Don't Let Me Die in China, Lord!
I had a fright the other night,
I dreamt that I was ill,
The Angels fluttered round my bed,
They said: 'Now you be still! '
My heart beat like a pounding drum,
The pain was like a sword,
I had one thought, and only one:
'Don’t let me die in China, Lord! '
The vision would not let me be,
I saw the future clear,
The landlord breaking down the door
To find me lying there.
'The Lao Wai’s gone, not paid the rent! '
He’d say in pu tong hua,
'We’d better call the embassy
They’ll send around a car.'
The embassy refused the car,
They didn’t want to show,
'He must belong to someone else,
He isn’t ours, you know! '
The neighbours filed in through the door
To look the last on me,
And clear the flat of anything
Not quite nailed down, you see.
'He looks all right, now that he’s dead, '
One mother told her son,
'Perhaps we should have talked to him.'
'- a little late now, Mum!
They say he studied pu tong hua
But never got it sussed,
We’ll have to make the funeral
As if he’s one of us.'
So later on that day they brought
The baskets full of flowers,
The big round silvery disks that shone
While they drew straws for hours,
For who would wail and cry for me
As I had no-one near,
So two wai po’s in old black clothes
Said: 'Fifty kwai an hour! '
For fifty kwai they set their chant
And woke the neighborhood,
And no one said to keep it down,
The Chinese understood.
A funeral is a sacred thing
For Han or old Yang Wei,
They kept their vigil for three days,
Then said: 'Today’s the day! '
At four o’clock that morning
In the stilly dark, forlorn,
They set up all their crackers
To erupt before the dawn,
They woke up all the neighbours
Who came down to see who wept,
While other Lao Wai’s turned in bed,
Rolled over, cursed, and slept.
And then the band, it started up,
An old Han marching song,
The big bass drum beat out of time,
A little late for some;
A little early for all those
Who just had got to sleep,
I wasn’t quite the flavour of
The neighborhood that week.
At six o’clock they marched away
All following the hearse,
A wooden cart pulled by four men,
I thought: 'Could things be worse? '
They marched along the highway
Disregarding life and limb,
The band it played along the way
A revolution hymn.
Then I awoke, (the pain had gone) ,
A-tremble, in a sweat,
I wasn’t ready then, I knew,
For Buddha’s belly yet!
And so I raised my eyes on high
To plead, entreat, implore:
'If you would grant me just one wish:
Don’t let me die in China, Lord! '
21 May 2006
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Can You Hear It
Drum, drum, tipi tap, tong,
I like that beat as it comes along.
It’s the same beat and the same tune,
we all know it’ll be here soon.
Drum, drum, tipi tap, tong,
fast or slow it’s a catchy song.
I kind of look forward to its day
and it's a shame when it goes away.
Drum, drum, tipi tap, tong,
It's getting closer and it won’t be long.
At last it's coming down our street
with its catchy drumming beat.
Drum, drum, tipi tap, tong,
it's so simple I can’t go wrong.
It's getting louder as it comes near,
the people watching give it a cheer.
Drum, drum, tipi tap, tong,
the beat’s blasting out loud and strong.
The man inside this sweeping machine
sings as he works to keep the streets clean.
Drum, drum, tipi tap, tong,
the sounds are fading as it goes along.
But it's nice to know as he sweeps the curb,
his drum, drum, tipi tap, tong, has the final word.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Parantha’s Dream
He marched up and down
with his string tied tin.
Keeping in time with the
beat and marching.
The twelve year old boy
Parantha Parapanjani
yearned to be a drummer
in the Royal Indian Army.
Using two wooden sticks
and a biscuit tin so old,
he imitated the drummers
and their drum rolls.
He marched up and down
with his string tied tin.
Keeping in time with the
beat and marching.
A thief stole his drum
leaving him with nothing to play,
but his father’s old tin leg,
stepped in to save the day.
From a string around his neck,
it swung about his waist,
as he practiced with the band
outside the military gates.
He marched up and down
with his string tied tin.
Keeping in time with the
beat and marching.
One day a limping man and boy
walked down the busy street,
as Parantha drummed up
a leg moving kind of beat.
