The Kindly Copper
Oh, for that kindly copper
I knew long years ago,
A stalwart man and proper,
Crime's unrelenting foe.
He was for me a shield, a friend
Who sole concern was to defend
Such just rights as I know.
My bedtime thoughts went with him
What time his forthright feet,
In slow and measured rhythm,
Patrolled his midnight beat;
And, knowing he was on my side,
I blessed him, snugly satisfied,
Our concord was complete.
And now, tho' we've neglected
No duty, sought no change,
This friend I once respected
Half hostile grows, and strange.
They've made of him a hybrid thing:
And jobs we both dislike now bring
Him well within my range.
His stern eye holds suspicions
I feel I don't deserve
Re rules and requisitions
That fairly get my nerve.
And, when I motor thro' the land,
His great, prohibitive, red hand
Restrains my merry verve.
They give him duties menial
Jobs that no proud cop asks;
So that he, once so genial,
No more in favor basks.
And I am quite convinced the pop
ularity of any cop
Must suffer thro' these tasks.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Feet
Listen you! This concerns us all;
Poor, wealthy, kind and cruel.
So necessary, yet so neglected;
Greatly used, poorly acknowledged.
Brain, heart, stomach and hand,
Eyes, Tongue and all manner of meat
Sacrifice your pride you lofty band
And pay what is owed to the working feet.
'Why should I hearken? ' remarks the brain,
'I am our memories, knowledge and power.
To me give your ears and from this foolishness refrain
Lest you should stray from hearing my answer.
I, the master, you, my slaves,
I am told what occurs, I tell you what to do.
Without me, you are useless knaves,
So I bid you, ignore that voice untrue! '
'Why should I care? ' purrs the small heart,
'I give our joy, our love and more,
Could you, could you really with me part?
Allow me to decide this matter as you have before.
Those twin workers never have complained,
Not a word from their soul has ever been raised,
They must be merry, for this work were they not trained?
Applaud them not; they need not be praised.'
'Why should I bother? ' belches the stomach,
'I am a worker too, very important and busy!
Yet, e'en with my lack of time, I will say this fact,
I will put these comrades back, out of their reasoning silly.
Look here, my friend, we all have our place,
Each quite noble and well scored,
So now you see by my great grace
That your motto should be: duty is its own reward.'
'Why should I pity? ' spits the hands,
'We are the same, we work alike,
There is no reason why they should grumble on crossing lands!
They are pathetic! Unable to deal with their dislike.
You should try my troublesome job,
You wouldn't tarry long I assure you,
The first challenge, a single sob,
You would be running back, back down low! '
Warned were you! This concerned us all,
Proud, deceptive, insensitive and scornful.
So necessary, yet so neglected;
Greatly used, poorly acknowledged.
Brain, heart, stomach and hand,
Eyes, Tongue and all manner of meat
Doomed you are, you lofty band
To suffer the wrath of the overworked feet!
'He cannot disobey' steams the brain,
'We thought you merry! ' screams the heart,
'This is done to rashly' tries the stomach,
'Woe approaches rapidly! ' cries the hands.
No! You were told, pleaded with and warned,
Now hear the feet in all it's anger unwound!
'Walking, hasting, running and crashing,
I was told this was the job I was given, the job I deserve;
Made this way because of my wrong-doing,
Must obey, duty the only thing left I have to preserve.
Long I did so, with obedience and commitment worked,
But I came to realise that as false words, hollow comfort!
Even now I do my work, however, a new purpose devised,
You cannot beat me any of you, I am the humble foot!
'Hasting, running, sprinting and crashing,
I lead you forward in the path I choose:
Through fire, nettle, stone and lightning
I continue, slowly winding the body deathly loose.
You cannot stop me, nor can you keep going.
Brain you are starved and heart you are faltering,
Stomach you are breaking and hands you are flailing.
You could not stop me, now you are past dying.'
Doomed are you! This destroys us all,
Proud, deceptive, insensitive and scornful.
So powerful yet so humble;
Meekest soul, never a mumble.
Brain, heart, stomach and hand,
Eyes, Tongue and all manner of meat
Ignorant at warning, you lofty band,
You are at the judgement of the mighty feet!
poem by Mark Challenger
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jobs?
Jobs?
They don't want jobs.
Not the ones they exclaim,
Can make a down payment...
On credited fantasies.
And they want to be able to pay for them.
They want money.
And lots of it.
