To Certain Critics
Then call me traitor if you must,
Shout reason and default!
Say I betray a sacred trust
Aching beyond this vault.
I'll bear your censure as your praise,
For never shall the clan
Confine my singing to its ways
Beyond the ways of man.
No racial option narrows grief,
Pain is not patriot,
And sorrow plaits her dismal leaf
For all as lief as not.
With blind sheep groping every hill,
Searching an oriflamme,
How shall the shpherd heart then thrill
To only the darker lamb?
poem by Countee Cullen
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An Answer to a Lady, Who Advised Lady Montagu to Retire
You little know the heart that you advise:
I view this various scene with equal eyes;
In crowded courts I find myself alone,
And pay my worship to a nobler throne.
Long since the value of this world I know;
Pitied the folly, and despis'd the show;
Well as I can, my tedious part I bear,
And wait dismissal without pain or fear.
Seldom I mark mankind's detested ways,
Not hearing censure or affecting praise;
And unconcern'd my future fate I trust
To that sole Being, merciful and just!
poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
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Love So True
I know it's kind of silly,
that I spend my days,
searching and searching,
for other ways.
Other ways,
into your heart,
that way we'll never,
be far apart.
Far apart,
that thought makes me cry,
only because I don't,
want to say good-bye.
Good-bye,
the words are like scars,
they are just there,
to cause my pain.
My pain,
it all starts with you,
because I know it's,
love so true.
poem by Katherine Bryce
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My Only Song
Man of Sorrow
Man of Pain
You took it all
Without any gain.
You loved us all
With gentle eyes
Man of Sorrow
Man of Pain
39 plus one
Lashes great fall on your back
A crown of thorns
Pressed down around your head
The blood runs down
and yet you cry
'So many lost;
So many die.'
Man of Sorrow
Man of Pain
Leave it now-
And cry again
Man of sorrow
Man of pain
Your troubled heart
Feels my pain.
Lifted up to die
Bitter gall served fresh
As wine
Yet you'd do it again
For one lost sheep
That beats in the air.
Man of sorrow
Man of pain
When is it enough?
So much grief
You swallow up
Yet you bore it
And demand me live-
Man of sorrow
I humbled myself down.
All glory to you
Man of sorrow
All thrones belong to you
Man of pain
You gave me life and
Even more
I have nothing
But myself to give -
Yet I keep taking it back
Man of Sorrow
Man of Pain.
poem by Charlotte Ballard
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Who’s Following Who?
Why do many politicians deceive, those in the land who truly believe,
The Word, written long before, these men stood on the Senate floor?
God’s Word, written by men of Old, regarding what God has foretold,
About the things to be fulfilled, not how man but how God has willed.
How can we be blessed by God, as these men with a convincing nod,
Speak to people across this land, while they assert a Godless stand?
Making stands that have inferred, new ways opposed to God’s Word,
Moving from our firm foundation, as they weaken this beloved nation.
How can politicians stand so aloof, while distorting fundamental Truth,
Only to further their own policy, while dismissing The God of Eternity?
Their ways are not apparent to all, as Knowledge of God is truly small,
In the minds of much of this world; as the darker policies are unfurled.
How can these men be so arrogant; pursuing policy, they’re truly bent,
On treading underfoot all God’s ways, in their quest for men’s praise?
Self-willed politicians, filled with pride, they cast all God’s ways aside,
Basing reason on human deduction, they pave the way to Destruction.
Are these politicians, truly deceived, by the power they have received,
Or fully aware of a darker plan, that is hidden from the common man?
A plan that’s known by many of us, who in God have placed our trust,
But, it’s God’s Plan that will prevail, while man’s dark plans surely fail.
Is there no Godly fear in their heart, while from Truth they truly depart,
Making policy on their own accord, dismissing the ways of our Lord?
In these days who’s following who, as mere men govern me and you,
Do they not realize and understand, God still reigns over every land?
(Copyright ©06/2009)
To Timarion
HAD I the thrush's throat, I could not sing you
Songs sweeter than his own. And I'm too poor
To lay the gifts that other lovers bring you
Low at your silver door.
