The maple
I
It is the blood-hued maple straight and strong,
Voicing abroad its patriotic song.
II
Its daring colours bravely flinging forth
The ensign of the Nation of the North.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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North Woods
The teeming black waters
Of a wooded creek
Run amuck
To the waterfalls calling -
There is a pragmatic hubris
To the North woods
Set so far from social expectancy,
An un-self-concerned amalgam
Of accepting and being accepted by
Simply living, being, and even dying -
The scent is intoxicating
The sound symphonic
The sight luminous;
Here, these North woods
Home to so much
And community to so few -
Jays sit entwined
Within a bevy of birch branches
Voicing the folly
Of an eastern wind,
In a furry fit of contentment
A squirrel dances with a maple leaf,
And a dropp of dew
Gives itself to a colony of working ants -
Supple, and turbulent
Are the irresistable ways
Of the seasons up here!
Nights and days
Swamps and hills
Frogs and flies
Deer and bear,
All a part
Of the heart and blood of
The great North woods -
poem by Smoky Hoss
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A Hymn to the Unsung Heroes
Under the green sods, lie unknown
The mighty warriors of our land.
Strong and steadfast they marched to the field,
Wielding weapons in their hand.
Their daring and their deeds of grit,
Secured freedom for our land.
Blessed be the wombs that bore,
Those dauntless men of fiery brand.
Plucked away from hearth and kin,
They oft dwelt in lands unknown.
Many a laurel they had won.
Living a dismal life forlorn.
Lay in ambush in dingy trench
Crossed swords with formidable might
Starved to death in enemy camps
Fought with verve for country's right
The resolute brigade knew no rest
Ease and comfort, they had none
To drill and discipline, they were wed
Life's winsome pleasures, they did shun
Bravely bared their manly breasts
Before triggered guns and flying bullets
Shed out every dropp of blood
To save the nation from rival blasts
Long, long may their memories last
Let every tongue their daring praise
Let the Nation bow its head
Let their deeds, our morale raise.
poem by Valsa George
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Be Strong!
Be strong!
We are not here to play, to dream, to drift;
We have hard work to do and loads to lift;
Shun not the struggle, face it, ’tis God’s gift.
Be strong, be strong, be strong!
Be strong!
Say not the days are evil—who’s to blame?
And fold the hands and acquiesce—O shame!
Stand up, speak out, and bravely, in God’s Name.
Be strong, be strong, be strong!
Be strong!
It matters not how deep entrenched the wrong,
How hard the battle goes, the day, how long;
Faint not, fight on! Tomorrow comes the song.
Be strong, be strong, be strong!
poem by Maltbie Davenport Babcock
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The sing of song
it's a song without title
a song without word
a song without sound
a song in our eyes
a song in our ears
a song in our hands
a song in our feet
We are singing the song
without title
a nameless song
It's a distant song
It's a future song
A song who says:
beyond future, beyond distances,
beyond nothing, beyond always
a song in a single colour
that we don't see
many colours
much colours
unknown colours
this was
a song of your mother
a song of your grandmothers
a song of one very old woman
Sleep, sleep my little love
Dream, dream my little love
when you close open your wide eyes
poem by Jean Francois Le Goff
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Adam's Song
Written to honor Adam Lambert, one of the most talanted men alive today!