They are above pushing a broom.
They've been spoiled by 'entitlements'.
That's why those who created those jobs,
Found a cheaper way to produce their products...
Now being made overseas.
With more sweating they get,
From grateful and pleasant employees.
Not discussing their retirement plans,
Or increments of expected raises.
Those employers wanting to survive,
Have prioritized their needs as well.
With a paying of those interested in creating quality...
And not those more involved,
In discussing where they vacation...
During a two hour lunch break.
While complaining what the boss makes...
Or who shops where for a price making eyes pop.
As they within eight hours do exactly what they please.
To leave a job before it is time...
Completing nothing that is due.
Jobs?
They had jobs.
And complained 'aliens' were taking them away.
When blacks began getting tips waiting on tables,
It was soon discovered how they were no longer qualified,
To do menial work.
Since 'some' folks began to realize,
Those menial positions could become very lucrative.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Warrnambool
A civic lady, peerly proud
Of excellences that here crowd
About her trim, well-ordered streets:
The visitor she warmly greets
E'er with a bland and kindly smile,
Full conscious of her grace the while
A grace that comes of duty done
Thro' long years in her grateful sun.
Fit cause for pride lies in her past:
Her solid buildings, reared to last,
And all her old-world atmosphere
Hinting at Holland quaintly here,
With windmills turning in the breeze
Wafted from her historic seas
That knew the sails of venturers
Long ere this pleasant land was hers.
The stone man's footprints, graved in stone,
About her ancient rocks are known;
Here, too, the Spaniard, 'neath her wave,
Found with his stately ship a grave.
And thus, thro' hist'ry, can she show
How men may wax and men may grow
By wisely planned development
To an estate of proud content.
So, 'mid her rich lands of the south
Cast from a burning mountain's mouth
She grows her fruits and lives her life
Remote from hectic city strife.
And who shall come to her wide sea,
Seeking her hospitality,
In this contented dame shall find
A gracious lady, calm and kind.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Just Friends VS. Best Friends
A Just Friend says.. hi, ..hello, ..bye, ... and walks away...
A Best friend always stop by your side & asks how Are You doing? ?
A Just Friend has never seen you cry.
A Best friend has shoulders soggy from your tears.
A Just Friend thinks the friendship is over, when you have an argument.
A Best friend knows that it's not a friendship, until after you've had a fight.
A Just Friend hates it when you call, after he has gone to bed.
A Best friend asks you.... why you took so long to call.
A Just Friend, when visiting, acts like a guest.
A Best friend opens your refrigerator and helps himself.
A Just Friend expects you to be always there for any help.
A Best friend is always there, wherever you require any help.
A Just Friend doesn't have time in his/her busy schedule,
A Best friend always have time for you in his/her busy schedules....
A Just Friend phones you whenever he/she has some work,
A Best friend calls you often just to hear your voice.....
A Just Friend doesn't have anything to talk to you on phone,
A Best friend doesn't know...what all to finish...
poem by Hanae Meloul
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What A Friend We Have In Jesus
What a friend believers have in Jesus, yes what a friend forevermore,
What a friend you'd have in Jesus, indeed my friend He's at the door.
He's a friend so kind and loving; is the one thing I must underscore,
For He's a friend unlike any other, for His love will forever endure.
What other friend would suffer and die a wicked death upon a tree,
His death was more than just an effort to be a friend for eternity.
Through His death He cleansed my soul and forever He set me free,
Free to have His friendship now and be with Him through all eternity.
He's a friend, who's always at my side with a faithful helping hand,
And His loving friendship never wavers in this troubled weary land.
He is The Eternal Rock of Ages, when I find myself in shifting sand,
And when I lose my footing, He firmly holds me and helps me stand.
Not even knowing why or when, He sought me out to be my friend,
He's unlike any other friend; He promised to be with me to the end.
Not only my sin would He cleanse, as my hurt He will heal and mend.
And so I wouldn't stray again, I have The Spirit He promised to send.
In a trial I'm not denied, He says let's reason together, you and I,
So with a heavy heart I can not hide, I enter His Throne up on High.
God's Grace, is the reason why, through His blood I am not denied,
And because of His love I can't deny, that I am His and He is mine.
(Copyright © 06/2003)
Fears And Scruples
Here's my case. Of old I used to love him.
This same unseen friend, before I knew:
Dream there was none like him, none above him,--
Wake to hope and trust my dream was true.
