The Old Pioneers
These old friends of ours! Sixty years back,
Bearded and booted, they followed the track,
Came like their Saxon forefathers of old,
Carving a nation from waste and from wold,
Mighty of purpose and stalwart of limb,
Clove they a path through the forest so dim,
Forward, adventuring, knowing no fears--
Honour and praise to the old pioneers.
Now they are feeble and bowed are their backs,
Long laid aside are the stockwhip and axe;
Dulled though each sense is, the hearing is quick
Oft-times to catch the faint ring of the pick,
Eyes, too, are closed yet they see clear and plain
The camp and the creek and the ranges again;
Australia's first story and the world never hears,
It is locked in the hearts of the old pioneers.
Then to the workers of those distant days
Certain poor players came bringing their plays,
Lighter grew toil for the songs that they trolled,
Sweeter was life for the love-stories told,
Gone now the music, the laughter is stilled,
Audience and players together are chilled,
Yet--like the flowers--the smiles and the tears
Ever are fresh for the old pioneers.
Yes, they are old, nor of wealth have they hoard,
Heap we the fire, then, and plenish the board;
Age steals upon them and chilly life grows,
Workers and players have earned their repose.
Soon on their names all in vain we shall call,
For even the grandest old landmarks must fall.
Just a warm hand-clasp ere one disappears--
These are the last of the old pioneers.
poem by Frank Dalby Davison
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Related quotes
Sons Of The Pioneers
(myles goodwyn)
Published by northern goody two tunes, ltd./capac - ascap
Reachin for a space in time, layin our fate on the line
Starting out a life anew, after weve come so far
Wont you look and see now, here we are
You were the ones, there is no doubt
You ate it up and spit it out
You were the ones, you made it clear, you could take it
We are the sons of the pioneers (we are the sons of pioneers)
The day has come, our fate is clear
Were the sons of the pioneers
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Were not afraid to try (were not afraid to try)
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid of fear
Whats the point of going on, if you feel that it couldnt be done
Cause I just wanna understand, freedoms the soul of a man
Wont you look and see now, and show me how
We have the chance, there is no doubt
Well pick it up, and see it out
We are the ones, you made it clear, we can take it
We are the sons of the pioneers (we are the sons of pioneers)
The day has come, the way is clear
For the sons of the pioneers
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid to try (men not afraid to try)
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid of fear......................fear
When you think of how far weve come, and to know that weve only begun
Leaving us a legacy, makes sense to me
That now our time has come, for we have to move on
You were the ones, there is no doubt
You ate it up and spit it out
You were the ones, you made it clear, you could take it
And now its time, our fate is surely here now
There is no doubt about it, its time we thought about it
We are the ones, the way is clear, for the sons of the pioneers
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid to try (men not afraid to try)
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afriad of fear
Is there any doubt, none at all, they heard the call of the
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid to try (men not afraid to try)
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid to try (men not afraid to try)
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid of fear
song performed by by April Wine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Republican Pioneers
We're marching along, we're gath'ring strong'
We place on our right reliance,
We fling in the air, for all who care,
Our first loud notes of defiance!
We fling in the air,
For all who care,
Our first loud notes of defiance!
Laugh long and loud, you toady crowd,
At the men you call benighted,
In spite of your sneers, we are pioneers
Of "Australian States United"!
In spite of your sneers, We are pioneers
Of "Australian States United"!
Not long we'll stand as an outlaw band,
And be in our country lonely,
For soon to the sky shall ring our cry,
Our cry of "Australia only"!
For soon to the sky
Shall mount our cry,
Our cry of "Australia only"!
And we'll sleep sound in Australian ground,
'Neath the blue-cross flag star lighted,
When it freely waves o'er the grass-grown graves
Of the pioneers united!
When it floats and veers
O'er the pioneers
Of "Australian States United"!
poem by Henry Lawson
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Pioneers
They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide;
There were the sons of field and flock since e’er they learned to ride;
We may not hope to see such men in these degenerate years
As those explorers of the bush – the brave old pioneers.
