Pengellen
Each winter the grey-greying streets of Pengellen
Fall silent as dampness creeps in at the hearth,
And miners and men speak in whispers of heaven,
Of darkness and penance, of copper and dearth.
No children are seen on the streets of Pengellen,
Each wife fears her shadow, and hurries inside,
While mirrors have long been discarded, forgotten
That no man may see what his God may decide.
For so it was once that the men of Pengellen
Were busy and purposeful, masters of time,
The wealth that they won taught that greed was forgiven
Though every man feared, and was ruled by the mine.
For deep in the earth with a pick or a chisel,
A shovel, an oath in a gaelic discourse,
They quarried the bowels of some God-awful midden
To pile the green copper in place of the gorse.
So pitted the surface from shaft to Pengellen,
So pitted and scorched that no flower would grow,
And brown was the landscape, and scarred was the bracken
That burst from the copper-green dirt down below.
While every stone cottage gleamed white in Pengellen
To mock at the bracken that patently lied,
For every small child played as happy as heaven
As if they believed they had God on their side.
The copper ran deeper than deep flowing runnels,
The miners would blast, and then pump and shore up,
‘Til some had remarked, ‘were the heavens so tunnelled
The mine would arrive with the first taken up.’
And higher and high were the skimps by Pengellen
‘Like mountains by men’ was the miner’s assent,
Their pride went in hand with their wealth and their women,
And Godless and grim was the worship they spent.
They drilled to the sixty and six hundredth level,
With six levels more to blast out, pump and shore,
No man could have known that the deeper he tunnels,
The darker the horror he finds at his door.
They ranged at the back as the copper was falling,
Stood silent in shock at some evil refrain,
As into the light groped the Prince of the Morning
From where he’d been cast in his thousand year chain.
The miners streamed back to the streets of Pengellen,
They crowded the Kirk that had never been filled,
And prayed to the Lord they had always forsaken,
Then went to their cottages, locked themselves in.
While stamping and raging the length of Pengellen
He called for an anvil to shatter his chain,
The mist and ill wind that had told of his coming
Were never to lift from Pengellen again.
These sixty long years have brought change to Pengellen
No child has grown old and no miner has died,
They fast on a bread that is flat and unleavened,
And drink brackish water for penance beside.
The cottages now are both damp and rat-ridden,
Are grey and neglected, and empty of cheer,
And deep-dense the mist that encloses the midden
Pengellen is lost for the best of each year.
While whispered at evens are long supplications
White-faced behind windows both bolted and barred,
And dearth is a thousand years waiting to happen,
While green is a colour considered ill starr’d.
29 February 1984
poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Pike
In the brown water,
Thick and silver-sheened in the sunshine,
Liquid and cool in the shade of the reeds,
A pike dozed.
Lost among the shadows of stems
He lay unnoticed.
Suddenly he flicked his tail,
And a green-and-copper brightness
Ran under the water.
Out from under the reeds
Came the olive-green light,
And orange flashed up
Through the sun-thickened water.
So the fish passed across the pool,
Green and copper,
A darkness and a gleam,
And the blurred reflections of the willows on the opposite bank
Received it.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Mother Of A Miners Child
She is my flower
And she blooms for the one who loves her best
The miners stop to watch as she walks
They know her love is not for sale
She will never fail me cause I know
I watch her grow
And the mother of a miners child
Waits for me beside the kitchen door
She is my light
In this place where the darkness never ends
Shell guide me where the tunnels twist and bend
Shes the only one who listens when I tell her
I got less than I can spend
She knows the pace
Oh mother of a miners child
Was away the coal dust from my face
When the night shifts done
Shell be waiting by the table when I come
Searchin for another dream to chase
Oh mother of a miners child
I know that you still think about the day
When well be movin on
Remember dear old daddy and
The promise that I made to carry on
Sometimes I smile
In the cage where the cables softly hum
Id curse that old straw boss to the bone
But the mother of a miners child
Is waiting for her paycheck to come home
Come saturday
And he is just a miners boy
I hope that he will find a better way
She is my flower
And she blooms for the one who loves her best
The miners stop to watch as she walks
They know her love is not for sale
She will never fail me cause I know
I watch her grow
And the mother of a miners child
Waits for me beside the kitchen door
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Smile Copper, Smile
for the coppers
harassing folks in the streets
smile copper,
smile-
for the coppers throwing us against the car
with arms round our backs &
face pressed into the metal with one hand gripping
the back of the neck
savagely
(like you had all the power in the world) ,
we
gotcha
on
camera
now
copper,
so smile, copper, smile-
Android's NYCLU app. makes it so
easy, to find you not doin' the job
our tax dollars pay you to,
so
smile copper, smile-
with these pics, with this footage,
i take your fucking badge-
with these pics, with this footage,
i file a suit against you-
with these pics, with this footage,
gonna take your car, take your house &
put that big mark on your record so
you know what it feels like-
with these pics, with this footage,
the blame lies where it belongs-
with these pics, with this footage,
we put your guilty ass behind bars-
with these pics & with this footage
justice will be done-
so
smile copper,
smile.