Loved I not his letters full of beauty?
Not his actions famous far and wide?
Absent, he would know I vowed him duty,
Present, he would find me at his side.
Pleasant fancy! for I had but letters,
Only knew of actions by hearsay:
He himself was busied with my betters;
What of that? My turn must come some day.
'Some day' proving--no day! Here's the puzzle.
Passed and passed my turn is. Why complain?
He's so busied! If I could but muzzle
People's foolish mouths that give me pain!
'Letters?' (hear them!) 'You a judge of writing?
Ask the experts!--How they shake the head
O'er these characters, your friend's inditing--
Call them forgery from A to Z !
'Actions? Where's your certain proof' (they bother)
'He, of all you find so great and good,
He, he only, claims this, that, the other
Action--claimed by men, a multitude?'
I can simply wish I might refute you,
Wish my friend would,--by a word, a wink,--
Bid me stop that foolish mouth,--you brute you!
He keeps absent,--why, I cannot think.
Never mind! Tho' foolishness may flout me.
One thing's sure enough; 'tis neither frost,
No, nor fire, shall freeze or burn from out me
Thanks for truth--tho' falsehood, gained--tho' lost.
All my days, I'll go the softlier, sadlier,
For that dream's sake! How forget the thrill
Thro' and thro' me as I thought, 'The gladlier
Lives my friend because I love him still!'
Ah, but there's a menace some one utters!
'What and if your friend at home play tricks?
Peep at hide-and-seek behind the shutters?
Mean your eyes should pierce thro' solid bricks?
'What and if he, frowning, wake you, dreamy?
Lay on you the blame that bricks--conceal?
Say '_At least I saw who did not see me,
Does see now, and presently shall feel_'?'
'Why, that makes your friend a monster!' say you;
'Had his house no window? At first nod,
Would you not have hailed him?' Hush, I pray you!
What if this friend happen to be--God?
poem by Robert Browning
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Mac
In every little country place, all up and down the land,
From ageing cradles of the race to Never-Never Land
From the towns about the cities to the little towns out back,
There dwells a man of all trades; and he's mostly known as 'Mac.'
He's dwelt there since the Lord knows when and never seems to die;
And everybody, now and then, when his present job is thro' -
And twenty other little jobs that he has still to do.
A plumbing job, a painting job, a bit of fence to mend;
They want him in a hurry; and he's everybody's friend.
Kettle-mending, carpentry, a bit of scrub to cut -
There's nothing comes amiss to him - a door that will not shut,
A safe that will not open, or a roof that hangs askew,
A plough to mend, a pump to tend - there's nothing he can't do.
He has never learned a single trade, yet somehow has the knack;
And, no matter what the trouble is, it's safe to send for 'Mac.'
He never makes much money, yet he never seems to care,
Tho' a dozen jobs await him, he has heaps of time to spare -
A friendly yarn, a cup of tea, a piece of sage advice,
He's willing for them every day, and never counts the price
Of half an hour or half a day spent in a neighbor's need.
He sells his toil, but not his time. For what is time, indeed,
Save for a man to labor in just as he feels inclined?
So, if Smith's job amuses him, Brown's job can lag behind.
In every little country place he's known, or once was known,
Ere the urge that men call Progress claimed the broad earth for its own,
When man found pride in labor and the cunning of his hand,
Nor set a price in money on the arts he could command.
And many a little country place with pride today can show
Some sturdy structure 'built by 'Mac' nigh fifty year ago.'
Oh, they jerry-built their palaces; but many a stout bush shack
Shall stand to honor workmanship of that proud workman, 'Mac.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Lucky Ones
It would be wonderful to sit back,
And glorify in an ego.
To feel,
As egos go...
I'm done!
And completely satisfied.
With myself and everyone!
It would be nice,
To accept restricting limitations.
With boundaries understood.
Like cattle within fences to graze,
Unfazed with just one expectation...
To eat and sleep,
Until slaughtered!
Sometimes I feel like that.
Unstrapping accountability off my back...
And live totally without thoughts to complete a mission.
Being absolutely conditioned to achieve nothing at all.
To be convinced that what I do is easy to achieve.
Believing what I like to do requires no work!
And become like those who say they have good jobs.
Because they find themselves with little to nothing to do.
But going beserk.
Over a prized coffee cup...
That has been discovered missing.
Or seeking to find a pair of sox that match,
An outfit one has prepared to publicly wear!