The regimental sergeant major
recognised the sound,
and saw the leg being played,
as it made its way to town.
So impressed was the sergeant
he enlisted the boy in the band.
A new side-drum he was given
and a stick for each hand.
He marched up and down
with his Indian army band,
so proud to be a drummer,
with a stick in each hand.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Hand of Tong Bao Lin
I stood in front of the guillotine
And paled at the sharpened blade,
The motor hummed as my mind went numb
And my body shook and swayed,
The sweat poured into my open eyes
And blinded and burned like sin,
But I had no choice, I had to be free
Of the Hand of Tong Bao Lin.
I'd worked in China for seven years
In the city of old Qingdao,
If I hadn't been such a hero, I
Would still be working there now;
But I got involved in a scuffle there
When a woman was being attacked,
He'd snatched her bag and I snatched it too,
So he turned on me, and hacked.
I'd heard of the mean Hand-Chopper Gang,
Just petty crims on the whole,
They stole whatever was not nailed down,
Just handbags, wallets and gold,
But they carried machetes under their coats
For the woman who fought like mad,
If she wouldn't let go, they'd chop off her hand
And carry it off with the bag.
I stood in shock, and stared at my wrist,
While he took off, scot free,
My hand still clutching the shoulder strap
But it wasn't attached to me,
I bled all over the pavement there,
Collapsed in a bloody heap,
I only discovered my hand was gone
When I woke from a troubled sleep.
The doctors there were marvellous,
They tidied it up no end,
But it isn't much consolation when
You can't shake hands with a friend,
I'd just about been resigned to it
When in walked Doctor Chu,
He was something to do with the government,
Said - 'I need to talk with you! '
'Let's say that it's just an experiment,
Long odds, but you may just win,
Get you a working hand again,
Though one with a yellow skin.'
I signed the form with my one good hand
And put myself in his care,
If I'd known back then what I know today...
I'd have put an axe through his hair!
They took me away that very night
To a place both dread and grim,
To one of those Chinese Prisons where
You're dead if they let you in.
They housed me there in the hospital
And treated me better than those,
The walking dead in the prison beds
Who all wore the orange clothes.
The prison was only for murderers,
And those with a capital crime,
Whose fate was lead in the back of the head
It was only a question of time.
I heard men scream as I tried to sleep,
And many a Chinese curse,
But they filled me full of some sedative,
And this only made it worse.
I dreamt as I slept there fitfully
Of a man who was chained to his bed,
As the surgeons sliced at his body there,
His screams still ring in my head;
His face contorted, he looked at me
And managed an evil grin,
As they surgically took his hand, he said:
'You be sorry... I Tong Bao Lin! '
The fever lasted for days, I think,
I thought I'd never wake up,
But then one morning my mind was clear
And my arm was bandaged up,
Slowly, slowly I felt the hand
That they'd grafted onto my wrist,
I should have been grateful then, I know,
But I slowly became obsessed.
It healed at last, took many months,
But it worked, and didn't feel strange,
I carried the hand of a dead man now
But then it began to change,
I found it reached for a woman's purse
In a shop where she'd dropped it there,
And it gripped it fast when she snatched it back,
It was more than I could bear.
I fled outside in confusion, and
Made tracks for a backstreet den,
I had no idea what drew me there
But found it was opium;
They lay around with those long, clay pipes
And the hand, it reached for one,
I knew right there I would have to share
My life with Tong Bao Lin.
The hand, it reached into pockets when
I walked on my usual beat,
It seemed attracted to shiny things
And fondled the girls on the street,
It drew me into the thickest crowds
Did things that would bring me shame,
And I'd thrust it deep in my pocket then
For the sake of my own good name.
The hand was marred by a strange tattoo
A serpent with wings, on the thumb,
When traders saw it they veered away
And one of them pulled a gun.
I stayed at home and I locked the door
And I slowly became depressed,
The hand would pound on the wall, the floor
And the lid of a rosewood chest.
A Chinese man came to call one day,
Bowed low, and I let him in,
In broken English I heard him say:
'I lookin' for Tong Bao Lin! '
He stared on down at the yellow hand,
And looked at the old tattoo,
'Bao Lin! ' he pointed, 'an evil man!
