En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Mud

This war's a waste of slurry, and its at-
mosphere is mud,
All is bog from here to sunset. Wadin'
through
We're the victims of a thicker sort of universal
flood,
With discomforts that old Noah never knew.

We have dubbed our trench The Cecil.
There's a brass-plate and a dome,
And a quagmire where the doormat used
to be,
If you're calling, second Tuesday is our reg'-
lar day at home,
So delighted if you'll toddle in to tea!

There is mud along the corridors enough to
bog a cow;
In the air there hangs a musty kind of
woof;
There's a frog-pond in the parlour, and the
kitchen is a slough.
She has neither doors nor windows, nor a
roof.

When they post our bald somnambulist as
missing from his flat
We take soundings for the digger with a
prop.
By the day the board is gratis, by the week
it's half of that;
For the season there's a corresponding drop.

Opening off the spacious hallway is my natty
little suite,
A commodious and accessible abode.
By judicious disposition, with exclusion of
my feet,
There is sleeping room for Oliver the toad.

Though the ventilation's gusty, and in gobs
the ceiling falls—
Which with oral respiration disagrees—
Though there comes a certain quantity of
seepage from the walls,
There are some I knew in diggings worse
than these.

On my right is Cobber Carkeek. There's a
spring above his head,
And his mattress is a special kind of clay.
He's a most punctilious bloke about the
fashion of his bed,
And he makes it with a shovel every day.

Man is dust. If so, the Cobber has been
puddled up a treat.
On domestic sanitation he's a toff,
For he lights a fire on Sunday, bakes his sur-
face in the heat,
Then he takes a little maul, and cracks it
off.

After hanging out a winter in this Cimmerian
hole
We're forgetting sheets, and baths, and
tidy skins.
In the dark and deadly calm last night they
took us on patrol.
Seven, little fellows, thinking of their sins.

It was ours like blinded snails to prowl the
soggy, slimy night,
With a feeler pricking out at every pore
For the death that stalks in darkness, or the
blinking stab of light,
And the other trifling matters that are war.

That's the stuff to get your liver, that's the
acid on a man,
For it tries his hones, and seeks his marrow
throngh.
You have got the thought to comfort you that
life is but a span,
If Fritz squirts his loathly limelight over
you.

We got back again at daybreak. Cobber
ducked to doss and said,
From the soft, embracing mud: “No more
I'll roam.
“Oh, thank Heaven, blokes,” he murmured,
“for the comforts of a bed!
Gorstruth, but ain't it good to have a
home!”

poem by Edward George Dyson
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The Disillusioned Fuse

Beneath a lamp in Spring-street, on a recent calm spring night,
I came unwittingly upon a most pathetic sight;
A sorry spectacle of woe - a limp, despondent Bloke
Who leaned against a post and sobbed and said his heart was broke!
'I've lorst me trust in 'uman men; I've done me dash ter-day;
Fer my own cobber's done me in, and guv me game away!'

'Nay, nay,' said I, 'cheer up, good Bloke. The prospect may look blue;
But Fate is wont to deal hard knocks to folk like me and you.
Remember, men have fought and won an uphill fight before,
Pray, tell me what's befallen you that you should grieve so sore.
Say, has your wife deserted you, or have you lost your tin?'
But still the Bloke said bitterly: 'Me cobber's done me in!'

'Me moniker's Deakook,' he said, 'but blokes calls me 'The Fuse.'
(Oh, 'struth! I nearly dropped me bundle when I 'eard the noos!)
I gets a job o' work to do - a real soft cop it wus,
With no foreman over me ter see 'ow much I does,
Excep' some coves they calls the Press - a noisy sorter crew
Thet allus nags an' growls at yer no matter watcher do.

'Some wanted this, some wanted that, an' uvers wanted bofe.
Thinks I, 'Between 'em all it's up ter me ter do a loaf.'
So I jus' took ter sittin' round all day an' crackin' jokes,
An' dealin' out a bit o' stoush ter Opposition blokes.
There wus a press cove called the HAGE took ter me frum the first;
But blimey' - (Here the poor Bloke sobbed as though his heart would burst.)

'Yuss, frum the first 'e took ter me, an' we wus goin' fine,
Until I come ter look on 'im as quite a pal o' mine.
Fer when 'e sez, 'You'll 'ave ter graft on this 'ere job, yer know,'
I winks an' murmurs 'Dicken,' an' 'e winks an' sez 'Righto!'
An' when I jus' perten's ter graft 'e cracks 'e doesn't see;
So I jus' grins an' winks at 'im, an' 'e jus' winks at me.