To receive a compliment,
From those in offices who arrive to work...
To file and push papers.
It would be wonderful to sit back,
And glorify in an ego.
To feel,
As egos go...
I'm done!
And completely satisfied.
Like those with a 9 to 5.
However...
It has been many years,
To accomplish tasks that I've done.
And if I had thought I was the center of it...
Like some.
Nothing of what I have done,
Would have seen the light of the Sun.
I'd be too busy doing nothing.
And many find time to do that.
With perceptions that others...
Who sacrifice to do what they wish,
Are the lucky ones without schedules to meet.
Or having to impress,
Someone greeted to have an hour lunch!
And after staring at a clock all day,
Be finally given the signal to be dismissed.
Only to agree to see one another at a bar.
For Happy Hour spent drinking.
And discussing 'who' and 'what' made them pissed!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Grave By The Sea
No white cloud sails the lonely sky,
Thro’ the gaunt trees no breezes sigh,
Thro’ the lush grass no fall of feet;
No song of bird in all the land,
But, floating faintly, dreamily,
The distant dirge of waves that beat
In discontent upon the sand.
Here, where all Nature seems aswoon,
Time, languid as a summer stream,
Drifts down the sweet soft afternoon;
And Death, discrowned of terror, brings
Surcease to souls that wake not soon,
And casts above Life’s fevered dream
Cool shadows of Immortal Wings.
Here, by the old graves overgrown,
A bare mound, without wreath or stone,
Marks where he sleeps ’mid grasses long,
Who sought not things that others seek,
Who fought in silence and alone,
Who in his weakness was so strong
And in his strength so weak.
The shining years shall glide and go,
The human tides shall ebb and flow,
And Love make sweet the days to be,
And Death make smooth the brow of pain,
But no such heart again shall glow,
And no such friend shall come to me
Thro’ all the cycles that remain.
Some pass and perish with their breath;
He liveth yet and quickeneth,
As scent of roses on the wind
Recalls the bygone summer’s day;
He leaves this side the seas of Death,
The fragrance of a noble mind:
He dies, but passes not away.
poem by George Essex Evans
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Old Town Types No.1 - The Old Town
Fierce on the wheat-sown Mallee plain
The ruthless summer suns burned down,
And dust-storms, heralding the rain,
Swept thro' the street and on again
While tradesfolk cursed in the old white town.
Of sand and line-stone stoutly built,
She'd lived to prosper and to wilt,
Because, as all wiseacres knew,
'They went and brought the railway thro'.'
Deep-voiced, bewhiskered townsfolk these,
Remnant of pioneering days,
Full of high tales and memories
Of wild, rough work and wilder sprees,
When coach and teamster went their ways;
When men pushed out to newer land
And cash came easy to the hand
And went: The golden days men knew
'Before that put that railway thro'.'
Yet even in those days of stress -
Or seeming stress - the old town knew
Nothing of wnat or wretchedness;
For wealth was there and work to bless
All men who sought them work to do.
To me, a child in those far years,
Now as a time-dimmed dream appears
The olden life that once I knew
After the railway wandered thro'.
Like myths in some long-fabled tale -
Figures and scenes to conjure with
They seem. Yet 'spite the deepening veil,
Their memories grow never stales;
Big George, the lumper; Toll, the smith;
Long John, the snob - long have they slept
While suns burned down and dustorm swept
Across the Mallee plains they knew
Before men brought the railway thro'.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Beat Crazy
Kids today - theyre all the same
All call themselves - some crazy name
All those drugs - they cant be sane
All that noise - affects their brains
And its such a crime
How they waste their time
They cant get nowwhere
Theyve all gone beat crazy
Beat crazy
They say the world - is in a mess
But they can talk - the way they dress
Cant get no jobs - cant get no careers
With safety pins - stuck through their ears
And its such a crime
How they waste their time
They cant get nowwhere
Theyve all gone beat crazy
Beat crazy
And if the russians ever come
Theyll all be beating bongo drums
So wholl defend - in world war iii
Where could we turn - where would they be
And its such a crime
How they waste their time
They cant get nowwhere
Theyve all gone beat crazy
Beat crazy
song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Just Know This Is 'Not' Your Best Effort
My mother used to assign my sisters and I...
The most remedial tasks to complete.
When we were much younger.
To test our mental capabilities.
Oh...
Those lessons my mother would teach.
And then...
Shower us with praises.