You know what you have to do! '
And so, I stand by the guillotine,
The sweat pours into my eyes,
It takes two buttons to start the blade,
There's a demon to exorcise.
I place my wrist on the cutting line
And the man says, 'Let's begin! '
I push the button, and so does he,
The brother of Tong Bao Lin.
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Beat Of Your Drum
Photograph king, watches you go
Now fashions may change, heaven knows, but you
Still leave a stain on me
Only to go colours may fade
The seasons may change, weather blows, but you still leave a mark on me
Wrong-negative fades-never the twain, reckless and tame
I like the beat of your drum
I like to look in your eyes
I like to look thru your things
Id like to beat on your drum
I like the smell of your flesh
I like the dirt that you dish
I like the clothes that you wear
Id like to beat on your drum
I beat it I beat I beat it
I feel it
Disco brat-follow the pack
Watching you peel, heaven knows, prison cant hold all this greedy intention
Only to go-i picture you now
Music may change-hi-di-ho keen to follow your nose
Wrong-love out of tune
Sweet is the night, bright light destroys me
I like the beat of your drum
I like to look in your eyes
I like to look thru your things
Id like to beat on your drum
I like the smell of your flesh
I like the dirt that you dish
I like the clothes that you wear
Id like to beat on your drum
I beat it I beat cant beat it
I feel it
I like to beat on your drum
I like to beat on your drum
I like your face in the crowd
I like to beat on your drum
I beat it I beat cant beat it
I feel it
Cant beat it
I feel it
Ho beat it
I beat it
Oh yeah
Id like to beat on your drum
Id like to beat on your drum
Id like to yell it out loud
Id like to beat on your drum
Cant beat it cant beat it
I feel it I feel it
Id like to beat on your drum
Id like to beat on your drum
Id like your face in the crowd
Id like to beat on your drum
Yeah yeah yeah
Cant beat it
Cant beat it
I be there
Baet it all out
Beat it all in the crowd
Beat it beat it beat it beat it
I feel it I feel it
Id like to beat on your drum
Id like to beat on your drum
Id like to blow your horne
Id like to beat on your drum
Yeah yeah yeah
Ahhhhhh
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Day After The Night Before (Fun Poem)
Woke up this morning
My hair a shocking pink
Tried to do my shirt up
With a rusty cuff link
My head is pounding
Like a big bass drum
While I laid there wondering
Where I had come from
I had been to a party
Just the night before
Now I was wondering
How I got out the door
All I can remember
Was the pounding beat
The shining lights rhythmitizing
With the dancing feet
(date written unknown)
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Beat the plowshare
Pound the drum
Of war to come
Rhythm on steel
Red from the forge
Forms the sword
To carry to war
The sledge makes beat
On thinning edge
As it pounds
pounds
pounds
pounds
It sounds the drum
Of war to come
Soon it will be echoed
By marching men
cries of battle
Sounds of war
The sword will lead
Before the flag
Followed by the sound
Of drums
Pounding
Pounding
To war
Today, I beat my plowshare
And I listen to the drum
poem by James Timothy Jarrett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Living In China
They got the red book, they got the new look
All the little people that are living in china
They got the answers to all the questions
All the little people that are living in china
The solution is revolution
For all of the little people that are living in china
They got ping pong egg foo yung
For all the little people that are living in china
What would chairman mao say, if he knew what theyre doing to his wife today
What did china do? she ordered out for submarines instead of chinese food
China fields of rice, modern man no longer evil hes a paradise
What did the chairman want?
A great big wall they could all watch orientals on
They got the red book, they got the new look
The little people that are living in china
They got the answers to all the questions
The little people that are living in china
The solution is revolution
For all the little people that are living in china
They got ping pong egg foo yung
All the little people that are living in china
What would chairman mao say
If he knew what his people think of him today
Revolution is out of hand
The gang of four, trying to make it as a western band
China, what do you need
Youve got everything from your scruffy head to dirty feet
China you want to dance
Youre wearing makeup and listening to adam and the ants
They got the new look, they got the red book,
All the little people that are living in china
They got the answers to all the questions
All the little people that are living in china
The solution is revolution
For all the little people that are living in china
They got ping pong egg foo yung
The little people that are living in china
The solution is revolution
They got the answers to all the questions
All the little people that are living in china
China, living in china
China, living in china
China, living in china
song performed by by Men Without Hats
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Were Only Talking...