'O, blimey! Them was golding days, wif not a stroke ter do
Excep' ter line up ev'ry week an' dror me bloomin' screw.
O' course, ther's some thet chips at me an' bellers in a rage;
But I jus' grins an' tips the wink ter 'im they calls the HAGE.
An' 'e speaks up quite serious: ''Ow kin I work,' sez 'e,
'When these 'ere Opposition blokes are all obstructin' me?'

'My oath, it wus an orlright cop! I thort I'd struck it rich.
'Ow could I know' (again he sobbed) 'thet 'e would crool me pitch?
One day 'e sez, quite sudding like, 'This job must be put thro','
An' I jus' winks an' murmurs, 'Dicken,' like I useter do.
But strike! You could 'ave outed me in one, when, 'fore I knowed,
'E turns around on me and sez, quite narsty, 'You be blowed!'

''You'll 'ave ter get ter work,' 'e sez, 'on this 'ere job, or leave.
Fer w'y,' 'e sez, 'I'm sick o' this 'ere game o' make-believe.
Yer jus' perten' ter work,' 'e sez. 'Yer're loafin' day an' night.
Don't grin an' wink at me,' 'e sez, 'yer blanky hippercryte!
Wot are yer 'ere fer anny way? Wot did we pay yer for?
We wants more solid graft,' 'e sez, 'an' less infernal jore!'

'An' that wus 'im I called me pal - me cobber staunch an' true!
'E turns around on me like that an' gives me graft ter do!
Graft, w'ich was the mean sorter thing I allays 'ad despised.
Oh, 'ow wus I ter know 'e wus a sorter John disguised?
'E let me loaf fer munce and munce, an' sets me workin' now.
An', blimey, Mister, I would work, but, 'struth, I dunno 'ow!

'I dunno 'ow ter do the work; an' spare me, if I did,
I couldn't go ter do it, 'cos me doctor 'as forbid.
'E sez that I'm worn out in ev'ry part excep' me cheek;
An' if I start ter graft I'll go ter pieces in a week.
An' if I lose me job I'll 'ave no tucker, bed or roof.
For w'y? Me cobber's done me in! 'E's gone and told the troof.'

I tried to soothe the stricken Bloke, and still his mournful din;
But yet he murmured brokenly, 'Me cobber's done me in!'
And if you roam in Spring-street when the House adjourns at night,
You'll probably encounter this most pitiable sight.
He leans against his post and sobs, prostrated by the news
The Bloke whose cobber did him in, the disillusioned Fuse.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Feels Like Home

Something in your eyes makes me want to lose myself
Makes me want to lost myself in your arms
Theres something in your voice makes my heart beat fast
Hope this feeling lasts
The rest of my life
If you knew how lonely my life has been
And how long Ive felt so low
If you knew how I wanted someone to come along
And change my life the way youve done
Chorus:
Feels like home to me
Feels like home to me
Feels like Im all the way back where I come from
Feels like home to me
Feels like home to me
Feels like Im all the way back where I belong
A window breaks down a long dark street
And a siren walls in the night
But Im alright cause I have you here with me
And I can almost see through the dark theres light
If you knew how much this moment means to me
And how long Ive waited for your touch
If you knew how happy you are making me
Ive never thought Id love anyone so much
Repeat chorus

song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Last Night

She was there at the bar, she heard my guitar
She was long and tall, she was the queen of them all
Last night, thinking about last night
Last night, thinking about last night
She was dark and discreet, she was light on her feet
We went up to her room and she lowered the boom
Last night, thinking about last night
Last night, thinking about last night
Down below they danced and sang in the street
While up above the walls were steaming with heat
Last night, thinking about last night
Last night, thinking about last night
I was feeling no pain, feeling good in my brain
I looked in her eyes, they were full of surprise
Last night, talking about last night
Last night, talking about last night
I asked her to marry me she smiled and pulled out a knife
The partys just beginning she said, its your money or you life
Last night, talking about last night
Last night, talking about last night
Now Im back at the bar, she went a little too far
She done me wrong, all I got is this song
Last night, thinking about last night
Last night, thinking about last night

song performed by by George Harrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Digger Smith

'E calls me Digger; that's 'ow 'e begins.
'E sez 'e's only 'arf a man; an' grins.
Judged be 'is nerve, I'd say 'e was worth two
Uv me an' you.
Then 'e digs 'arf a fag out uv 'is vest,
Borrers me matches, an' I gives 'im best.

The first I 'eard about it Poole told me.
'There is a bloke called Smith at Flood's,' sez 'e;
'Come there this mornin', sez 'e's come to stay,
An' won't go 'way.
Sez 'e was sent there be a pal named Flood;
An' talks uv contracts sealed with Flanders mud.

'No matter wot they say, 'e only grins,'
Sez Poole. ''E's rather wobbly on 'is pins.
Seems like a soldier bloke. An' Peter Begg
'E sez one leg
Works be machinery, but I dunno.
I only know 'e's there an' 'e won't go.