‘Twas they who rode the trackless bush in heat and storm and drought;
‘Twas they that heard the master-word that called them further out;
‘Twas they that followed up the trail the mountain cattle made
And pressed across the mighty range where now their bones are laid.
But now the times are dull and slow, the brave old days are dead
When hardy bushmen started out, and forced their way ahead
By tangled scrub and forests grim towards the unknown west,
And spied the far off promised land from off the ranges’ crest.
Oh! Ye, that sleep in lonely graves by far-off ridge and plain,
We drink to you in silence now as Christmas comes again,
The men who fought the wilderness through rough unsettled years –
The founders of our nation’s life, the brave old pioneers.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Rutherford McDowell
They brought me ambrotypes
Of the old pioneers to enlarge.
And sometimes one sat for me—
Some one who was in being
When giant hands from the womb of the world
Tore the republic.
What was it in their eyes?—
For I could never fathom
That mystical pathos of drooped eyelids,
And the serene sorrow of their eyes.
It was like a pool of water,
Amid oak trees at the edge of a forest,
Where the leaves fall,
As you hear the crow of a cock
From a far-off farm house, seen near the hills
Where the third generation lives, and the strong men
And the strong women are gone and forgotten.
And these grand-children and great grand-children
Of the pioneers!
Truly did my camera record their faces, too,
With so much of the old strength gone,
And the old faith gone,
And the old mastery of life gone,
And the old courage gone,
Which labors and loves and suffers and sings
Under the sun!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Pioneers! O Pioneers!
COME, my tan-faced children,
Follow well in order, get your weapons ready;
Have you your pistols? have you your sharp edged axes?
Pioneers! O pioneers!
For we cannot tarry here,
We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger,
We, the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O you youths, western youths,
So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship, 10
Plain I see you, western youths, see you tramping with the foremost,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Have the elder races halted?
Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied, over there beyond the
seas?
We take up the task eternal, and the burden, and the lesson,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
All the past we leave behind;
We debouch upon a newer, mightier world, varied world,
Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march,
Pioneers! O pioneers! 20
We detachments steady throwing,
Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep,
Conquering, holding, daring, venturing, as we go, the unknown ways,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
We primeval forests felling,
We the rivers stemming, vexing we, and piercing deep the mines
within;
We the surface broad surveying, we the virgin soil upheaving,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Colorado men are we,
From the peaks gigantic, from the great sierras and the high
plateaus, 30
From the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail we come,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
From Nebraska, from Arkansas,
Central inland race are we, from Missouri, with the continental blood
intervein'd;
All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all the
Northern,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O resistless, restless race!
O beloved race in all! O my breast aches with tender love for all!
O I mourn and yet exult--I am rapt with love for all,
Pioneers! O pioneers! 40
Raise the mighty mother mistress,
Waving high the delicate mistress, over all the starry mistress,
(bend your heads all,)
Raise the fang'd and warlike mistress, stern, impassive, weapon'd
mistress,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
See, my children, resolute children,
By those swarms upon our rear, we must never yield or falter,
Ages back in ghostly millions, frowning there behind us urging,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
On and on, the compact ranks,
With accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead quickly
fill'd, 50
Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never stopping,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O to die advancing on!
Are there some of us to droop and die? has the hour come?
Then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap is fill'd,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
All the pulses of the world,
Falling in, they beat for us, with the western movement beat;
Holding single or together, steady moving, to the front, all for us,
Pioneers! O pioneers! 60
Life's involv'd and varied pageants,
All the forms and shows, all the workmen at their work,
All the seamen and the landsmen, all the masters with their slaves,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
All the hapless silent lovers,
All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked,
All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
I too with my soul and body,
We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way, 70
Through these shores, amid the shadows, with the apparitions
pressing,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Lo! the darting bowling orb!