It's four o'clock in the morning,
No sleep for me this night,
I sit on the cold verandah,
And watch for a chink of light;
The wind howls round about me
The moon's not raised its head,
And you are out there walking,
Walking,
Walking,
And you are out there walking,
When you should have been in bed!
I'm shivering in the darkness,
It's colder than the crypt,
The rain that passed right over
Left puddles, where it dripped
My mind sets off to wonder
Why life should be so grim…
You said that you were talking,
Talking,
Talking,
That you were only talking
When I saw you there with him.
I questioned you on Monday,
I questioned you, and then,
You said that he was funny,
You'd talk with him again.
I said I didn't like it,
It wasn't right somehow,
But you just sat there sulking
Sulking,
Sulking,
You sat and faced me sulking
With a crease across your brow.
You left the house at seven,
You said: 'I won't be late! '
You had to do some shopping
And be with your sister, Kate;
But when I phoned your sister
She said there was no trace,
And now the dawn is breaking
Breaking,
Breaking,
And now the dawn is breaking
Across my tear-lined face.
A sudden light at the corner,
I see he's brought you back,
That one last kiss of the morning
Has turned my vision black,
For I am sat in the darkness
Like a statue, frozen, stone,
With a kitchen knife by the awning,
Awning,
Awning,
And I think you'll still be yawning
When I drive the handle home.
22 February 2008
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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As The Troops Went Through
I heard this day, as I may no more,
The world's heart throb at my workshop door.
The sun was keen, and the day was still;
The township drowsed in, a haze of heat.
A stir far off on the sleepy hill,
The measured beat of their buoyant feet,
And the lilt and thrum
Of a little drum,
The song they sang in a cadence low,
The piping note of a piccolo.
The township woke, and the doors flew wide;
The women trotted their boys beside.
Across the bridge on a single heel
The soldiers came in a golden glow,
With throb of song and the chink of steel,
The gallant crow of the piccolo.
Good and brown they were,
And their arms swung bare.
Their fine young faces revived in me
A boyhood's vision of chivalry.
The lean, hard regiment tramping down,
Bushies, miners and boys from town.
From 'mid the watchers the road along
One fell in line with the khaki men.
He took the stride, and he caught their song,
And Steve went then, and Meneer, and Ben,
Long Dave McCree,
And the Weavers three,
All whisked away by the “Come! Come! Come!”
The lusty surge of the vaunting drum.
I swore a prayer for each soldier lad.
He was the son that might have had;
The tall, bold boy who was never mine,
All brave with dust that the eyes laughed through,
His shoulders square, and his chin in line,
Was marching too with the gallant few.
Passed the muffled beat
Of their swanking feet,
The swell of drum, the exulting crow,
The wild-bird note of the piccolo.
They dipped away in the listless trees;
A mother wept on her beaded knees
For sons gone out to the long war's end;
But more than mother or man wept I
Who had no son in the world to send.
The hour lagged by, and drifting high
Came the fitful hum
Of the little drum,
And faint, but still with an ardent flow,
The pibroch, call of the piccolo.
poem by Edward George Dyson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Saga Of The Speaking Digital Clock
I woke up during the night at 12: 03
And waited for I wanted 'Rob' to see
And then at 12: 04 to my surprise
'Roy' appeared there lit up before my eyes
'My Lord', I said, 'What are you saying? '
'Are You telling me to keep on praying? '
With that in mind I closed my eyes to pray
And when I next opened them it was day
Postscript
Rob died in the early hours of the morning on Wednesday 14th October 2009. About a week later I woke up at 5: 05 and looking up on the ceiling I saw SOS:
'It's too late Rob, I'm so sorry', I said
I cannot help you now that you are dead
And my only hope is that you had cried
For the Lord to save you before you died
Digital when displayed on the ceiling
1205 looks like ROB
1204 looks like ROY
505 looks like SOS
Loose and Untied
Said I woke up,
This mawnin'
With not a problem on my mind.