''E grins,' sez Poole, 'at ev'rything they say.
Dad Flood 'as nearly 'ad a fit today.
'E's cursed, an' ordered 'im clean off the place;
But this cove's face
Jist goes on grinnin', an' he sez, quite carm,
'E's come to do a bit around the farm.'

The tale don't sound too good to me at all.
'If 'e's a crook,' I sez, ''e wants a fall.
Maybe 'e's dilly. I'll go round and see.
'E'll grin at me
When I 'ave done, if 'e needs dealin' with.'
So I goes down to interview this Smith.

'E 'ad a fork out in the tater patch.
Sez 'e, 'Why 'ello, Digger. Got a match?'
'Digger?' I sez. 'Well, you ain't digger 'ere.
You better clear.
You ought to know that you can't dig them spuds.
They don't belong to you; they're ole Dad Flood's.'

'Can't I?' 'e grins. 'I'll do the best I can,
Considerin' I'm only 'arf a man.
Give us a light. I can't get none from Flood,
An' mine is dud.'
I parts; an' 'e stands grinning at me still;
An' then 'e sez, ''Ave yeh fergot me, Bill?'

I looks, an' seen a tough bloke, short an' thin.
Then, Lord! I remembers that ole grin.
'It's little Smith!' I 'owls, 'uv Collin'wood.
Lad, this is good!
Last time I seen yer, you an' Ginger Mick
Was 'owling rags, out on yer final kick.'

'Yer on to it,' 'e sez. 'Nex' day we sailed.
Now 'arf uv me's back 'ome, an' 'arf they nailed.
An' Mick....Ar, well, Fritz took me down a peg.'
'E waves 'is leg.
'It ain't too bad,' 'e sez, with 'is ole smile;
'But when I starts to dig it cramps me style.

But I ain't grouchin'. It wos worth the fun.
We 'ad some picnic stoushin' Brother 'Un-
The only fight I've 'ad that some John 'Op
Don't come an' stop.
They pulled me leg a treat, but, all the same,
There's nothing over 'ere to beat the game.

'An' now,' 'e sez, 'I'm 'ere to do a job
I promised, if it was me luck to lob
Back 'ome before me mate,' 'e sez, an' then,
'E grins again.
'As clear as mud,' I sez. 'But I can't work
Me brains to 'old yer pace. Say, wot's the lurk?'

So then 'e puts me wise. It seems that 'im
An' this 'ere Flood -- I tips it must be Jim --
Was cobbers up in France, an' things occurred.
(I got 'is word
Things did occur up there). But, anyway
Seems Flood done somethin' good for 'im one day.

Then Smith 'e promised if he came back 'ome
Before 'is cobber o'er the flamin' foam,
'E'd see the ole folks 'ere, an' 'e agreed,
If there was need,
'E'd stay an' do a bit around the farm
So long as 'e had one sound, dinkum arm.

'So, 'ere I am,' 'e sez, an' grins again.
'A promise is a promise 'mong us men.'
Sez I, 'You come up to the 'ouse.
Ole Dad won't rouse
When once 'e's got yer strength, an' as for Mar,
She'll kiss yeh when she finds out 'oo yeh are.'

So we goes up, an' finds 'em both fair dazed
About this little Smith; they think 'e's crazed.
I tells the tale in words they understand;
Then it was grand
To see Dad grab Smith's 'and an' pump it good,
An' Mar, she kissed 'im, like I said she would.

Mar sez 'e must be starved, an' right away
The kettle's on, she's busy with a tray.
An', when I left, this Digger Smith 'e looked
Like 'e was booked
For keeps, with tea an' bread an' beef inside.
'Our little Willie's 'ome,' 'e grins, 'an' dried.'

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Wangled by the Wayside

'Country blokes is kind,' he said,
And sat upon his swag
(I had no pipe tobacco,
So he said he'd 'risk a fag.')
'A country bloke's my sort o' bloke,
As I've had cause to find.
Them city coves is cold as mud:
But country blokes is kind.

'Now, f'rinstance, just you take yerself.
I meets you on the road,
A stranger, fur as I'm concerned
A cove I've never knowed.
An' when I sprags you for a smoke,
I'll bet you didn't mind.
You done your best; tho' fags is muck.
Country blokes is kind.

'Country hearts is rightly placed
A every battler knows.
If I'd have asked you for a feed,
Or p'raps some carst-off clo'es,
I'll wager you'd have searched your house
For all that you could find
In shape of tucker or of duds,
Yes; country blokes is kind.