poem by Andrew Delapruch
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Seaport
Green sea-tarnished copper
And sea-tarnished gold
Of cupolas.
Sea-runnelled streets
Channelled by salt air
That wears the white stone.
The sunlight-filled cistern
Of a dry-dock. Square shadows.
Sun-slatted smoke above meticulous stooping of cranes.
Water pressed up by ships' prows
Going, coming.
City dust turned
Back by the sea-wind's
Wall.
Submitted by Stephen Fryer
poem by Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
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Roman Sentry
A soldier's curse is not the copper pay,
stationed here in this gods-forsaken place!
I'd bribe a centurion to leave today.
Anywhere! —lug my shield on the Appian Way
or guard the quarry slaves in rocky Thrace.
A soldier's curse is not the copper pay.
The land is weary, fit for thorns and clay.
The towns are crowded with a bearded race.
I'd bribe a centurion to leave today.
This hill is bald as a skull, cold and gray,
—and I left my woolen tunic back at base!
A soldier's curse is not the copper pay.
Sentry for rebels crucified today—
last year in Rome I won a chariot-race!
I'd bribe a centurion to leave today.
This one I know: I heard the governor say
'Ecce homo! ' (I don't forget a face.)
A soldier's curse is not the copper pay.
I'd bribe a centurion to leave today.
poem by William F Dougherty
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The Guardian of the Pit
He'd worked at the pit since he was ten,
Was quite at home in the dark,
Worked by the light of a miner's lamp
Avoided the slightest spark,
He chipped away at the face of coal,
He chewed tobacco, and spat,
His face was black as he wandered home
With pride in his miner's hat.
But the mine had closed as it petered out
And the miners went on the dole,
While Jack Coltrane had fretted at home
For his work was his very soul,
The entrance tunnels were sealed up tight
And the Colliery wheel was stopped,
It sat like an aging dinosaur
Set high on its wooden props.
The miners drifted away for work
The walls of the houses cracked,
The doors and windows were boarded up
The only one left was Jack,
He wandered lonely about the streets
Of the place he had always known,
The empty terraces, vacant shops
In the town that he'd called his home.
I'd gone to squat in an empty house
I was down on my luck back then,
And Jack had knocked on my nailed up door,
I told him my name was Ben,
He'd pop around for a morning tea
And he'd tell me tales of the mine,
His eyes would gleam with excitement when
He talked of the dust and grime.
‘I'll take you there, and show you the pit.'
He knew I'd never been down,
‘What else is to do in a place like this, '
He said, and I must have frowned.
‘There's nothing to worry about, old son,
Just wrap up well for the cold,
It used to be hot in the workings then,
But we'll be looking for gold.'
He said he knew where the traces were,
He'd seen it a thousand times,
‘The owners only wanted the coal
So we left the rest behind,
There's not a lot, but enough for us,
We'll chip out a tidy sum.'
That's all I needed to know, I went
And put some old denims on.
The mine was scary for one like me
Who'd never been down a pit,
So dark and damp, and the air was still,
I hated the smell of it,
We need to go down 300 feet
He said, not batting an eye,
I trudged along in his wake, and thinking:
‘Why did I come - Oh why? '
We saw the first few traces of gold
At the thirty fathom mark,
But Jack said, ‘Still there's a way to go, '
And he trudged along in the dark,
We walked around the falls from the roof
Where the props had given way,
It was far too late to be turning back
Though I felt a mute dismay.