Said I woke up
And got early out of bed.
With not a problem I could find.
Didn't want to have a rollin' eye to see.
So I crept across the floor...
Until I made it to the back door,
And eased out freely.
And I got up
Early
To rub that trouble out...
Right on time.
Said I...
Awakened up this 'meerrrnin'
With no problems on my mind.
Said I...
Opened up my eyes,
And slid so gently from her side.
'Cause an argument always meets,
My good mawnin' greetin'.
And a headache wasn't comin'
'Cause that headache...
Wasn't gon' be mine!
Said I...
Woke up,
This mawnin'
With not a problem
On my mind.
Said...
I woke up,
And got my mind out of bed.
With not a problem,
I could find.
Didn't want to have a rollin' eye to see.
So I crept across the floor...
Until I made it to the back door easy!
And I eased into the breeze to feel a freedom,
Loose and untied!
And I got up early,
To rub trouble
Out of my mind!
Said..............
I woke up,
This mawnin'
With not a problem on my mind.
Said,
I woke up...
And got early out of bed.
With not a problem I could find.
And I got up early
To rub
That trouble out,
Right on time.
Said I woke up,
This mawnin'
With not a problem on my mind.
Said I woke up
And got early out of bed.
With not a problem I could find.
And rubbed that trouble out,
Right on time.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Simon Peter
It was dark in the garden
when that night Judas
and a crowd of soldiers
and officials with clubs
and swords came near
and I heard Judas saying:
“Greetings Master, ” kissing Him
and the Lord asked:
“Friend, why have you come? ”
But it was clear that Judas
was betraying Him
and when Malchus with some soldiers
stepped up to Jesus and seized Him
I draw my sharp sword
and chopped off his ear
trying to drive them back.
The Lord said to me:
“Peter, put away your sword
or you will die by it. Don’t you know
that my Father will send
twelve legions of angels
if I ask Him? And shall I
not do as my Father commands me? ”
The Lord took the ear from the ground
attaching it to Malchus’s head
and then asked the crowd:
“Am I a rebel leader
for you to come to me armed
with clubs and swords? While
I taught at the temple almost every day
you didn’t arrest me.”
They bound Him
and only John and I
followed Him to the residence of Annas
and John went in
since he was know to the high priest
and I waited outside that door,
but it was cold
and then John brought me in.
The girl on duty at the door asked
if I am not one of the Lord’s disciples
and then I denied it, being afraid
that they would arrest me too.
It was very cold and I shivered
and I stood close to a fire
with some servants and officials
to warm myself and saw a official
striking Jesus in the face.
At the fire one of the officials asked
if I am not one of the disciples of Jesus
and again I denied it,
as these were very dangerous men.
A relative of Malchus then challenged me:
“Didn’t I see you in the garden? Aren’t you
a Galilean? ” And again I denied it
and then a cock crowed
while the Lord turned and looked at me
and I remembered Him saying:
“Before the cock crows today
you will renounce me three times, ”
and I saw nothing but love
and understanding in His eyes.
I was ready to defend Him
with a drawn sword
but wasn’t brave enough
to admit being his disciple
and my heart was filled
with sudden anguish
and I went outside, into that cold night
and wept bitterly, hearing those men
mocking and beating Him.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Dragon Deficit
When George the Dragon Slayer slept,
Reliving how he fought,
He often woke and often wept,
As if it all meant nought...
For gone the chance for future fame,
With no more dragons left
And part of him thought that a shame,
In fact, he felt bereft!
When he arose to greet the day,
He wondered what to do...
No beasties round to block his way
Or beat him black and blue!
No bravery to call upon,
No maidens in distress,
The sun above so bright it shone,
No storm, just happiness...
The children played in safety still,
The tweety birds still sang,
His stomach now no longer ill,
In fear of dragon's fang!
His sword he dragged, upon the ground,
It carved his tale of woe...
Monotony was all around!
What next? He didn't know...
The villagers paid him no heed,
His champion day had past,
His body healed, no more to bleed,
As if the die were cast!
'Is this how I must spend my days? '
He ask the Lord above...
'No dragons left for me to face?