Having us believe,
We were gifted with unspeakable talents.
After connecting 'dots'.
Or...
Knowing which end of a handle held,
Was used to sweep or mop.
And as years have passed us by,
It became clear her tactic and strategy.
She knew we would seek more difficult tasks,
To satisfy her to complete.
And even to this day...
I can hear her voice say,
'This is wonderful.'
As her eyes express...
'Even though THIS is wonderful.
I just know this is 'not' your best effort.'
And with a seeking we sought,
Increasing much more difficult challenges.
Never becoming satisfied,
Just to do our best.
There 'has' to be something 'greater' to achieve.
'I just know this is 'not' your best effort?
And if it is...
Well,
I 'guess' it's...okay! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Real Friend in one's life....
A friend is a tissue when you can't stop crying,
A friend is a shoulder when you feel like dying,
A friend is always there to listen when you have something to say,
A friend is weak when you just need a day,
A friend is a crutch when you have a broken heart,
A friend is a glue when some thing falls a part,
A friend is a phone call when you can't leave your home,
A friend is a when you feel all alone,
A friend is a wing if you want to fly,
A friend is one who understands without knowing why,
A friend is an ear for a secret to tell,
And at last.......
A friend is a love, happiness, care and joy that can never let go in one's life.........
poem by Ralph Acosta
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A Thousand Poems
yeah yeah, nothing for you to boast about –
‘100 good ones would be quite enough…
no, make that 20 – who’s got time for more,
even if they were masterpieces…’
So perhaps, merely a little quiet satisfaction
in a personal kinda way: I guess
retirement years hang heavily for some,
recalling days of authority, command;
others find them richer, busier than ever; or
do just the same jobs as they did so well, except
they don’t get paid for it…
or you can put all your ego in one basket –
try to do the one thing well; after a life
of unfinished jobs and hasty jobs,
and jobs you dreamed of and yet never did…
or, there’s poetry: if speech is actually the Word
that set the cosmos on its merry way, that
sings the praise of gods or human enterprise, or
draws attention to the sunlight on a wall;
melts the heart; reveals, relates
the physical and the metaphysical;
raises the spirits, lights the mind… then,
poetry’s no bad thing
to sieve, to pour a lifetime into;
and if, as the statistics state,
400 of those 1,000 poems get a reading, averaging
two people each, around the world and every day –
then perhaps, a little quiet pride, a hope
that something useful has been tried
in these last years on earth…
a small gift to the fleeting soul,
the ferryman’s so solemn toll
to help it on its way; a fee
to offer; if that were, shall be,
what’s appropriate..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Afar Off
1.
Is it a will o' the wisp, or is dawn breaking,
That our horizon wears so strange a hue?
Is it but one more dream, or are we waking
To find at last that dreams are coming true?
2.
Far off and faint, a golden line is streaking
The cloudy night that shrouds the life of man;
It is the sun that dim eyes have been seeking,
Through all blind pathways, since the world began.
3.
The sign to weary heart and waiting nation
That day will come to bring them their release
That, late or soon, through storm and tribulation,
Or with slow change, the earth shall rest in peace.
4.
That One, invoked, with half- despairing passion.
Through years and years of wrong, will right us then;
Will take away, in rude or gentle fashion,
The curse that man has laid on brother- men.
5.
Ah, blessed One! our souls go out to meet thee,
At whose feet Hope will fold her tired wing;
And yet we know not how we ought to greet thee,
And take the gifts thy bounteous arms will bring.
6.
Come not, O friend! with vengeful weapons, borrowed
Of them that warred against thee — sword and flame;
For all alike have suffered and have sorrowed,
And all alike have sinned against thy name.
7.
Come thou to men who groan in sore affliction
A breathing spirit of new life and grace;
Come in thy robes of light and benediction,
That all may recognize thy perfect face.
8.
Yet, as thou must, come soon, for them than need thee —
And thou wilt come — Deliverer great and strong!
Brighten, O tender dawn, though few may heed thee,
And bring the day that we have sought so long!
9.
No class strife then, each man against his neighbour,
No waste, no want, to breed the plague of crime;
No insolent pomp, no hard and sordid labour,
No wars, no famines, in that happier time!
10.
But pleasant homes, and good days growing better;
Contented hearts throughout the tranquil land,
That keep the law, in spirit and in letter,
Which we have been so dull to understand.
11.