Suddenly there was a gleam ahead
Lit up by our feeble lamps,
And Jack had hurried ahead to check
What gleamed in the rising damp,
Behind a fall I could see a sight
That will haunt me ‘til I'm old,
A skeleton lay in the passageway,
A skeleton covered in gold.
‘He must have been here a hundred years, '
Said Jack, ‘and there is the proof,
The fall has only revealed him now
The gold has leached from the roof,
It's covered this poor old-timer's bones
He's worth more now that he's dead, '
But then the end of the tunnel glowed
And a voice boomed in my head.
‘Who desecrates my dominions,
Who approaches me in their pride?
You come to my underground kingdom
Where another before you died! '
The voice came up through a hole in the ground
That glowed like a fire was lit,
‘Retreat, or I'll tear you asunder,
I'm the Guardian of the Pit! '
I don't know how we got out that day
We stumbled and ran to hide,
We thought the demon was at our heels
As we caught at our breath, and cried,
We fell out into the open air
And breathed again at the last,
I said, ‘I'll never go down again! '
Jack said, ‘It must have been gas! '
‘It must have been just a pocket of gas
That we breathed, that knocked us out,
It was just a hallucination
That's for sure, ' said Jack, ‘No doubt! '
But he never went down the mine again,
He said he was 'over it',
But truth to tell, he was scared as hell
Of the Guardian of the Pit!
21 October 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Departure
Thousands of tiny
fists tamping the surface of the lake
flowing like a wide
river gone crazy, southeast, westnorth
letting the wind push
it around in its bed and the boat
hull hugging the shore.
What else can she do? Even the trees
agree, shaking
their crowns, throwing down their leaves as if
she were their only
child. Caught cold-footed in Magnuson
grass, trying to cut
free of the creosote-soaked pilings sunk
deep in the shallow
mud holding the water, holding her
wake for a moment,
furrow folding back over into
confusion. Cascade
gray crosscurrents! Sharp switching eddies!
Unreliable
shoals! Let the cloth argue with itself,
gasping like a child
with the air knocked out and the wind
socking the center.
Let the sail, shot-silk green and white, now
snapping, billowing
slowly draw her away from this beach
marked with broken glass, rocks
as smooth as plovers’ eggs, and small
stones splashed iron red
and orange like the sky breaking open.
Let the windows ignite
flickering copper on the other side.
Let the water be
disked with silver from here to there
churning as if roiled
by the flanks of a great, gentle fish.
poem by Christianne Balk
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Lightning Farms
Strikes of light across the sky
Thrown long and far to see
Awesome forces play their hand
Thrown power flying free
Rips with cracks to see a flash
Across the chilling sky
Power gathered all around
Across from way up high
Time to time it hits a vein
Dropping the power down
With a wire as the guide
Dropping into the ground
How can I steal this power
And take to make it mine
I’ll rap a copper coil
And bind it to the line
But there is so much to take
I’ll never take it all
Since it will fry my copper
I’ll make a rubber wall
And cover it in rubber
To rap it good and tight
The EMI is flowing
To shine and steal its might
So let it roll on downward
I’ll take it from the air
And let it fall through wires
I’ll take what I can bear
poem by Paul Moosberg
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On My Mother's 80th.
There are no answers to your questionings;
If eighty years have not revealed the truth,
Then how could I, this child of your imaginings
Begin to comprehend your loss of youth.
Perhaps you let it slip and lose all meaning
When time last yawned, and you did fall asleep,
Then youth took flight while you stayed still and dreaming
Within some sepia’d year you once did keep.
Wild eyed and worn, you always look about you
And wonder what dismay has brought to this,
The thread of age has tied and bound and caught you
And thoughts of death now tremble at your lip.
But yet, your youth may still be seen and found there
Way back beside an old welsh village pit
Where long dead miners carol ‘Men of Harlech’,
And fresh young girls in neat white pinnies sit;
To wait the miners singing at the darkness,
To wait the steelmen, wandering from the shift,
Until your brothers chaff you in the moonlight
And you go in, sit by the hearth, and sleep.
There are no questions now that I can answer,
There are no harvests left for us to reap,
For youth is spent and wasted on a moment
And age is all that we have left to keep.