'But city coves! - I ain't been there
For years - nigh on fifteen.
But lately I meandered down
Just for a change of scene
But rekernise a human bean?
They ain't that way inclined,
That crowd of stone-eyed strangers there.
Not like the conutry kind.

'To ask a bob for food or drink
In cities is a sin,
An' they goes an' calls a copper,
An' the copper turns you in.
But, if you pitch a likely tale,
Most like you don't git fined.
So I hoofs it back to country scenes
Where blokes is nice and kind.

'So here I am, back in the bush,
Still battlin' an' dead-broke.
An' the minnit I seen you I sez,
'Now, there's a country bloke,'
I sez. 'He's got that sort of face.'
I'm broke, but I'm not blind.
Stone-broke ... Well, I best push along ...
Thanks. Country blokes is kind.'

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Feels Like Home

something in your eyes
makes me wanna lose myself
makes me wanna lose myself
in your heart
something in your voice
makes my heart beat fast
hope this feeling will last
the rest of my life
if you knew
how lonely my life has been
and how low i've felt for so long
if you knew
i wanted someone to some along
and change my world
the way you've done
it feels like home
feels like home to me
feels like i'm on my way back
where i come from
feels like home
feels like home to me
feels like i'm on my wayback
where i'm from
with your embrace
down a long dark street
and a sigh of wind in the night
it's alright
cause i have you here with me
and i can almost see
the dark feels light
if you knew
how much this moment means to me
and how long i've waited for your touch
if you knew
i wanted someone to come along
i never thought i'd love anyone
so much
feels like home
feels like home to me
feels like i'm on my way to where i come from
feels like home to me
feels like home to me
feels like i'm on my way back to where i belong
feels like i'm on my way back to where i belong

song performed by by Randy Newman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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After Hours

Walking down the hallway, its too dark
Too dark too see anything
Why are the lights off
How did they forget I was studying?
I have been at school for 10 hours

I had to go home but I don't know my way
I cant see the hallway its too dark
where am I going?
where do I go?
Stretching my hand out infront
reaching my way home
No windows in the school, but why?

My hand reaches up
A breath crawls over my hand
glowing blue eyes shone
Leading me, not home, but to death

Come on now
the dark voice moans
Do you want to be late home
Then a white storm surrounds me
What is going on?

That night I never came home
But I became a part of something
the memories in the dead pupils

poem by Holly Chanel
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BillJim

Down to it is Plugger Bill,
Lyin' crumpled, white 'n' still.
Me 'n' him
Chips in when the scrap begins,
Carin' nothin' for our skins,
Chi-iked as the 'Eavenly Twins-
Bill 'n' Jim.

They 'ave outed Bill at last,
Slugged me cobber hard 'n' fast.
It's a kill.
See the purple of his lip
'N' the red 'n' oozy drip!
Ends our great ole partnership-
Jim 'n' Bill

Mates we was when we was kids;
Camp, 'n' ship, 'n' Pyramids,
Him 'n' me
Hung together, 'n' we tore
Up the heights from Helles shore,
Bill a long 'arf head afore,
Fine to see!

Then it was we took a touch-
Simple puncture, nothin' much;
But we lay
'N' we stays the count, it seems,
In a sorter realm of dreams
Where the sun infernal gleams
Night 'n' day;

Boilin', fryin' achin', dumb,
Waitin' till the stretchers come,
Patiently.
I hangs on to 'arf a cup.
Which I wants ole Bill to sup.
Damn if he ain't savin' up
His for me!

When they come to lift my head
I am softly kiddin' dead,
For a game,
So's they'll first take on his gills.
Over, though, me scheme he spills-
Bli'me, this ole take-down Bill's
Done the same!

But he isn't kiddin' now,
And it knocks me anyhow
Seein' him.
We was both agreed before,
Though it got 'em by the score,
Two was goin' to beat this war-
But 'n' Jim.

Mate o' mine, yiv stayed it through.
Hard luck, Bill-for me 'n' you
Hard 'n' grim.
They have got me Cobber true,
But I'm stickin' tight ez glue….
Bill, there's one who'll plug for two-
It is Jim!

poem by Edward George Dyson
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I look

I look towards sky with helplessness,
But life filled with joy and sweetness,
For centuries man kind failed to witness,
Holy creations lived so happily in oneness,

With all merciful act and grace,
I raise my head with gloom on face,
Request the God not to make us out of race,
Allow us to live with peace and great embrace,

When I bow before you with so many questions,
Find so many wrongs with the season,
All the three let loose hell,
How do I feel so kind and well?

