we tell all our children round the fire
the truth about You
in all the tales our fathers and grandfathers have told us -
told to these children who have so recently come from You;
by those grandparents who will so soon come back to You;
they have so much to share and listen to,
about You!
And would you not agree, O Great Spirit,
that the smile of an African child
is the biggest thing you ever saw - or made?
It reminds every mother and father of Your smile,
and tells every grandparent what is in store for them...
So we rejoice to think, O Great Spirit,
that we are still your children,
and that You know what is best for us -
And so I ask you, especially today, O Great Spirit,
for all who may read this:
Are the spirits angry with us?
If they are, please tell me why?
And so, what can we do to stay close to You?
Many men have many answers to these questions
in the reasoning of men;
but nothing from men quite seems to 'do the trick';
so now, I'm simply asking You
to speak in Your own way;
since nothing from men quite seems to 'do the trick';
and, O Great Spirit,
Chapungu,
it is Your world, which we look after, and not ours...
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Rags & Old Iron
Norman curtis, oscar brown jr
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
I heard that old rag man now making his rounds
He came right to my alley lord with sorrowful sounds
Crying rags old iron and pulling his cart
Ask him how much hed give me for my broken heart
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
So I asked that old rag man how much he would pay
For a heart that was broken baby when you went away
For a burnt out old love light that no longer beams
And a couple of slightly used second hand dreams
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
For those big empty promises you used to make
For those memories of you that are no longer sweet
I wish he could haul them off down the street
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
When love doesnt last tell me what is it worth
It was once mamas most precious possession on earth
When I asked that old rag man if hed like to buy
He just shook his head and continued to cry
Rags old iron rags old iron
All he was buying was just rags and old iron
Rags old iron rags old iron
Rags old iron rags old iron rags old iron
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Old Town Types No. 9 - Long John, The Snob
Long John McDougal, the wax-end and leather man,
Solon of the main street, full of curious lore,
Keen-eyed and frugal, politician, weather man,
Pegging there, or stitching by his shop front door;
Keen-eyed and frugal, Long John McDougal
Talked as he toiled there, or harked to others' woes,
With his tousled old grey head and steel-rimmed spectacles,
His old steel spectacles perched on the end of his nose.
Long John the leather man: boots, bridles any a thing
Fashioned out of leather, could his wise hands mend.
'Cease your foolish blether, man! For I have cobbled many a thing
Cobbled it and cured it wi' me strong wax-end.
Cease your foolish blether, man. 'Tis Long John, the leather man
Has shod the feet of half the town, an' no complaints from those.'
And his old head would waggle and his steel-rimmed spectacles
His smeared old spectacles perched on the end of his nose.
Long John, the cobbler, sets aside his sowing owl,
Sets aside his apron and gives his hands a rub,
And trots off for his nobbler, just as he has been going all
These long years for his whisky at the Railway pub.
Long John, the cobbler, calling for his nobbler:
One I'll tak', or two I'll tak', but I'm content wi' those.'
And he gazes e'er so wisely thro' his steel-rimmed spectacles
His bent old spectacles perched on the tip of his nose.
Long John McDougal sat to have a crack there,
Just within his shop door the day I left the town,
Keen-eyed and frugal. And if I ever went back there
I know I'd find him fadeless, his wise law laying down
Kind-eyed and frugal, Long John McDougal,
Spouting weather prophesies, downing fiscal foes,
Peering, with his head back, thro' grime-dimmed spectacles
His old steel spectacles perched on the tip of his nose.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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My Prayer Of Psalms
Dear lord I come to you asking for strength.
As we've fought this in strides and gone a great length.
And I fall so short of your grace so I repent.
Thank you lord for the son that you sent.
As I fight off the devil testing my faith.
And help me not to look back at my life in its wraith.
I beg you Lord just please heal me in whole.
you can do anything you've already saved my soul.
Thanks for the joy you sent when times have been rough.
You are my backbone you hold my head up when it tough.
All mighty God I can never thank you enough.
This is a humble poem no need to call a bluff.
poem by David duckworth
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God Save The King
God save great George our king
Long live our noble king,
God save the king.
Send him victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,
God save the king.
O Lord our God arise,
Scatter his enemies,
And make them fall:
Confound their politics,
Frustrate their knavish tricks,
On him our hopes we fix,
God save us all.
Thy choicest gifts in store,
On him be pleas'd to pour,
Long may he reign.
May he defend our laws,
And ever give us cause,
To sing with heart and voice
God save the king.
Lord grant that Marshal Wade
May by thy mighty aid
Victory bring.
May he sedition hush,
And like a torrent rush,
Rebellious Scots to crush,
God save the king.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Great Grey Water
Now two have met, now two have met,
Who may not meet again—
Two grains of sand, two blades of grass,
Two threads within the skein—
Beside the Great Grey Water.