I could't be prouder
I could't be happier
So overjoyed
As I see this one perfect man's dream
Inch that much closer to coming true
Regardless of his past
Regardless of the choices and preferences made
Behind the scenes of his personal life
Bridge
This is his song
His time
When nothing can go wrong
Steppin' bravely forward
Got that mike in his hand
He's gonna rock 'em all right, all night
When he starts singin'
Adam's song
For so long he has fought
Tooth and nail
Just for the right to be called equal
In the eyes of his fellow man
For so long, far too long
He has fought and climbed the mountains set before him
Just to be standing here
At last accepted for what and who he truly is
This is his song
His time
When nothing can go wrong
Steppin' bravely forward
Got that mike in his hand
He's gonna rock 'em all right, all night
When he starts singin'
Adam's song
Closing his eyes
He breathes it all in
Savoring the moment
Drinking in the rush of being America's favorite new crush
It may all end tomorrow he knows
But for now this is his time
His now
To be all he almost never dreamed they would let him be
This is his song
His time
When nothing can go wrong
Steppin' bravely forward
Got that mike in his hand
He's gonna rock 'em all right, all night
When he starts singin'
Adam's song
Dreamin'
Daring
To fly higher
Closer to the sun than he's ever been before
One man
One hope
One destiny to fulfill
Right here, right now
This is his song
His time
When nothing can go wrong
Steppin' bravely forward
Got that mike in his hand
He's gonna rock 'em all right, all night
When he starts singin'
Adam's song
This is his song
His time
When nothing can go wrong
Steppin' bravely forward
Got that mike in his hand
He's gonna rock 'em all right, all night
When he starts singin'
Adam's song
2009 Ramona Thompson
poem by Ramona Thompson
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Jingoism
Be not jingoistic
and say 'No' to the calls
of to religion and race.
Be patriotic to your nation
to stand by the poor
and book the criminals.
Love your nation
for its war against
illiteracy and poverty.
Love your nation
for its unceasing efforts
to extract work from the youths.
Love your nation
for not encroaching
and enslaving the neighbours.
Love your nation
for her indigenuous efforts
to reach the peak in health-care.
Love your nation
for being secular
and respect all cults and tongues.
Love your nation
for being a model
to other nations in this world.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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La Guerre Day
At dawn, gunfire woke everyone in Bor
The first bullet of bullets bulleted
And more bullets rained as rain rained
The blood streamed as a stream streamed
The bodies littered on roads as dung
The first martyr of martyrs martyred
The first wounded of wounded wounded
The first survivor of survivors survived
No mouths tested anything that day
The water smelled blood
The food smelled corpse
The blackest day in the history of this nation
The whitest day in the history of this nation
The saddest day in the history of this nation
The happiest day in the history of this nation
The end of slavery, the beginning of freedom
A black day for oppressors
A white day for the oppressed
A sad day for the oppressors
A happy day for the oppressed
The action of 105 Battalion on
La Guere Day – May 16th,1983
Began the beginning of Liberation, Independence, Culture and Identity not greedy indisciplinary salary demand as desert cocaine intoxicated men claimed. May 16th began the birth of SPLA Patriotic and gallant fighters whom 105 soldiers told “If it kills us, it’s called our land”.
The SPLA fighters took the word as slogan
They fought to achieve justice for all
Note on May 16 1983, the war broke between South and North in the Sudan
poem by David Aoloch Bion
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Even if I died in the service of the nation, I would be proud of it. Every drop of my blood... will contribute to the growth of this nation and to make it strong and dynamic.
quote by Indira Gandhi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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So Suitable Has The Outrageous Become
Is it befitting that the ridiculous,
Now
Is a way of life?
So suitable has the outrageous become,
That those seeking to shoot from the hip
With a telling it like it is,
With a voicing of it.
Are the ones today,
Finding themselves censored.
To allow the rise for the marketing of misfits.
And it was not long ago,
Those who were declared militants
With nationalistic wishes,
Were more patriotic
Than those elected to represent their contituents.
While those who promote decadence,
Have the bucks to demand
How much of the sleaze on the streets show.
Is it befitting that the ridiculous,
Now
Is a way of life?
So suitable has the outrageous become,
That those seeking to shoot from the hip
With a telling it like it is,
With a voicing of it.
Are the ones today,
Finding themselves censored.