Such as I have, I give. See, for your taking
Tired hands are here, and feet grown dark with dust.
Here's a lost hope, and here a heart whose aching
Grows greater than its trust.
Sleep on, you will not hear me. But to-morrow
You will remember in your fragrant ways,
Finding the voice of twilight and my sorrow
Lovelier than all men's praise.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Ins And Outs
Into…
Depthless grief,
boundless wonder
Ways our world
is torn asunder
Empty hearts
Lack of feeling
Ways our world
Is In need of healing
Out of…
Open minds,
closed to sorrow
Ways our world
greets tomorrow
Out of Endless hope
Out of Keen anticipation
Into Ways our world
Can have salvation
poem by David Whalen
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In Your Own Ways
You are smart in your own ways
you are lovely in your own ways
you are beautiful in your own ways
You smile in your own ways
So crazy in your own ways
The madness of your own ways
such mysterious in your own ways
Those eyes of your own ways
You inspire me in your own ways
You talk in you own ways
you love me in your own ways
You suprise me in your own ways
Your kindness of its own kind
Your love of its own loveliness
your touch of its own comfort
And your kisses of its own sweetness
There is nothing so much worth to
treasure in my own ways than the
sweet memories of your own ways
Your life in your own ways
changes mine in its own way
God must have taken His own time
for sush a creation of its own kind
With everything in its own way
I must live your way.
poem by Moffat Mbuzi
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God, save me! ! !
I trust myself
I know i can reach out my dreams
I trust my parents
I know how much they care and love me
I trust my friends
I know what they can do for me
I trust the night
I know the stars that shine
I trust the moon
I know its inspiration remains forever
I trust the wind
I know its winding ways
I trust the sky
I know its wonderful days
I trust the sun
I know its rising light
I trust the things I love
God, I know that all that trust may
disappoint and betray me one day.
But, only your trust save me.
http: //super23man.skyrock.com/
poem by Oussama samouna
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A Beautiful Pain You've Caused
A beautiful pain you've caused
Worthy of praise and thought
But the morning announced this ill
That morning I first met you here
I fooled my own self, my heart
And childishly ignored that qualm (hunch)
That warned me against your ways
I made myself blind and deaf
Still now that nothing remains
I ask you to quiet this pain
My sense of loss heavy weighs
Can't move onto better days
And might as I try, I must
I must not deny my cry
It empties this pain inside
This beautiful pain you caused
It is senseless this sense of loss
For I always knew it would come
You never were in disguise
I knew well you were tainted, vile
Call me foolish for wanting you then
Call me heartless for wanting you now
I keep hurting myself with you
Even now when my pain has worn out
poem by Angelica Duardo
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My Trust
A picture memory brings to me
I look across the years and see
Myself beside my mother's knee.
I feel her gentle hand restrain
My selfish moods, and know again
A child's blind sense of wrong and pain.
But wiser now, a man gray grown,
My childhood's needs are better known,
My mother's chastening love I own.
Gray grown, but in our Father's sight
A child still groping for the light
To read His works and ways aright.
I wait, in His good time to see
That as my mother dealt with me
So with His children dealeth He.
I bow myself beneath His hand
That pain itself was wisely planned
I feel, and partly understand.
The joy that comes in sorrow's guise,
The sweet pains of self-sacrifice,
I would not have them otherwise.
And what were life and death if sin
Knew not the dread rebuke within,
The pang of merciful discipline?
Not with thy proud despair of old,
Crowned stoic of Rome's noblest mould!
Pleasure and pain alike I hold.
I suffer with no vain pretence
Of triumph over flesh and sense,
Yet trust the grievous providence,
How dark soe'er it seems, may tend,
By ways I cannot comprehend,
To some unguessed benignant end;
That every loss and lapse may gain
The clear-aired heights by steps of pain,
And never cross is borne in vain.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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My Trust
A picture memory brings to me
I look across the years and see
Myself beside my mother's knee.