Two hands to touch, two hearts to touch;
And, here forgathered, we
Will not forget, may not forget,
Where last forgathered three—
Beyond the Great Grey Water.
Two glasses filled, two pipes to fill—
‘To all our fortunes, brother!’
And as they clink—like so—we drink
Fair passage to the other
Across the Great Grey Water.
For three have sailed, and one has sailed,
His sins, like ours, still on him,
God sleep his soul! five oceans roll
Their long weight all upon him.
O God! thy Great Grey Water!
But I am still, and you are still,
And here our chance has flung us;
True comrades we, but…there were three
And one is not among us
Beside the Great Grey Water.
A breathing space, a biding place,
Soft lights and beakers beaded,
Then out again and on again,
Unminded and unheeded,
Across the Great Grey Water.
Now two have met where three have met
With curses or with laughter;
And so our Day shall pass away,
And so our Night come after—
But, ah! the Great Grey Water
poem by Edwin James Brady
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A Voice Of The Loyal North
1861
JANUARY THIRD
WE sing 'Our Country's' song to-night
With saddened voice and eye;
Her banner droops in clouded light
Beneath the wintry sky.
We'll pledge her once in golden wine
Before her stars have set
Though dim one reddening orb may shine,
We have a Country yet.
'T were vain to sigh o'er errors past,
The fault of sires or sons;
Our soldier heard the threatening blast,
And spiked his useless guns;
He saw the star-wreathed ensign fall,
By mad invaders torn;
But saw it from the bastioned wall
That laughed their rage to scorn!
What though their angry cry is flung
Across the howling wave,--
They smite the air with idle tongue
The gathering storm who brave;
Enough of speech! the trumpet rings;
Be silent, patient, calm,--
God help them if the tempest swings
The pine against the palm!
Our toilsome years have made us tame;
Our strength has slept unfelt;
The furnace-fire is slow to flame
That bids our ploughshares melt;
'T is hard to lose the bread they win
In spite of Nature's frowns,--
To drop the iron threads we spin
That weave our web of towns,
To see the rusting turbines stand
Before the emptied flumes,
To fold the arms that flood the land
With rivers from their looms,--
But harder still for those who learn
The truth forgot so long;
When once their slumbering passions burn,
The peaceful are the strong!
The Lord have mercy on the weak,
And calm their frenzied ire,
And save our brothers ere they shriek,
'We played with Northern fire!'
The eagle hold his mountain height,--
The tiger pace his den
Give all their country, each his right!
God keep us all! Amen!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Oh Lordy! Now You're Forty!
Sweet Erikette, as they say…
'You've reached the big four oh today! ! ! '
As you climb life's great hill
Stress and strain will test your will.
Find strength to forge past rocks and trees.
Forget those aching, shaking knees.
More of your bod now starts to talk
As back, feet… legs seem to squawk.
One way to stem those mid life crises
Is to shop for modern medical devices.
Sadly, there's not much they can implant
When some parts simply scream, 'I can't! '
Though these stubborn parts may utter 'Nope! '
Your young, beautiful life is so full of hope.
A gorgeous family in so many ways
Promises a joyous life that only love conveys.
As well, your positive views and planned dreams
Guarantee a future even better than it now seems.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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Shameful Death
There were four of us about that bed;
The mass-priest knelt at the side,
I and his mother stood at the head,
Over his feet lay the bride;
We were quite sure that he was dead,
Though his eyes were open wide.
He did not die in the night,
He did not die in the day,
But in the morning twilight
His spirit pass'd away,
When neither sun nor moon was bright,
And the trees were merely grey.
He was not slain with the sword,
Knight's axe, or the knightly spear,
Yet spoke he never a word
After he came in here;
I cut away the cord
From the neck of my brother dear.
He did not strike one blow,
For the recreants came behind,
In a place where the hornbeams grow,
A path right hard to find,
For the hornbeam boughs swing so,
That the twilight makes it blind.
They lighted a great torch then,
When his arms were pinion'd fast,
Sir John the knight of the Fen,
Sir Guy of the Dolorous Blast,
With knights threescore and ten,
Hung brave Lord Hugh at last.
I am threescore and ten,
And my hair is all turn'd grey,
But I met Sir John of the Fen
Long ago on a summer day,
And am glad to think of the moment when
I took his life away.
I am threescore and ten,
And my strength is mostly pass'd,
But long ago I and my men,
When the sky was overcast,
And the smoke roll'd over the reeds of the fen,
Slew Guy of the Dolorous Blast.
And now, knights all of you,
I pray you pray for Sir Hugh,
A good knight and a true,
And for Alice, his wife, pray too.
poem by William Morris
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The Enchanted Wood (Part 2)
The great gates of the castle opened
and slowly he walked forward
not sure what to expect.