Rain brings so much destruction and flood.
As if some demon is hungry for blood,
Loose we shelter and out of food,
Nothing looks so kind and good,

Summer bring scorching heat,
Throw the fire balls in form of heat,
No one dare to take out the head,
Always thirsty and water not had,

Death in all winter more severe,
Many perish in snow here,
How to face and no where to go?
Prepare for the worst with season’s flow,

What a joy and happiness you bring?
Bestowed us with beautiful season spring,
Cuckoo and birds with melodious voice,
We never fear seasons but have no choice.

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Armistice: To His Dead Cobber From The Sentimental Bloke

I'm sittin' 'ere, Mick - sittin' 'ere today,
Feelin' 'arf glum, 'arf sorter - reverent,
Thinkin' strange, crooked thorts of 'ow they say:
'The 'eads is bowed thro' all a continent';
An' wond'rin - wond'rin 'in a kind of doubt
If other coves is feelin' like I do,
Tryin' to figure wot it's all about,
An' - if it's meanin' anythin' to you.

Silence... The hour strikes soon thro' all the land
An 'eads bend low. Old mate, give me your 'and.
Silence - for you, Mick, an' for blokes like you
To mark the Day - the Day you never knoo.

The Day you never knoo, nor we forget...
I can't tell why I'm sittin' 'ere this way,
Scrawlin' a message that you'll never get -
Or will you? I dunno. It's 'ard to say.
P'raps you'll know all about it, where you are,
An' think, 'Ah, well, they ain't too bad a lot.'
An' tell them other digs up on your star
That now, or nevermore, they ain't fergot.

Silence... Not ere alone, Mick - everywhere -
In city an' in country 'eads are bare.
An', in this room, it seems as if l knoo
Some friend 'oo came - Ole cobber! Is it you?

Me 'eart is full,
Mick... 'Struth! I ain't the bloke,
As you well know, to go all soft an' wet.
Fair's fair, lad. Times I've known when you 'ave spoke
Like you was tough an' 'ard as 'ell - an' yet
Somethin' be'ind your bluff an' swagger bold
Showed all them narsty sentiments was kid.

It was that thing inside yeh, lad, wot told.
It made you go an' do the thing you did.

Silence... There's mothers, Mick. You never knoo
No mother. But they're prayin' for you too.
In every heart - The Boys! The Boys are there,
The Boys... That very name, lad, is a pray'r.

The Boys! Old cobber, I can see 'em still:
The drums are rollin' an' the sunlight gleams
On bay'nits. Men are marchin' with a will
On to the glory of their boy'ood's dreams.
Glory? You never found it that, too much.
But, lad, you stuck it - stuck it with the rest,
An' if your bearin' 'ad no soulful touch,
'Twas for OUR souls that you went marchin' - West.

Silence... The children too, Mick - little kids,
Are standin'. Not becos their teacher bids:
They've knoo no war; but they 'ave stopped their play
Becos they know, they feel it is The Day.

So may it be thro' all the comin' years.
But sorrow's gone, lad. It's not that we know.
The sobbin's passed, 'ole cobber, an' the tears,
An' well we un'erstand you'd 'ave it so.

But somethin' deeper far than that 'as come,
Somethin' a mind can't get within its bound,
Somethin' l can't explain. A man is dumb
When 'e thinks... Listen! 'Ear the bugles sound!

Silence!

* * * *

Well, Mick, ole cock, I dunno why I've wrote,
It's just to ease a thing inside wot says
'Sit down, you sloppy coot, an' write a note
To that ole cobber of the olden days.
'E'll know - for sure 'e'll know'. 'So, lad, it's done,
Work's waitin', an' a man can't get in wrong:
Our goal is still ahead. But yours is won:
That's the one thing we know, lad, an - So long.

Silence... It's over, Mick; so there you are.
I know you're 'appy up there on yer star.
Believe us, lad; that star shall never fall
While one is left to say, 'Gawd keep 'em all!'

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Single-Handed Team

We’re more than partners, Ned 'n' me,
Two sections permanently righted.
Yiv seen us on the mooch, maybe,
Like remnants lovin'ly united.
Ned's only got one stump, the left;
By 'appy chance I've got its brother,
Of his two dukes he's been bereft;
My left was mauled, 'n' had to go,
It fortunitly 'appens though,
I kept the other.

Ned lost one ear, the left, 'n' struth,
He dropped the correspondin' weeper.
A Hun he crooled me lovely youth
By bombin' out me right 'and peeper.
He done a guy too with me ear,
The right, 'n' now I dunno whether
'Twas Fate's intention, butt it's clear
When trimmed each as the other's mate
'Twas up to us two, soon or late,
To get together.

'Board ship there's me like arf a peach,
'N' Ned's the other arf, but soon it
Strikes' Bill Carkeek that side by each
We makes a satisfact'rv unit.
A 'andy cobber on the ship
Fakes up for us a set of clutches
That damps us firmly hip to hip.
In seven minutes we can peg
The mile out on a timber leg
'N' two steel crutches.