I feel her gentle hand restrain
My selfish moods, and know again
A child's blind sense of wrong and pain.
But wiser now, a man gray grown,
My childhood's needs are better known,
My mother's chastening love I own.
Gray grown, but in our Father's sight
A child still groping for the light
To read His works and ways aright.
I wait, in His good time to see
That as my mother dealt with me
So with His children dealeth He.
I bow myself beneath His hand
That pain itself was wisely planned
I feel, and partly understand.
The joy that comes in sorrow's guise,
The sweet pains of self-sacrifice,
I would not have them otherwise.
And what were life and death if sin
Knew not the dread rebuke within,
The pang of merciful discipline?
Not with thy proud despair of old,
Crowned stoic of Rome's noblest mould!
Pleasure and pain alike I hold.
I suffer with no vain pretence
Of triumph over flesh and sense,
Yet trust the grievous providence,
How dark soe'er it seems, may tend,
By ways I cannot comprehend,
To some unguessed benignant end;
That every loss and lapse may gain
The clear-aired heights by steps of pain,
And never cross is borne in vain.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Thank offering
The hunter draws his bow string back.
Then quick released the arrow flies
so fast the eye cannot keep track.
Pierced through the heart a young stag dies.
The clan will feast on meat tonight.
Their appetites well satisfied,
they praise the goddess of night
who keeps their wants and needs supplied.
These simple folk with simple ways.
a clan of hunter gatherers
are wise enough to offer praise
to the moon goddess: She who cares
for all her children man and beast
in gratitude for tonights feast.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Deniehy’s Lament
SPIRIT of Loveliness! Heart of my heart!
Flying so far from me, Heart of my heart!
Above the eastern hill, I know the red leaves thrill,
But thou art distant still, Heart of my heart!
Sinning, I’ve searched for thee, Heart of my heart!
Sinning, I’ve dreamed of thee, Heart of my heart!
I know no end nor gain; amongst the paths of pain
I follow thee in vain, Heart of my heart!
Much have I lost for thee, Heart of my heart!
Not counting the cost for thee, Heart of my heart!
Through all this year of years thy form as mist appears,
So blind am I with tears, Heart of my heart!
Mighty and mournful now, Heart of my heart!
Cometh the Shadow-Face, Heart of my heart!
The friends I’ve left for thee, their sad eyes trouble me—
I cannot bear to be, Heart of my heart!
poem by Henry Kendall
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The Depth Of Grief
The depth of grief is hard to measure
For the pain inside it that is treasures
Is so much and so bitter and hard
That everone wants it to totally discard
But one thing taht we must keep in mind
Is to always seek ways with others to be kind
No matter what we are going through
We must be honest and sincere too
And always remember these pain and grief
Are only let out and gets a relief
If they are given a chance to drop
From inside painful injured heart's top
And then all life's pain and sigh
Will leave your soul and will say goodbye
And then in your heart all pain and grief
Will not get a place, not even brief.
poem by Seema Chowdhury
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Paths
I shall tread, another year,
Ways I walked with Grief,
Past the dry, ungarnered ear
And the brittle leaf.
I shall stand, a year apart,
Wondering, and shy,
Thinking, "Here she broke her heart;
Here she pled to die."
I shall hear the pheasants call,
And the raucous geese;
Down these ways, another Fall,
I shall walk with Peace.
But the pretty path I trod
Hand-in-hand with Love-
Underfoot, the nascent sod,
Brave young boughs above,
And the stripes of ribbon grass
By the curling way-
I shall never dare to pass
To my dying day.
poem by Dorothy Parker
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La Fraisne
For I was a gaunt, grave councillor
Being in all things wise, and very old,
But I have put aside this folly and the cold
That old age weareth for a cloak.
I was quite strong-at least they said so-
The young men at the sword-play;
But I have put aside this folly, being gay
In another fashion that more suiteth me.
I have curled 'mid the boles of the ash wood,
I have hidden my face where the oak
Spread his leaves over me, and the yoke
Of the old ways of men have I cast aside.
By the still pool of Mar-nan-otha
Have I found me a bride
That was a dog-wood tree some syne.