9 October 1993
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Inanity Over Christmas
Inanity Over Christmas
Hello, everyone out there. This is Carl and the rest of Madness
We'd just like to bring you a bit of Christmas cheer
Please remember to keep a smile on your face till the New Year
Hello, this is Woody. And we've got a little song for you. Merry Christmas
1, 2, 3, 4
Hiya, Merry Christmas everyone, Mark here. I'm going to play a bit of bass for you now
Hello, this is Chris, Happy Christmas
Hi, Lee Kix here, filling your stocking
I play sax
But also, I sing at the same time
Baffling, eh?
Well, it's jingling bells, it's Christmas time
Santa fetches his sack
Snowdrop glitter falls from the skies
To settle upon each and everyone's back
Chimney sweeps take to the streets
In the ongoing situation
Pages freeze upon your pension book
And up flies the flag of inflation
And all this time I'll be waiting up by the chimney stack
On this coldest year since brrrr, up above upon a reindeer's back
Stop off at the Rock of Gibraltar
Tea under the {indecipherable} of Malta
Wrap up warmer in Warsaw
Cruise over the flats of Alaska
And all this time I'll be waiting up by the chimney stack
On this coldest year since brrrr, up above upon a reindeer's back
I hope you've enjoyed this song so far. This is Suggs, and now I am going to take it away
OK, lads, let's close it together
And all this time I'll be waiting up by the chimney stack
On this coldest year since brrrr, up above upon a reindeer's back
OK, quiet everybody. This should go on here
Er, help me with those baggy {indecipherable}, there
Oooh
Oooh
You'll never take me alive, copper
Look, reindeer, don't be silly, just come on down
I'm going to get that conny to ma
Don't waste anymore, sit down this is holding the pace up
Shove it, copper, I stick a grapefruit in your face
You what? You're out of a bloody job now come on down again
Nothing's going to stop us singing, copper
Even if I have got to come down and tell you myself
And stick it in your face
I'm going to send in the troops if you don't come down
We're going to keep singing in every home in the nation
Do whatever you want to do. What? That's it!
You stupid flatfoot, you'll never take me alive
I'm on top of the world, boy
Up above the chimney stack, by the chimney
{indecipherable}, Chris, quieten down over there, will you
I'm trying to get a message across, you know
I'm going to change the world overnight, yeah
Thank you
Thank you
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mild the mist upon the hill
Mild the mist upon the hill
Telling not of storms tomorrow;
No, the day has wept its fill,
Spent its store of silent sorrow.
O, I'm gone back to the days of youth,
I am a child once more,
And 'neath my father's sheltering roof
And near the old hall door
I watch this cloudy evening fall
After a day of rain;
Blue mists, sweet mists of summer pall
The horizon's mountain chain.
The damp stands on the long green grass
As thick as morning's tears,
And dreamy scents of fragrance pass
That breathe of other years.
poem by Emily Jane Brontë
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How Merry Is Christmas?
Many who say Merry Christmas, regarding Truth, are totally oblivious,
To the meaning behind this phrase, that we hear in these darker days.
Darker because The Light which came, many men today do not claim,
All Truth and Light being God’s Son, who came to earth for everyone.
From this season, one cannot hide, but, many are empty deep inside,
All streets may be filled with light, while many hearts are dark as night,
Not truly knowing why once a year, others celebrate this holiday cheer,
And they too, may not know the reason, why we celebrate this season.
Many men filled with festive song, view this holiday completely wrong,
While singing in their holiday spirit, Truth is not realized as they hear it,
And though giving is a noble thing, they dismiss the only Eternal King,
When from a child we mentally pause, and wind up with a Santa Claus.
A face that’s put on the many lies, ones deeper than a sleigh that flies,
As we’re told that he’s everywhere, knowing every child’s heartfelt care,
Saying that we’re all God’s children, even those who are still lost in sin,
Suggesting all men upon the earth, are God’s without the second birth.
Sad, Christmas will come and go, and The Truth many still won’t know,
With even one more said and done; many still do not know God’s Son,
Who came well before Christmas did, in this season is ignored and hid,
As many continue playing their part, in this season with an empty heart.
(Copyright ©11/2008)
Emerald Green
Emerald green is the colour of life and of the springtime,
Conveying harmony, joie de vivre and most important, love
Emerald green retains its lively vigour all the time
In all nuances, like those wonderful green eyes that rove.
Sunlight dances across the Gulf of Mexico, a lovely place
With emerald green waters and very hot white sand.