Lo! the brother orbs around! all the clustering suns and planets,
All the dazzling days, all the mystic nights with dreams,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
These are of us, they are with us,
All for primal needed work, while the followers there in embryo wait
behind,
We to-day's procession heading, we the route for travel clearing,
Pioneers! O pioneers! 80
O you daughters of the west!
O you young and elder daughters! O you mothers and you wives!
Never must you be divided, in our ranks you move united,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Minstrels latent on the prairies!
(Shrouded bards of other lands! you may sleep--you have done your
work;)
Soon I hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp amid us,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Not for delectations sweet;
Not the cushion and the slipper, not the peaceful and the
studious; 90
Not the riches safe and palling, not for us the tame enjoyment,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Do the feasters gluttonous feast?
Do the corpulent sleepers sleep? have they lock'd and bolted doors?
Still be ours the diet hard, and the blanket on the ground,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Has the night descended?
Was the road of late so toilsome? did we stop discouraged, nodding on
our way?
Yet a passing hour I yield you, in your tracks to pause oblivious,
Pioneers! O pioneers! 100
Till with sound of trumpet,
Far, far off the day-break call--hark! how loud and clear I hear it
wind;
Swift! to the head of the army!--swift! spring to your places, Pioneers! O pioneers.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Sears' Quatrains
I.
Ears
Dears
Tears
Years.
II.
Pioneers
Frontiers
Sightsee rs
Disappears.
poem by Nicolas Grenier
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I spend a lot of time copying saxophone players and trumpet players. Not to say that it is not important to listen to guitar players, but there's so much music out there and so many possibilities. I like anyone who plays any instrument.
quote by Bill Frisell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet: Who is Greater
Who is the greater- the old or the new?
Who is the more praiseworthy of the two?
Which is more beauteous- the mist or the dew?
Which is more gorgeous- eye or bird’s eye-view?
Old records set by the former great men
May get humbled with time today, may be!
Techno-advances have widened our ken;
Are later men greater than the Hillary?
Discoveries of those olden-day men,
Were pioneers in trying conditions?
Poetry of today looks more modern,
But can’t outdo the older renditions.
Pioneers in a field are far too great;
Later achievers must accept defeat.
14-7-2000
poem by John Celes
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Sixty Years Ago
I
The double-blossomed peach-trees with rosy bloom were gay
When grandpa rode beneath them upon his courting way,
From the white gate to the homestead they stretched in stately row,
And showered his path with petals, just sixty years ago.
His riding suit was spick and span, his jingling bridle rein,
Was polished to the limit, his top-boots shone again;
A mass of youthful vanity, from curly head to toe,
Was my darling gay young grandpa – just sixty years ago.
Upon the broad veranda, demure my grandma sat,
And hid her girlish blushes beneath her garden hat,
Her dainty flowing muslins enfolded her like snow;
Ah! Very sweet my grandma was, just sixty years ago.
With sweeping bow and fluttering heart he told his hopes and fears,
And grandma gently said him ‘Yea’, mid blushes, smiles and tears.
When the double-blossomed peach-trees with fruit were bending low,
Good Father Flynn united them – just sixty years ago.
II
There’s a sound of mirthful revel in the dear old home to-night,
Where the merry young folk frolic ‘neath the incandescent light,
Jazzing on the broad veranda, listening to the radio,
Knowing wonders quite undreamt of in the days of long ago.
On the vine-enclosed veranda, sits my grandpa in his chair,
And the flower-scented night winds stirs the white locks of his hair;
Grandma sits and smiles beside him, happy in the young folks glee,
Such a dainty dear old lady, ever young at heart is she.
And the harvest of their labours in the moonlight stretches wide
All the land they’ve won and toiled for as they struggled side by side,
In their brave old eyes no shadow from the griefs of gone-by years,
For their hearts beat high within them – dauntless breed of pioneers.