To allow the rise for the marketing of misfits.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Standing Out Reality
I'm living in a civilized nation
Seeing true colours of cultural chime
Black or blue white too
All around the globe god bless you
Let's come together
We will fight
Our natural colours with delight
Civilized nation insight
Looking bright as we fight
For freedom and the guilt or racism...
the sea threw colours
the sky designed an arc
multi-hued!
quote by by Indira Babbellapati
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Am I Less Patriotic
Am I less patriotic,
If I choose not to embrace...
Conservative values,
With a more broadened view...
That may be idealistic,
With equality issues I pursue.
Am I less patriotic,
If those who are hypocrites annoy?
The ones with their self righteous political opinions.
Those who influence lawmakers to consider and employ.
Am I less patriotic,
If I am bothered by illegitimate conflicts.
Those that depict one class of people,
As being worthy to indulge...
In the feeding done of their own interests.
Am I less patriotic,
If I wish hunger and homelessness...
From all made to suffer from this,
Was erased from them and did not exist?
Am I less patriotic,
If I chose to express my feelings about it?
And am I less patriotic...
If I refuse to inflict upon another pain,
With a taking away from them...
To benefit my own selfish claims to gain.
Am I less patriotic,
If my ambitions are to sustain and maintain...
A peaceful co-existence,
Between those who have chosen to benefit...
Appreciating their lives as they wish.
Without being oppressed by those who infest...
With a manifestation to control with a beholding?
Taking away from others as if...
They were entitled to do this!
Am I less patriotic?
Or am I just another delusioned human being?
Wishing all differences,
Were accepted or not demeaned to maim.
Or disrespected to be considered obscene.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Nation Celebrates
Boats take to the Thames to honour the Queen:
The most craft, at any one time, the river has seen.
On to the trains, thousands of people cram.
On the roads, there are massive traffic jams.
People pack in to pubs to consume a few beers:
There is much merriment, and calls of ‘cheers! '
People are attending parties in their streets:
Long tables are laden with tasty treats to eat.
In towns, shops windows are patriotically dressed.
Across the nation, people put on their Sunday best.
Everywhere that you look is brightly festooned
With flags, bunting, streamers, and party balloons.
Of Jubilee memorabilia, there is certainly no lack:
Just about every item possible bears the Union Jack.
There are Jubilee jelly moulds and garden gnomes:
Just about everything that you'd need for your home.
Even the packaging on much supermarket food,
Bears the patriotic colours of red, white and blue.
Thousands of beacons are being lit. Burning bright,
They glow in the dark with a glorious, golden light.
At the Palace, there is a massive musical celebration,
Which is enjoyed by thousands right across the nation.
Tower Bridge is adorned with thousands of lights:
Lit up at night, it makes a truly magnificent sight.
People don Union Jack hats or wear cardboard crowns.
Some paint their faces, or wear patriotic party gowns.
The rather rainy weather, the nation stoically braves.
A sea of Union Jack flags, by well-wishers, is waved.
Our warmest wishes to Her Majesty, our nation sends.
We're having a great time this Bank Holiday weekend.
It is a time for our whole nation to all come together.
Memories of this very special occasion will last for ever.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Colours Of Love
The colours of love,
The colours of unity,
The colours of peace,
The colours of humility,
the colours of care,
The colours of passion,
The colours of romance,
The colours of the mind,
The colours of your works,
The colours of mankind;
But, let true love come out from your heart!
For, in peace and unity we have to live on this earth together:
Than, the bullets of war that divides us always! ! !
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Colored Soldiers
IF the muse were mine to tempt it
And my feeble voice were strong,
If my tongue were trained to measures,
I would sing a stirring song.
I would sing a song heroic
Of those noble sons of Ham,
Of the gallant colored soldiers
Who fought for Uncle Sam!
In the early days you scorned them,
And with many a flip and flout
Said 'These battles are the white man's,
And the whites will fight them out.'
Up the hills you fought and faltered,
In the vales you strove and bled,
While your ears still heard the thunder
Of the foes' advancing tread.