No maidens left to love? '
Thus George left every so-called friend,
To travel distant lands,
His search for dragons didn't end...
He didn't stand a chance!
They're gorn! Extinct! They're trophies now...
Teeth scattered here and there,
To which damned sorcerors still bow
And witches grind and share!
Old George, his sword, laid down one night,
The last night of his life...
In his last dream, two dragons fight,
Yet win despite the strife!
Then God reached down to lift George high,
For Jesus to embrace...
With George no longer asking, 'Why? '
As they stood face-to-face...
Denis Martindale, copyright, September 2012.
This is what happened after the Saint George poem.
Website: tinyurl-dot-com/saint-george-poem
poem by Denis Martindale
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Talbragar
Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began,
And there was sorrow round the place, for Denver was a man;
Jack Denver’s wife bowed down her head—her daughter’s grief was wild,
And big Ben Duggan by the bed stood sobbing like a child.
But big Ben Duggan saddled up, and galloped fast and far,
To raise the biggest funeral ever seen on Talbragar.
By station home
And shearing shed
Ben Duggan cried, “Jack Denver’s dead!
Roll up at Talbragar!”
He borrowed horses here and there, and rode all Christmas Eve,
And scarcely paused a moment’s time the mournful news to leave;
He rode by lonely huts and farms, until the day was done
And then he turned his horse’s head and made for Ross’s Run.
No Bushman in a single day had ridden half so far
Since Johnson brought the doctor to his wife at Talbragar.
By diggers’ camps
Ben Duggan sped—
At each he cried, “Jack Denver’s dead!
Roll up at Talbragar!”
That night he passed the humpies of the splitters on the ridge,
And roused the bullock-drivers camped at Belinfante’s Bridge;
And as he climbed the ridge again the moon shone on the rise;
The soft white moonbeams glistened in the tears that filled his eyes;
He dashed the rebel drops away—for blinding things they are—
But ’twas his best and truest friend who died on Talbragar.
At Blackman’s Run
Before the dawn,
Ben Duggan cried, “Jack Denver’s gone!
Roll up at Talbragar!”
At all the shanties round the place they‘d beard his horse’s tramp,
He took the track to Wilson’s Luck, and told the diggers’ camp;
But in the gorge by Deadman’s Gap the mountain shades were black,
And there a newly-fallen tree was lying on the track—
He saw too late, and then he heard the swift hoof ’s sudden jar,
And big Ben Duggan ne’er again rode home to Talbragar.
“The wretch is drunk,
And Denver’s dead—
A burning shame!” the people said
Next day at Talbragar.
For thirty miles round Talbragar the boys rolled up in strength,
And Denver had a funeral a good long mile in length;
Round Denver’s grave that Christmas day rough Bushmen’s eyes were dim—
The Western Bushmen knew the way to bury dead like him;
But some returning homeward found, by light of moon and star,
Ben Duggan dying in the rocks, ten miles from Talbragar.
They knelt around.
He raised his head
And faintly gasped, “Jack Denver’s dead,
Roll up at Talbragar!”
But one short hour before he died he woke and understood;
They told him, when he asked them, that the funeral was good;
And then there came into his eyes a sad and softened light.
He said. “Poor Denver’s wife and kids—you’ll see that they’re all right?”
And still the careless Bushmen tell by tent and shanty bar
How Duggan raised a funeral years back on Talbragar.
And far and wide
When Duggan died.
The bushmen of the western side
Rode in to Talbragar.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Six-sixty-six
In the midst of the war
He offered us peace
And he came like a lover
From out of the east
With the face of an angel and the heart of a beast
His intentions were six-sixty-six
He walked up to the temple
With gold in his hands
And he bought off the priests
And propositioned the land
And the world was his harlot
And laid in the sand
While the band played six-sixty-six
We served at his table
And slept on the floor
But he starved us and beat us
And nailed us to the door
Well, Im ready to die
I cant take any more
And Im sick of his lies and his tricks
He told us he loved us
But that was a lie
There was blood in his pockets
And death in his eyes
Well, my number is up
And Im willing to die
If the band will play six
If the band will play six-sixty
If the band will play six-sixty-six
song performed by by Frank Black
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Zero Options
At first I thought I was day dreaming,
but very soon I realised I was not.