We now go halves, like Si'mese twins,
'N' as a team I hold we're bosker—
The blighter on the street that grins
Has got to deal with Edwin-Oscar.
At balls we two-step, waltz, 'n' swing,
'N' proppin' walls no one has seen us.
When at the bar I never ring
The double on ole Ned. For both
One hand must serve, 'n', on me oath,
It's fair between us.

We jolt one knife 'n' fork, 'n' find
One horse enough for both to ride on,
And neither feller rides behind.
Some sez we put a pile of side on.
Well, where's the single-handed brace
Will take us on? We'll put the peg in,
Train fine, 'n' jump, or box, or race,
Or wrestle them; 'n' more than that
To clinch a match, so 'elp me cat,
We'll throw a leg in!

He's five feet eight, I'm little less;
He's Roman, I'm a sort of Proddy;
But no sectarian bitterness
Will disunite this sec'lar body—
We're hitched for good, we're two in one.
Our taste's the same, from togs to tipple.
But, straight, it makes me sad, ole son,
To think if he should croak or me,
The pore bloke what is left might be
A bloomin' cripple.

poem by Edward George Dyson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Song: When You Got No-One

When you got no-one,
To go home to,
And you dread the moving walls;
An empty space, you cannot face,
It ain't no place at all.
When you got no-one,
To come home to,
No warming hearth recalls,
You got no-one and then you're done,
And the whole damned thing appalls!

When you got no-one,
To go home to,
You haunt the shopping malls.
You tell yourself that's what you want:
To hang out with the girls.
When you got no-one,
To go home to;
No lusting lover just for you.
At the setting sun,
When the night's begun,
The twilight slips to blue...

When you got no reason,
To come home,
'Cause home ain't home no more.
A twisted life of constant strife's,
Not what you signed up for!
And now it's open season,
On the down and out and poor:
The billionaires shout treason,
And spin revolving doors.

When you got no-one,
To go home to,
You got no-one at all.
No bosom chums, to share the crumbs,
And turn largess to small.
When you got no-one,
No web is spun,
No gentle plan or program run;
When you got no-one,
It ain't no fun,
And the whole damned thing appalls!

When you got no home,
To go home to,
You got no home at all.
You're on your own, you're so alone.
You need shelter from the storm.
A catacomb or a covered dome,
A tomb of steel, all polished chrome;
When you got no home.
You're forced to roam,
The drop-zone when you fall.

That ain't no home at all!

poem by Dave SmithWhite
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What Makes Bri 'Feel Good'....[Personal]

I'll start with what makes me feel good, this windy, rainy night:
A recently showered and shampooed body; a 'clean shave'; electric light;
A moderately heated room; making rhymes; ....a sated appetite;
A kind and caring wife who 'forgives' me; underwear that's not too tight;

Being retired from post office and being paid for staying home;
Having good enough health; still having hair to brush or comb;
Getting under down comforter on our marriage mattress of foam;
Seeing lots of kinds of birds when outdoors i do roam;

Trimming annoying branches over sidewalks where i walk;
Keeping in touch with special friends via email or phone talk;
Finishing home projects using nails, shovel, or caulk;
Seeing 'attractive' women...though at them i don't gawk;

Giving a helpful answer when someone asks directions;
The yummy taste in my mouth...when i eat confections;
Deciding who to vote for in the upcoming elections;
Not needing, at age 63, to maintain 'too many erections';

Eating ice cream (neopolitan is especially good) :
Donating blood for others as often as i could;
And listening with aki to an owl hooting from a darkened woods.

(2012)

poem by Bri Edwards
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Finding

From the candles and dumb shadows,
And the house where love had died,
I stole to the vast moonlight
And the whispering life outside.
But I found no lips of comfort,
No home in the moon's light
(I, little and lone and frightened
In the unfriendly night),
And no meaning in the voices. . . .
Far over the lands and through
The dark, beyond the ocean,
I willed to think of you!
For I knew, had you been with me
I'd have known the words of night,
Found peace of heart, gone gladly
In comfort of that light.

Oh! the wind with soft beguiling
Would have stolen my thought away;
And the night, subtly smiling,
Came by the silver way;
And the moon came down and danced to me,
And her robe was white and flying;
And trees bent their heads to me
Mysteriously crying;
And dead voices wept around me;
And dead soft fingers thrilled;
And the little gods whispered. . . .
But ever
Desperately I willed;
Till all grew soft and far
And silent . . .
And suddenly
I found you white and radiant,
Sleeping quietly,
Far out through the tides of darkness.
And I there in that great light
Was alone no more, nor fearful;
For there, in the homely night,
Was no thought else that mattered,
And nothing else was true,
But the white fire of moonlight,
And a white dream of you.

poem by Rupert Brooke (1909)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Come Home, Father!