Then distress fell on the nation,
And the flag was drooping low;
Should the dust pollute your banner?
No! the nation shouted, No!
So when War, in savage triumph,
Spread abroad his funeral pall —
Then you called the colored soldiers,
And they answered to your call.
And like hounds unleashed and eager
For the life blood of the prey,
Spring they forth and bore them bravely
In the thickest of the fray.
And where'er the fight was hottest,
Where the bullets fastest fell,
There they pressed unblanched and fearless
At the very mouth of hell.
Ah, they rallied to the standard
To uphold it by their might;
None were stronger in the labors,
None were braver in the fight.
From the blazing breach of Wagner
To the plains of Olustee,
They were foremost in the fight
Of the battles of the free.
And at Pillow! God have mercy
On the deeds committed there,
And the souls of those poor victims
Sent to Thee without a prayer.
Let the fulness of Thy pity
O'er the hot wrought spirits sway
Of the gallant colored soldiers
Who fell fighting on that day!
Yes, the Blacks enjoy their freedom,
And they won it dearly, too;
For the life blood of their thousands
Did the southern fields bedew.
In the darkness of their bondage,
In the depths of slavery's night,
Their muskets flashed the dawning,
And they fought their way to light.
They were comrades then and brothers.
Are they more or less to-day?
They were good to stop a bullet
And to front the fearful fray.
They were citizens and soldiers,
When rebellion raised its head;
And the traits that made them worthy,—
Ah! those virtues are not dead.
They have shared your nightly vigils,
They have shared your daily toil;
And their blood with yours commingling
Has enriched the Southern soil.
They have slept and marched and suffered
'Neath the same dark skies as you,
They have met as fierce a foeman,
And have been as brave and true.
And their deeds shall find a record
In the registry of Fame;
For their blood has cleansed completely
Every blot of Slavery's shame.
So all honor and all glory
To those noble sons of Ham —
The gallant colored soldiers
Who fought for Uncle Sam!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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To Robin Redbreast
Merrily 'mid the faded leaves,
O Robin of the bright red breast!
Cheerily over the Autumn eaves,
Thy note is heard, bonny bird;
Sent to cheer us, and kindly endear us
To what would be a sorrowful time
Without thee in the weltering clime:
Merry art thou in the boughs of the lime,
While thy fadeless waistcoat glows on thy breast,
In Autumn's reddest livery drest.
A merry song, a cheery song!
In the boughs above, on the sward below,
Chirping and singing the live day long,
While the maple in grief sheds its fiery leaf,
And all the trees waning, with bitter complaining,
Chestnut, and elm, and sycamore,
Catch the wild gust in their arms, and roar
Like the sea on a stormy shore,
Till wailfully they let it go,
And weep themselves naked and weary with woe.
Merrily, cheerily, joyously still
Pours out the crimson-crested tide.
The set of the season burns bright on the hill,
Where the foliage dead falls yellow and red,
Picturing vainly, but foretelling plainly
The wealth of cottage warmth that comes
When the frost gleams and the blood numbs,
And then, bonny Robin, I'll spread thee out crumbs
In my garden porch for thy redbreast pride,
The song and the ensign of dear fireside.
poem by George Meredith
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Weaving
Adding the beauty of every illusion to
my own vision of a beautiful universe,
the sweet sound of Germanic song, the
stark beauty of Rumi, the Sufi poet, the
lovely rhythm of a song in Creole
It does not matter that these examples
have no substance, colour and form; the
shimmering colours appears in the dark
chocolate of the organ notes, the silver
bells of flutes and piccolos
The form is round and strong, there are no
straight lines in words and song, everything
consists of swirling mist, last night I saw the
weaving of Many Worlds, every decision splits
the weaver’s thread into many bits
Weaving side by side, forming patterns like
cables, curling spirals spinning around each
other for evermore…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Castlemaine
You've heard the song 'The wild colonial boy'
An oft sung ballad of decades gone by
His name was Jack Doolin from Castlemaine
Where now no trace of his existence remain.