She hath called me from mine old ways
She hath hushed my rancour of council,
Bidding me praise
Naught but the wind that flutters in the leaves.
She hath drawn me from mine old ways,
Till men say that I am mad;
But I have seen the sorrow of men, and am glad,
For I know that the wailing and bitterness are a folly.
And I? I have put aside all folly and all grief.
I wrapped my tears in an ellum leaf
And left them under a stone
And now men call me mad because I have thrown
All folly from me, putting it aside
To leave the old barren ways of men,
Because my bride
Is a pool of the wood, and
Though all men say that I am mad
It is only that I am glad,
Very glad, for my bride hath toward me a great love
That is sweeter than the love of women
That plague and burn and drive one away.
Aie-e! 'Tis true that I am gay
Quite gay, for I have her alone here
And no man troubleth us.
Once when I was among the young men . . .
And they said I was quite strong, among the young men.
Once there was a woman . . .
. . . but I forget . . . she was . .
... I hope she will not come again.
... I do not remember…..
I think she hurt me once, but . . .
That was very long ago.
I do not like to remember things any more.
I like one little band of winds that blow
In the ash trees here:
For we are quite alone
Here 'mid the ash trees.
poem by Ezra Pound
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No Assurance Without God
Believers remain calm and sure, as we go through another door,
Another door on the road of life, where uncertainty is always rife,
In these gray and changing times, as the nation's anxiety climbs,
As men try to change the ways, ordained by God, in these days.
The leadership, that we see today, is leading down a darker way,
Multitudes who see no need, for the righteousness God decreed,
As righteousness exalts a nation, they've left the sure foundation,
Moving to proverbial shifting sand, that many do not understand.
Yet, many praise these men, whom, God Himself, shall condemn,
For their wicked, godless ways, in spite of men's wayward praise,
Leaving all Godly ways behind, leading astray the spiritually blind,
Moving along without a pause, in support of their darkened cause.
The real truths, every man alludes, leading the ignorant multitudes,
Like that Pied Piper leading mice, their followers won't think twice,
About men they choose to follow, even though their talk is hollow,
As they lead ignorant souls astray, on the destructive broader way.
But in God's ways we are assured, while we follow Christ our Lord,
As God's peace you won't find, in followers of the spiritually blind,
While that peace God gave to me, is peace that shall last eternally,
As I choose to follow Jesus Christ, The very Author of Eternal Life.
(Copyright ©08/2012)
Oh, my ways are strange ways and new ways and old ways, And deep ways and steep ways and high ways and low, I'm at home and at ease on a track that I know not, And restless and lost on a road that I know.
quote by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Whirling Wind Uplifts a Leaf
A whirling wind uplifts a leaf
Brings childish laughter midst my grief
And though my sorrow tears at me
There’s also room for Lana’s glee.
Some said, “Don’t take her to the grave”
Why force the young to be so brave
When faced with fate? She seems okay
As long as leaves and winds will play.
And then Grandmother looks our way
I see the wrinkles, grief, and gray
But see the twinkle in her eyes
As she sees Lana’s fingers rise
To catch that leaf that seems to fly
Into my daughter’s hands; I sigh
Her laughter sounds; what can I do
Then I hear Grandpa laughing, too.
My laughing Lana played her part
For I heard Grandma’s “Bless her heart.”
And knew in mine that more than I
My daughter knew when not to cry
Yes, tears will come on future days
When we remember Grandpa’s ways
But not today—let sorrow wait
While Grandpa’s life we celebrate.
poem by Mac Wilkey
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All My Heart Is Stirring Lightly
All my heart is stirring lightly
Like dim violets winter-bound,
Quickening as they feel the brightly
Glowing sunlight underground.
Yea, this drear and silent bosom,
Hushed as snow-hid grove but now,
Breaketh into leaf and blossom
Like a gleaming vernal bough.
Oh the singing, singing, singing!
Callow hopes that thrill my breast!
Can the lark of love be winging
Back to its abandoned nest?
poem by Mathilde Blind
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