'Tis The
SONG OF LITTLE MARY,
Standing at the bar-room door
While the shameful midnight revel
Rages wildly as before.

Father, dear father, come home with me now!
The clock in the steeple strikes one;
You said you were coming right home from the shop,
As soon as your day's work was done.
Our fire has gone out our house is all dark
And mother's been watching since tea, --
With poor brother Benny so sick in her arms,
And no one to help her but me. --
Come home! come home! come home! --
Please, father, dear father, come home. --

Hear the sweet voice of the child
Which the night winds repeat as they roam!
Oh who could resist this most plaintive of prayers?
"Please, father, dear father, come home."

Father, dear father, come home with me now!
The clock in the steeple strikes two;
The night has grown colder, and Benny is worse
But he has been calling for you.
Indeed he is worse Ma says he will die,
Perhaps before morning shall dawn; --
And this is the message she sent me to bring
"Come quickly, or he will be gone." --
Come home! come home! come home! --
Please, father, dear father, come home. --

Hear the sweet voice of the child
Which the night winds repeat as they roam!
Oh who could resist this most plaintive of prayers?
"Please, father, dear father, come home."

Father, dear father, come home with me now!
The clock in the steeple strikes three;
The house is so lonely the hours are so long
For poor weeping mother and me.
Yes, we are alone poor Benny is dead,
And gone with the angels of light; --
And these were the very last words that he said
"I want to kiss Papa good night." --
Come home! come home! come home! --
Please, father, dear father, come home. --

Hear the sweet voice of the child
Which the night winds repeat as they roam!
Oh who could resist this most plaintive of prayers?
"Please, father, dear father, come home."

poem by Henry Clay Work
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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How Herman Won The Cross

Once in a blue eternity they gave us
dabs of rum
To close the seams 'n' keep the flume in
liquor-tight condition;
But, soft 'n' sentimental, when the long, cold
evenin's come,
I'd dream me nibs was dronking' to the height
of his ambition,
With rights of suction over all the breweries
there are,
Where barrels squat, like Brahma gods, in
Mother Hardy's bar.

I had me fit of longin' on the night the Ger-
mans came,
All breathin' lioke a gas attack. The air
was halcholic.
We smelt 'em in the darkness, 'n' our rage
went up in flame.
It was envy, squealin' envy, put the ginger
in the frolic.
We shot 'em full of spelter, then went over it
to spite
The swines what drunk the liquor that was
ours by common right.

“If this ain't stopped, 'n' quick,” sez we,
“there won't be left a drop
To celebrate the vict'ry when we capture
their position.”
I'm prowlin' blind, when sharp there comes a
fond, familiar plop-
Swung round a post, a German in a pitiful
condition
Looms over me. He's sprung a cork, and
shales a flask on high,
'N' sings of beer that touchin' it would make
a butcher cry.

Sez he: “Berloffed kamarid, you haf some
drinks mit you.”
I meant to spike him where he waved,
but altered me intention.
'N' “If you put it thus,” sez I, “I don't
care if I do.”
We had a drink together. There's a tem-
por'y suspension
Of hostilities to sample contraband 'n' other
stuff
In the enemy's possession. Which I think
he's had enough.

That Hun had thirty pockets, 'n' he'd stowed
a flask in each,
'N' presently I'm thinkin' I could love him
like a brother.
He's talkin' fond 'n' friendly in outlandish
parts of speech.
“You're prisoner of war,” I sez; 'n' then
we had another.
Ten flasks he pours into his hat, 'n' fills it
to the brim,
'N' weeps 'n' sez his frau she will be waitin'
up for him.

We drink each other's health, 'n' know no
henmity nor fear.
I see I've got to pinch him, but he's out to
do his div. in,
'N' don't care if he don't go home till day-
light doth appear.
Sez he: “I pud you home to bed upside dot
'ouse you live in.”
He shakes his finger in me eye: “Mein friendt,
you're preddy trunk!”
Then arm in arm through No Man's land we
does a social bunk.

There's Fear afoot. Comes more than once
the glug of sudden death.
We're rockin' fine 'n' careless where the
rifle fire is breakin',
'N' singin' most uproar'ous, in the bomb's
disgustin' breath,
Of girls, 'n' drink, 'n' cheerful sprees, 'n'
'Herman thinks he's takin'
A cobber home to somewhere in an subbub
damp 'n' dim,
Whereas I know fer certain it is me is takin'
him.