The magpie's song tell Spring not far away
From Castlemaine on this bright August day
A sunny day with scarce a puff of breeze
And new leaves budding on deciduous trees.
In this Town in North West Victoria made famous by a song
The links to the pioneering days still strong
And though their's is Australia's oldest history
No traces of Aboriginal culture here I see.
So few acres ploughed for the growing of crops and grain
In the countryside around old Castlemaine
Few acres for the harvester to reap
This is a cattle country with some sheep.
Famed in a song as Jack Doolin's Hometown
Old Castlemaine of folklore and renown
And strong links to it's pioneering past remain
In the north west country Town of Castlemaine.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Colours
Colours are just colours
One might suppose
Rage is red…
But then again…
so is a rose
So colours are more
Than they seem, don’t’ you think
For boys it’s usually blue
For little girls always pink
Yep, colours are colours
Perhaps that’s all they should be
Just something to look at
Only something to see
But colours have emotion
At least they do to me
Perhaps I just don’t see hues
In the same way
that you see
Because blue to me
Is more than just a hue
It’s the sky, it’s berries,
Oceans … and sadness too
Green is envy, grass and dinero
Purple is royalty, plums and passion
Yellow is cowardice, butter and tallow
Colours are … whatever you wish to fashion
Perhaps I see colours differently than you
Perhaps exactly the same way… I hope
But my advice to you, whatever you do
Is … don’t get me started on taupe! !
poem by David Whalen
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The Patriots Dream
The songs of the wars are as old as the hills
They cling like the rust on the cold steel that kills
They tell of the boys who went down to the tracks
In a patriotic manner with the cold steel on their backs
The patriots dream is as old as the sky
It lives in the lust of a cold callous lie
Lets drink to the men who got caught by the chill
Of the patriotic fever and the cold steel that kills
The train pulled away on that glorious night
The drummer got drunk and the bugler got tight
While the boys in the back sang a song of good cheer
While riding off to glory in the spring of their years
The patriots dream still lives on today
It makes mothers weep and it makes lovers pray
Lets drink to the men who got caught by the chill
Of the patriotic fever and the cold steel that kills
Well there was a sad, sad lady
Weeping all night long
She received a sad, sad message
From a voice on the telephone
Her children were all sleeping
As she waited out the dawn
How could she tell those children
That their father was shot down
So she took them to her side that day
And she told them one by one
Your father was a good man ten thousand miles from home
He tried to do his duty and it took him straight to hell
He might be in some prison, I hope hes treated well
Well there was a young girl watching in the early afternoon
When she heard the name of someone who said hed be home soon
And she wondered how they got him, but the papers did not tell
There would be no sweet reunion, there would be no wedding bells
So she took herself into her room and she turned the bed sheets down
And she cried into the silken folds of her new wedding gown
He tried to do his duty and it took him straight to hell
He might be in some prison, I hope hes treated well
Well there was an old man sitting in his mansion on the hill
And he thought of his good fortune and the time hed yet o kill
Well he called to his wife one day, come sit with me awhile
Then turning toward the sunset, he smiled a wicked smile
Well Id like to say Im sorry for the sinful deeds Ive done
But let me first remind you, Im a patriotic son
They tried to do their duty and it took em straight to hell
They might be in some prison, I hope theyre treated well
The songs of the wars are as old as the hills
They cling like the rust on the cold steel that kills
They tell of the boys who went down to the tracks
In a patriotic manner with the cold steel on their backs
The train pulled away on that glorious night
The drummer got drunk and the bugler got tight
While the boys in the back sang a song of good cheer
While riding off to glory in the spring of their years
The patriots dream still lives on today
It makes mothers weep and it makes lovers pray
Lets drink to the men who got caught by the chill
Of the patriotic fever and the cold steel that kills
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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