The man I was looking at died weeks ago
from an overdose of cocaine and pot.
The man I once knew saw me staring,
his pupils were gone from his eyes.
He was obviously a dead man walking,
and I hadn’t the time to ask him why.
My mind was in chaos with the situation;
it was unreal and just couldn’t be true.
But it was, and to prove it, I saw him,
but why, and what was I to do?
For a week I was edgy and scared witless,
and hoped I’d never see him again.
The early hours brought a knock at the door,
and someone out there spoke my name.
I looked through the door’s spy-hole,
and it was the man who was dead.
I told him this wasn’t the time for visitors,
and to come back at mid-day instead.
He said it was urgent that he spoke with me,
and I was to go with him right a way.
If I didn’t the consequences would be terrible,
and the ‘evil one’ would have the last say.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Childs Cry
laying in bed looking up at the ceiling
my eyes got blurry, and my head started reeling.
i saw a vision start to take form
of a child who was unborn.
this child was in the womb of its mother
being fed by the tube to give it life.
he turned and looked straight at me
and its eyes were as big as can be.
he raised his small little hand
and signaled me to look inside.
it was something that he could not hide.
the vision came closer to me
just so that i could see.
i saw the pain that this child was in
because his mother was
thinking to abort
and for the last two months he had fought.
all the features that GOD was creating
was thought by the mother
of becoming belated.
this young mother was under peer pressure
to take this childs life
and it did not matter if it was wrong or right.
this young child was screaming at me
'how could they let this be'
i am life given by the lord
why would she want to abort.
tell her to give me a chance
so that i could live in the warmth
of her arms, and fill her heart with joy.
it would matter not, if i'm a girl or a boy.
can't she feel me, and see me
in her dreams at night
and that i'm in a perilous fight.
i want to live just like she
there is nothing wrong with me.
the vision started to fade away
and in my heart, i started to pray
let this child live another day
and from this woman the pain to go away.
LIFE IS SACRED, DON'T THROW IT AWAY
IF YOUR MOTHER THOUGHT LIKE YOU
YOU WOULD'NT BE HERE TODAY.
poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Family History
My father left when I was one,
Or maybe two - I don't recall,
I have no memory of him now,
No memory then, now none at all.
It didn't seem important then
I had my mother, she had me,
And Uncle George would call each day,
Call by most nights, and stay for tea.
I wasn't even curious,
My world was perfect as it was,
We lived beside a village green
And travelled by the village bus.
Our house was large, a mansion set
In Parklands, much too large for us,
Whole wings were closed and boarded in,
My mother said, 'it makes less fuss! '
It wasn't 'til I went to school
That doubts arose about my kin,
The boys would taunt and tease me there,
Would comment on my yellow skin.
They called me 'Squinty' for my eyes,
They looked so different then, to them,
My hair was black and very straight:
'You'll never make an Englishman! '
I asked my mother why I looked
So different, just like chalk and cheese,
She smiled and held me close to her,
And said: 'Your father was Chinese! '
'I met him through your Uncle George,
They served together in some war,
He charmed me once, but then he left,
Went off to fight for Chiang-Kai-shek.'
'I thought that he'd return one day
But truth to tell, he never did,
I heard that he'd been killed before
The White Army had turned and fled.'
She mentioned words I'd never heard
'Formosa', 'Tao' and 'Mao Zedong',
'Long March', 'Red Army', words that I
Remembered when no longer young.
I grew determined then to seek
The truth behind my history,
To find my father, where he lay,
Tear back the shroud of mystery.
'Don't do it, son, ' said Uncle George,
'Leave sleeping dogs to sleep the day,
For once you rouse them, sleeping dogs
Will never cease to bark and bay.'
'He's right, ' my mother said, her mouth
Was set, and she looked awful grim,
'You'll bring the terrors of the night
Down on us, if you look for him! '
My mind was set, I disagreed,
With all the folly of the young,
I thought that I could spend my need
And so made plans to see Taiwan.
I only got as far as London,
There I went to the G.R.O.,
Asked for the Births and Deaths they kept
To settle the questions I should know.