Moreover, we see this green in a forest, a darker space,
Or we can see it in the green grass in the Spring land,
A metallic green body with small yellow sweet stripes
And emerald eyes has the Hine’s emerald dragonfly.
Nymphs hatch in marshes high in sedge meadows,
When sheds its skin and emerges an adult to fly.
A mineral emerald green contains the Romanesque murals.
The old Masters used verdigris for them and copper green
To make a deep brown, mixed it with sulfur-containing colors,
Such as cadmium yellow, vermilion or blue-ultramarine.
The green we see in December represents the evergreen tree,
A symbol of life continuing even in that dark day.
We look to the pins and the rhododendrons and we agree
That greenery will return to the world again someday.
The green chosen for the color scheme of Christmas night
Is emerald green, that deep, pure, clear green inside
That seems to shine with light, in the season of white
When there isn't much natural green available outside.
A very ambitious plant is hymenaea courbaril, the tree named Amber
It has the most attractive emerald-green heart shaped leaves.
Like Orchid Tree, so pleasing to the eye with their alluring shimmer.
Lycopersicon esculentum has emerald green tomatoes with dark green stripes.
With this emerald green Van Gogh wanted to paint plastic correctly
Maybe his eyes saw a special nuance, after cutting his ear
He worked alla prima, on to the canvas painting directly
From his imagination and from reality, making the image believable.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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The art of alma-tadema
There is no song his colours cannot sing,
For all his art breathes melody, and tunes
The fine, keen beauty that his brushes bring
To murmuring marbles and to golden Junes.
The music of those marbles you can hear
In every crevice, where the deep green stains
Have sunken when the grey days of the year
Spilled leisurely their warm, incessant rains
That, lingering, forget to leave the ledge,
But drenched into the seams, amid the hush
Of ages, leaving but the silent pledge
To waken to the wonder of his brush.
And at the Master's touch the marbles leap
To life, the creamy onyx and the skins
Of copper-coloured leopards, and the deep,
Cool basins where the whispering water wins
Reflections from the gold and glowing sun,
And tints from warm, sweet human flesh, for fair
And subtly lithe and beautiful, leans one--
A goddess with a wealth of tawny hair.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Springhill Mining Disaster
Bono: like to...Id like to try a song that I think weve only played once before, so. this is a city that a...a lot of irish people came to this city, right? so this time...this irish...t
Irish people came as rock and roll band, okay? so...but this is a folk song. its like...the irish kinda hold america in a very special place because, for over a hundred years or more, irish have come over here to find work and find a future. and they brouught with them songs, old irish folk songs that became old american folk songs. and, I hope maybe wed leave behind some songs one day. this is a song written by peggy seeger. its a song...i wished Id heard this song on the raidio during the miners strike in england a few years ago. this is called springhill mining disaster.
In the town of springhill nova scotia
Down in the dark of the cumberland mine
Theres blood on the coal, and the miners lie
In roads that never saw sun or sky
Roads--
Bono: shut up for a second, will you? stop whistling cause Im not in the beatles, okay? its u2 here.
In the town of springhill
They dont sleep easy
Often the earth will tremble and roll
When the earth is restless
Miners die
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Listen to the shouts of the black faced miner
Listen to the call of the rescue team
We have no water, light or bread
So were living on songs and hope instead
Living on songs and hope instead
In the town of springhill nova scotia
Down in the dark of the cumberland mine
Theres blood on the coal, and the miners lie
In roads that never saw sun or sky
Roads that never saw sun nor sky
In the town of springhill
Dont sleep easy
Often the earth will tremble and roll
When the earth is restless
Miners die
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Bono: thanks for your patience. thank you.
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song of the Artesian Water
Now the stock have started dying, for the Lord has sent a drought;
But we're sick of prayers and Providence -- we're going to do without;
With the derricks up above us and the solid earth below,
We are waiting at the lever for the word to let her go.
Sinking down, deeper down,
Oh, we'll sink it deeper down:
As the drill is plugging downward at a thousand feet of level,
If the Lord won't send us water, oh, we'll get it from the devil;
Yes, we'll get it from the devil deeper down.
Now, our engine's built in Glasgow by a very canny Scot,
And he marked it twenty horse-power, but he don't know what is what:
When Canadian Bill is firing with the sun-dried gidgee logs,
She can equal thirty horses and a score or so of dogs.