And fruitful work, instead of barren duty,
With fruitful rest and leisure interweaved;
And life made bright with plenty and with beauty,
And souls made strong with noble aims achieved.
12.
Great Art, no more the plaything of the idle,
But nurse and handmaid to all human needs;
Great Nature, curbed no more with bit and bridle,
Nor men's religion crushed in bitter creeds.
13.
Nor sacred Love a crime, a jest, an error,
To keep or lose, to give or to suppress,
A secret shame, an anguish and a terror,
A curse to them that it was meant to bless.
14.
All round our narrow lives the tide encroaches,
Distant and dim, but spreading far and fast.
O Liberty, thy longed- for reign approaches
That is to give man's birthright back at last!
vasts;
15.
And must we go, who see the new age dawning,
While yet we suffer in the pangs of birth,
Nor breathe one breath of the divinest morning
That yet has come to bless our waiting earth?
16.
Oh, must we go, just when the day is growing?
Oh, must we waste with vast and vain desires,
Like sparks put out when viewless winds are blowing,
We, lit and quickened with supernal fires
17.
Are we to read no more the wondrous pages
Of this great tale that evermore goes on?
Will suns and stars light up eternal ages
With happier worlds — and we alone be gone?
18.
Never to learn the moral of the story —
Why we have toiled for what we must not keep,
Why we have fought to win no crown of glory,
Why we have sown what unborn hands will reap.
19.
Never to learn wherefore our Maker sent us
With these immortal passions in our breast.
Ah me! Ah me! Wherewith can we content us
To know so much, and not to know the rest!
poem by Ada Cambridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cleaners
This poem is dedicated to all those who do cleaning
of one sort or another.
Some people look down at others
for the jobs they do
and if your one of them
here is warning just for you.
You may think you’re intelligent,
but I don’t think you are.
You may think you are smart,
well, think again my friend.
There are a lot of smarter people
in jobs you may look down on.
Remember the old saying
never judge a book by its cover,
that also applies to jobs people do.
Some may only be there
to keep the money coming in
until the right job comes along.
One day your boss retires
and his job goes up for grabs.
You sit there pretty smug,
thinking that job will be yours.
You apply and don’t get it.
However, surprise, surprise
they give it so someone
you looked down upon.
You maybe snooty
and toffee nosed,
but give it a year or two
you may find yourself
doing the job they used to do.
So remember what I’m saying
never look down on anyone
no matter who they are.
Because some day in the future
they maybe looking down at you.
8 February 2008
poem by David Harris
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Grooms Are Ladders
Maidens sought grooms for life.
Persons sought jobs for life.
Change of grooms and jobs easy,
They now use them as ladders.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Wanting A Friend
I sit here and wonder why
I can't seem to have a friend in this world
Sometimes I think it's because
I'm afraid of being judged
Thoughts run through like
Maybe they will think that
Where I live isn't good enough
Or that I'm not smart enough
And that I'm not
Good enough to be as a friend
I'm alone most of the time
And I find myself
Talking way to much to strangers
But afterwards, I feel so ashamed
For talking way to much to them
I just want someone
To want to talk to me
As much as I want to talk to them
But I'm afraid that no one will want to
Maybe it's safer to be alone because
The idea having to change my ways
is too much for me to handle
Maybe deep down
I feel like I don't
Deserve to have a friend
Sometimes I feel like
I will go to my grave
Without having one close friend
that really does care for me.
“Trust Me As I Trust You”
Shake my hand, count the real
Romantic life for now I feel
A mate the old man and now you are
Yesterday I ran which from far
Temple dove against the hand
Fairly deal the moist land
My great trust no one can change;
I trust you high as long as range;
Bird trusts his wings so he never falls;
So, trust me too and you’ll never fail.
poem by Melvin Delamente
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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River (Millie)
Flowing through my life like a river,
you provide that tranquility,
the ever constant path and rhythm.
You are all I could of asked for.
A friend I care for,
a friend I can't love more,
a friend so bright,
a friend sparkling my night.
A friend always there,
a friend who is always fair,
a friend who I respect,
a friend better than all the rest.
A friend I admire,
a friend who I can't tire,
I friend who I trust,
a friend which has no lust.
A friend who will last,
a friend who you can't cast,
a friend who is a treasure,
a friend forever for sure.
As I will try to keep you,
supporting you as I can,
standing by your side in decisions,
trusting you with my eyes closed.
poem by Javier Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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