But when the book was placed before me
Words - they swam before my eyes,
The father stated at my birth
Was George Hubertus Syndon Wise!
I faltered then, and nearly fell
My heart it plunged to the floor, and then,
The mother plainly written there
Was one they called Wang Shu Qian.
My legs were weak, I barely stood,
My father was an Englishman,
I took a breath and walked the street...
My mother, a daughter of the Han.
I went back home to the mansion then
Ignored my mother upon the stairs,
Headed right up to the West Wing floor
They had boarded and banned me from, for years.
Tore the boards from the door and entered,
Thought I would find just cobwebs there,
But saw bright lights, and heard soft music,
A woman sat in an old wing chair.
I knew, the moment those almond eyes
Met mine, I looked on my mother then,
The tears ran down from her high cheek bones
To stain her dress, Wang Shu Qian.
She'd lived forever behind these doors
All boarded in for a secret's sake,
And George had been with her, now and then
My father, living his life - a fake!
But all about there were artifacts,
Screens and parchments and vellum scripts,
Priceless furniture, paintings, figures,
Dragons, pearls, and the odd Phoenix.
George came stumbling up the stairs
His face dead white when he saw me there,
'My boy... I told you...' he said, then stopped
As grey ran worrying through his hair.
The hoard was that from a Chinese palace,
Wang Shu Qian was a keeper there,
They'd fled the rape of the communists
Taken their baggage with Chiang Kai shek.
'When things are settled we'll give it back, '
My mother told me in Pu Tong Hua,
George translated her every sentence,
Love shone out from his eyes for her.
'Her name is top of their wanted list,
They hired assassins to search for her,
We thought it best to concoct those lies
To protect you from the world out there.'
My sister took on the role of mother,
You were only a baby then,
While Shu Qian despaired to hold you,
Show you love as her only son.
The hoard has since been returned to China,
Both my mothers live openly now,
I've been taking a course in language
Coming to grips with Pu Tong Hua.
My family history seems complete,
I know as much as I need to know,
The dogs are sleeping, skeletons rest
And I won't disturb their sleep - No How!
(Note: The Chinese pronounce Chiang Kai shek
as Jiang kuh sher.
Pu Tong Hua = Pu Tong Hwa = Beijing Dialect.
Wang Shu Qian = Wong Shoe Chee-en) .
25 December 2008
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Drummer Boy
A drummer boy dressed in white tapped his drum as he passed by my bed,
he never looked at me, and not a word was said.
Tippy tap drum, tippy tap drum, tippy tap drum, was his marching beat.
There was blood from a wound, but he kept to his feet.
As he marched back and forth it looked as though he was going to fall,
but he continued to beat his drum, as he walked through the wall.
On his departure the sound of a bugle was heard above the drum,
whistling rifle shots and cannon fire added to the battle’s hum.
A boy dressed in red and white, blowing a bugle marched passed my bed,
he had suffered a wound, and blood was flowing from his head.
Blowing with all his might I could see the determination on his face,
he seemed to be running out of breath, as he slowly lost the pace.
The drummer boy came up beside him and marched by his side,
the bugle boy stood up straight, and blew the charge as he cried.
Another drummer boy passed my bed followed by two more,
the bugle boy stood and looked ahead, and then fell to the floor.
Several soldiers charged pass, with bayonets fixed for attack,
passing the drummer boy one yelled, “Keep playing and don’t look back.”
With the sound of bullets in the air and shells exploding all around
soldiers charged and fell by my bed to the now distant drumming sound.
It suddenly all went quiet as everyone disappeared through the wall,
except for the drummer boy who played as he stood tall.
Tippy tap drum, tippy tap drum, tippy tap drum; a much softer beat,
he then looked at me with tears in his eyes, as he faded at my feet.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Military Death
He marched along
to the cadence of the drum.
He clenched his fists
so overcome
with sorrow and grief
and so much pain.
And as he marched
he felt the rain.
It fell with precision
like the tears in his eyes.
For a friend lives
and a friend dies.
When they reached
the final resting place
the final beat of the drum
did erase
all sound but the weeping
and his long deep sigh
as he gave his salute
and said goodbye.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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