Sinking down, deeper down,
Oh, we're going deeper down:
If we fail to get the water, then it's ruin to the squatter,
For the drought is on the station and the weather's growing hotter,
But we're bound to get the water deeper down.
But the shaft has started caving and the sinking's very slow,
And the yellow rods are bending in the water down below,
And the tubes are always jamming, and they can't be made to shift
Till we nearly burst the engine with a forty horse-power lift.
Sinking down, deeper down,
Oh, we're going deeper down:
Though the shaft is always caving, and the tubes are always jamming,
Yet we'll fight our way to water while the stubborn drill is ramming --
While the stubborn drill is ramming deeper down.
But there's no artesian water, though we've passed three thousand feet,
And the contract price is growing, and the boss is nearly beat.
But it must be down beneath us, and it's down we've got to go,
Though she's bumping on the solid rock four thousand feet below.
Sinking down, deeper down,
Oh, we're going deeper down:
And it's time they heard us knocking on the roof of Satan's dwellin';
But we'll get artesian water if we cave the roof of hell in --
Oh! we'll get artesian water deeper down.
But it's hark! the whistle's blowing with a wild, exultant blast,
And the boys are madly cheering, for they've struck the flow at last;
And it's rushing up the tubing from four thousand feet below,
Till it spouts above the casing in a million-gallon flow.
And it's down, deeper down --
Oh, it comes from deeper down;
It is flowing, ever flowing, in a free, unstinted measure
From the silent hidden places where the old earth hides her treasure --
Where the old earth hides her treasures deeper down.
And it's clear away the timber, and it's let the water run:
How it glimmers in the shadow, how it flashes in the sun!
By the silent bells of timber, by the miles of blazing plain
It is bringing hope and comfort to the thirsty land again.
Flowing down, further down;
It is flowing deeper down
To the tortured thirsty cattle, bringing gladness in its going;
Through the droughty days of summer it is flowing, ever flowing --
It is flowing, ever flowing, further down.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Old Jim Shore
He prospered in an olden day
When down the rutted waggon track,
Thro' scenes that seem a world away,
His bullocks lumbered forth and back;
A tall old man, deep voiced, erect
Despite the load of years he bore,
His patriarchal beard, grey flecked,
He won from all men deep respect,
Doyen of drivers - old Jim Shore.
'Gee-off, Headman. Come here, Tony.
Darkey, Redman! Woo there, Roany.'
Goad upraised in stern pretending
Writhed aloft, yet ne'er descending
To fulfilment of the threat.
Men have said that never yet
Had Jim's whip-lash marked a hide
Of the sleek beasts that were his pride.
'Get on, Rodney! Steady, Moonlight!'
Thro' the disk or dappled moonlight,
Down the deep green ways of yore
Went the team of old Jim Shore.
The times have changed; it could not last,
The glamor of those halcyon days.
The loud exhaust, the siren's blast
Wake echoes now by old bush ways.
Yet oft, when dusk steals down the sky,
I sit again by my house door
To hear a ghostly team go by,
And, mingling with the night wind's sigh,
That rich deep voice of old Jim Shore.
'Gee-off, Headman. Stand up, Tony.
Darkey, Redman! Come here Roany!'
At the yoke I see them straining;
Waggon timbers are complaining;
As, from some vague spirit land,
I see the driver wave a hand,
As long ago he used to wave
Ere the years claimed him, and the grave.
'Up there , Major! Darby! Drummer!'
Again, as on some long lost summer,
The team drifts by and disappears
Down the green aisles of vanished years.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Chilian Brilliance
It is a blessing to witness,
Such bravery and commitment to brilliance.
With the comraderie of expertise.
All eyes were on Chile.
Lifting trapped miners from two thousand feet,
Below the Earth's surface to emerge as if...
This had been scripted.
More than thirty miners had spent sixty nine days,
Without knowing whether or not,
Their lives would be saved.
And as people the world over,
Watched with anticipation...
There were those in 'progressive' countries,
Doing their best to avoid and explain economic devastation.
As TV monitors above and below on Chilian soil,
Were peering to observe...
A togetherness unfold a people unspoiled.
What does this show?
As this endeavor proved to all?
It showed a people who could accomplish miracles,
To solve and achieve what was shown to be unbelieved!
All eyes were on Chile.
Lifting trapped miners from two thousand feet,
Below the Earth's surface to emerge as if...