Somehow, sometime, I lands him where he's
safely put to bed.
I wake nex' day, 'n' holy smoke! I'm pri-
soner with the German.
Me mouth is like an ashpan, there's hot fish-
bolts in me head,
'N' through the barb-wire peerin' is me
foreigh cobber 'Erman.
“Ve capdure each lasd nighd,” sez he “you
home haf bring me, boss.”
For bravery in takin' me, he got the Iron
Cross!

poem by Edward George Dyson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Southern Narrative

The tired old farm buildings
Were slumping into the ground
Like exhausted children,
Fighting to stay upright,
But too old, too tired
To try much longer.

Possibly, the only thing
Holding them vertically
Was the amount of vines
Sprouting out the tops
Of the tilting roofs.

Doors gaped wide,
Hinges hanging away,
Most of their screws missing,
Holding bits and pieces
Of the stout planks
Which used to make doors.

A heavy metal winch
Swung from the upper
Door of the barn,
Creaking and whining
With age.

Where once it had been
The lifter of heavy loads,
It now hangs limply
On a frayed rope,
Empty and useless.

The stalls stand bare as well,
Rotting, sour hay on floors
Which used to be cleaned daily.
Rusted milk cans tilt
Against walls that can barely
Hold them upright.

A saddle still hangs
By the vacant doorway.
Where it had once shone proudly
With bright polish and clean brass,
And smelled of horse,
It now drops bits of dried-out leather,
Like a moulting bird,
Onto the unused floor.

Cans of paint, bits of brass,
Rusty wire, old hoes and rakes
Lay in a jumble on shelves
Falling off the walls.

The homeplace, the house,
Shows the same state of neglect,
Doors ajar, windows sagging,
Tiles tilting and sliding off the roof.

The porch dips and sags,
Dragging the ground
Like the old preacher's wife,
Wearing her finest clothes,
With her slip hanging down,
Tattered and dirty,
And very worn at the edges.

The house beside the road,
Where people lived
And children played,
Is empty now,
And falling down.

The echos of happy feet
Are heard,
Tapping to the sound
Of Poppy's fiddle,
But the house beside the road
Is empty, and forlorn.

When a gentle voice
Is heard in the house,
It is only a singing breeze,
Sifting itself through
The cracks in the roof
Of the house I used to call
Home.

Linda Scarlett Treat
January 6,2010

poem by Scarlett Treat
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Toad In The Hole

I walk along the strand
To catch the late ride home.
Shuttle through the evening gloom
Knowing I forgot to phone.
The back doors open.
Theres a chill blowing in.
Take your warm hands off me.
Let the night begin.
Shush your mouth.
Listen to me.
I wont say nothing ---
Just let me be your
Toad in the hole.
Kicking through the wet leaves lying
All along the station road.
Past tired graffitti wailing,
Raw emotion to unload.
Theres coal in the fireplace
And money in the bank too.
Deep-pile carpets, tinsel wallpaper.
Still got the back room to do.
Dont be late.
Got a days work behind me.
Feel a little devastated
But my nights are assigned to you.
Toad in the hole.
No tom-cat creeping, now
Could ever be so bold
To hang around our place tonight
When I come in from the cold.
Theres a straight-six in the garage
And some fine wine to cool.
Labour-savers in the kitchen,
Room in the garden for a pool.
Shush your mouth.
Let imagination run
Here in bed-sit heaven
Where all the best wishings done
To warm toad in the hole.

song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Stamping Ground

The stamping ground,
The stamping ground.
All your old gang
Still hang around.
Coming in with the same blokes,
Going home with the same jokes,
If you ever go missing
I know where youll be found :
The stamping ground.
The big fella on the front door knows your face.
The barman pretends that hes saved you a place,
But when your back is turned
They say shes older than she tells.
I could stand the main attraction,
But not the clientelle.
The stamping ground,
The stamping ground.
All your old gang
Still hang around.
Coming in with the same blokes,
Going home with the same jokes,
If you ever go missing
I know where youll be found :
The stamping ground.
Everybody knows
Evrybodys trouble,
Who comes in alone,
Who leaves as a couple.
When they seen you coming, babe,
They act like theyre pleased to meet you.
Say its very nice to know you,
But I wouldnt want to be you.
The stamping ground,
The stamping ground.
All your old gang
Still hang around.
Going home with the same blokes,
Going home with the same jokes,
If you ever go missing
I know where youll be found :
The stamping ground.
You talk like you dont have a brain in your head.
You act like you dont have a care in your bed.
Th lights are on,
Theres no one home,
It scares you to death.
You stamp on anyone who stops to take a breath.
The stamping ground,
The stamping ground.
All your old gang
Still hang around.
Going home with the same blokes,
Going home with the same jokes,
If you ever go missing
I know where youll be found :
The stamping ground.
The stamping ground.
The stamping ground.
The stamping ground.
The stamping ground.

song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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