Cheers rang out as he entered
trumpets blared a fanfare.
He stopped to take it all in,
everywhere he looked
people waved and smiled
as he moved slowly
across the large courtyard
and through the throngs of people
and into the castle itself.
“If you will follow me M’ Lord.”
A tall smartly dressed man said.
He followed the tall man
across the marble floor.
The man stopped by a door.
He opened it to reveal
a long table filled with food.
“We suspected you may be hungry,
please enter and help yourself.”
He had never seen so much food.
He entered, sat, and noticed he was alone.
“Eat as much as you like M’ Lord,
it is all for you.” The tall man said,
and then disappeared.
Not wishing to be greedy
he took a small portion of the food
and when he had eaten enough.
The tall man suddenly appeared again.
“A drink M’ Lord.” He said
and placed a glass in front of him
and filled it with water.
As he raised the glass to his lips and drank,
the tall man appeared again
“Your room is ready M’ Lord.”
He nodded and yawned
then followed the tall man
to what would be his room.
“I’ll wake you in time for supper M’ Lord.”
He climbed onto the large bed
wondering what was happening.
“Why do you look so worried laddie? ”
“Mr Owl where did you come from? ”
“The window was open
so I came to see how you were.”
“I am puzzled Mr Owl.”
“In what way laddie? ”
“Everyone is so kind to me
and I feel I don’t deserve it.”
“Oh poppycock! ” The owl replied.
“But I don’t deserve it.”
“Laddie, everyone deserves kindness
no matter who they are.”
“I am cursed by the witches curse.”
“Rubbish, there is no curse
and there are no witches,
but all will be explained later.”
“How much Later? ”
“When the time is right.
Now you must rest before supper.”
He nodded and rested back.
It was the first time
he ever slept on a pillow.
“Wake up! Wake up!
You will be late for supper.”
He opened his eyes
and looked around
to see who was talking.
He blinked as a set of clothes
walked over to him and said:
“We are what you are wearing
for supper tonight.”
“Clothes do not talk! ”
“Ah, but we do and so do we.”
All the clothes then danced
around the room.
Standing he looked amazed
and somewhat in disbelief
as the clothes flung themselves
at him and dressed him.
Once they had finished
he looked in the mirror at his reflection,
he looked like a prince.
The tall man suddenly appeared and announced.
“Dinner will be ready in five minutes,
you must come along now.
There is no time to waste M’ Lord.”
He followed the tall man down the stairs
to the dinning room door.
To be continued.
17-18 April 2011
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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By the Grey Gulf-water
Far to the Northward there lies a land,
A wonderful land that the winds blow over,
And none may fathom or understand
The charm it holds for the restless rover;
A great grey chaos -- a land half made,
Where endless space is and no life stirreth;
There the soul of a man will recoil afraid
From the sphinx-like visage that Nature weareth.
But old Dame Nature, though scornful, craves
Her dole of death and her share of slaughter;
Many indeed are the nameless graves
Where her victims sleep by the Grey Gulf-water.
Slowly and slowly those grey streams glide,
Drifting along with a languid motion,
Lapping the reed-beds on either side,
Wending their way to the North Ocean.
Grey are the plains where the emus pass
Silent and slow, with their dead demeanour;
Over the dead man's graves the grass
Maybe is waving a trifle greener.
Down in the world where men toil and spin
Dame Nature smiles as man's hand has taught her;
Only the dead men her smiles can win
In the great lone land by the Grey Gulf-water.
For the strength of man is an insect's strength
In the face of that mighty plain and river,
And the life of a man is a moment's length
To the life of the stream that will run for ever.
And so it comes that they take no part
In small world worries; each hardy rover
Rides like a paladin, light of heart,
With the plains around and the blue sky over.
And up in the heavens the brown lark sings
The songs the strange wild land has taught her;
Full of thanksgiving her sweet song rings --
And I wish I were back by the Grey Gulf-water.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hummingbird
His goal in life was to be an echo
Riding alone, town after town, toll after toll
A fixed bayonet through the great southwest to forget her
She appears in his dreams
But in his car and in his arms
A dream can mean anything
A cheap sunset on a television set can upset her
But he never could
Remember to remember me
Standing still in your past
Floating fast like a hummingbird
His goal in life was to be an echo
The type of sound that floats around and then back down
Like a feather
But in the deep chrome canyons of the loudest Manhattans
No one could hear him
Or anything
So he slept on a mountain
In a sleeping bag underneath the stars
He would lie awake and count them
And the gray fountain spray of the great Milky Way
Would never let him
Die alone
Remember to remember me
Standing still in your past
Floating fast like a hummingbird
Remember to remember me
Standing still in your past
Floating fast like a hummingbird
A hummingbird
A hummingbird
song performed by by Wilco
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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