This had been scripted.
Again this shows what Chilian people already know,
With faith and trust...
No division of politics,
Or economic conflict with a racism exposed...
Were no where to be observed,
When humanity was placed as the number one priority.
And this activity has taught,
A lesson no one could have bought!
Dedicated:
To the people of Chile.
The miners who 'were' trapped.
Their families.
'What a wonderful lesson.'
-lsp-
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In the gardens of Margaret Robberts
In the gardens of Margaret Robberts
white roman pillars runs
in rows down a lane
and there’s a green domed roof
that throws a long shadow.
Between the plants there are fairies hiding
and their homes are forsaken,
camped off with silver wire
and as if she has escaped
one blows on a copper magical flute.
There are red roses
blooming beautifully
and a citrus odour
coming from the lemon trees
and three boys are proud
of the lemons that they are carrying
and I wonder what is going to happen
when they eat some of them.
In the small chapel
I take my hat from my head
and there are beautiful verses
on the walls
and a round stained glass window
with a golden cross
and points pointing
like a white compass
in all directions
that is possible to determine.
We say a silent prayer
and walk to the bell tower
where you hold the chain
for a photograph
and you pay for cool drink,
chicken pie and spinach quiche
and we are exhausted
from the summer heat
and everything becomes peaceful
and I look at you
while you scatter pink rock salt
over your food
l’Envoi
Later we walk to a place
where angels hang on fine strings
and you sit and relax
on a bench with one painted
against the wall
while I try to catch
everything with the camera
and you smile more beautiful
than any angel,
with rays shining out of your golden eyes
and there’s a cute sunhat
on your head
and your locks fall in auburn strings
past you slender shoulders.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Genesis BK XIX
(ll. 1167-1180) And after Cainan Mahalaleel possessed the land
and treasure many a year. The prince lived five-and-sixty
winters, and begat a son. An heir was born unto his house, and
his kinsmen called him Jared, as I have heard. Mahalaleel lived
long, enjoying bliss on earth, the joys of men, and worldly
treasure. And all the years of Mahalaleel were eight hundred
five-and-ninety winters, and he died, and gave the land and rule
unto his son.
(ll. 1180-1196) A long time Jared dealt out gold to men. He was
a righteous prince, a noble earl, dear to his kinsmen He lived
an hundred five-and-sixty winters in the world, and, when her
time was come, his wife brought forth her first-born, a goodly
son. And his name was Enoch. Eight hundred years his father
lived, and increased his tribe. And all the years of Jared were
nine hundred five-and-sixty winters, and he died, and gave the
land and rule unto his son, the wise and well-loved prince.
(ll. 1197-1217) And Enoch ruled the folk, led them in ways of
peace, and no wise let his sway and power lessen, while he was
lord over his kinsmen. Now Enoch prospered and increased his
tribe three hundred years. And God, the Lord of heaven, was
gracious unto him! In his natural body he entered into heavenly
joy and the glory of God, dying no mortal death as men do here,
the young and old, what time God taketh from them wealth and
substance and earthly treasure and their life; but with the King
of angels he departed still alive out of this fleeting life, in
the same vestments which his soul received before his mother bare
him. He left the people to his eldest son. And all the years of
Enoch were three hundred five-and-sixty winters, and he died.
(ll. 1217-1224) Then Methuselah held sway among his kinsmen, and
longest of all men enjoyed the pleasures of this world. He begat
a multitude of sons and daughters before his death. And all the
years of Methuselah were nine hundred and seventy winters, and he
died.
(ll. 1224-1236) And Lamech, his son, succeeded him and kept the
treasure. Long time he ruled the land. He lived an hundred and
two winters, and begat children. And the lord and leader of the
folk lived five hundred five-and-ninety years, enjoying many
winters under heaven, ruling the folk with wisdom. And Lamech
increased his tribe, begetting sons and daughters. He called the
name of the first-born Noah; and Noah ruled the land after the
death of Lamech.
(ll. 1237-1247) Now Noah, the lord of men, lived five hundred
winters, as the books say, and begat children. The first-born
son of Noah was Shem, and the second Ham, and the third Japheth.
And the folk grew in number under heaven, and the multitude of
the race of men increased throughout the earth. The tribe of
Seth, the well-loved prince, was still exceeding dear to God, and
blessed in His love!