Hand in hand they sit together, while the angels smile above,
On their long unbroken record of faith, sacrifice and love;
From the double-blossomed peach trees come the petals falling slow,
Bringing sweet and fadeless memories of Sixty Years ago.
poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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Taking Root
I'd seen Lianne at her cottage door
When I'd walked the old bush track,
The cottage had been abandoned, but
She was gradually bringing it back,
She painted it and she patched it
There was nothing she couldn't do,
I even saw her up on the roof
Repairing a faulty flue.
I simply waved at the girl at first
And she'd smile, and wave on back,
She must have been used to seeing me
On that little-used outback track,
I wondered why she would settle there
In a cottage, out on her own,
I never saw anyone else to share
The place that she called her home.
I stopped, of course, and I spoke to her
Once I'd passed a dozen times,
She said that she loved the fresh, clean air,
That she'd travelled from colder climes,
The sun was warm in the early spring
But I mentioned about the drought,
‘The summer heat is intense out here
With nothing to keep it out.'
What trees there were had died long since
For the lack of a steady rain,
They stood, grey, gaunt and twisted, like
Arthritic men, in pain,
She said she was going to grub them out
And plant fresh trees when she could,
Something with lots of leaves for shade
And water them, well and good.
I mentioned a couple of species that
Would grow at a furious pace,
Like the Australian willow, it
Was known for its speed, and grace,
She'd put some in when I passed again
And we talked of family trees,
She said that her Gran had left the place
To her, to do as she pleased.
‘My people, back in the early days
Were some of the pioneers,
They built this cottage and tilled the soil
And they persevered for years.
But Gran took off for the city once
Her husband took ill, and died,
He's buried out in the back out there,
With his father, by his side.'
She showed me the graves of her forefathers,
The stones were weathered and worn,
She'd tried to tidy them up a bit
Erected a limestone cairn,
‘They came and slaved and suffered here
And died, and followed suit,
That's why I came to save the place,
I felt like taking root.'
I caught a glimpse of her eyes at that
And saw a glimmer of tears,
She was the last of the line of them,
These family pioneers,
She wasn't a striking beauty but
Had passion, guts and grace,
And that's when I fell in love with her
And I told her, to her face.
She smiled and patted my hand: ‘You're sweet,
But you don't know me at all,
Maybe you'll get to know me, if
You keep on coming to call.'
So I did, on into the summer then,
And followed through to the fall,
But then I was sent away for months
To a farm where I couldn't call.
She had no phone, she had no mail
No electricity,
She spent her nights on a garden seat
With a lantern on a tree,
The summer had seen a blistering heat
But the fall brought on the rain,
It was well into winter by the time
I was able to call again.
I found her out in the garden, where
She stood in a sort of trance,
I tried to engage her attention, but
She barely spared me a glance,
Her skin was coloured a shade of grey
And her legs were rough and stark,
Her feet had sunk in the mulch out there
And her ankles looked like bark.
I pulled at her hands but she simply leaned,
She swayed like a sapling bent,
Out from the tips of her fingers grew
Some strange disfigurement,
Her hair was tangled with creepers
That were snaking along her back,
I thought I could wake her with a kiss
But I seemed to have lost the knack.
I left her there in the garden, but
I see her from time to time,
The seasons come and the seasons go
But Lianne continues to climb,
Her clothes fell off, they were rotted through
Now she needs no type of suit,
Lianne's as busy as ever,
As she said, she's taking root.
20 September 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Grey Company
O the grey, grey company
Of the pallid dawn!
O the ghostly faces,
Ashen-like and drawn!
The Lord's lone sentinels
Dotted down the years,
The little grey company
Before the pioneers.
Dreaming of Utopias
Ere the time was ripe,
They awoke to scorning,
The jeering and the strife.
Dreaming of millenniums
In a world of wars,
They awoke to shudder
At a flaming Mars.
Never was a Luther
But a Huss was first --
A fountain unregarded
In the primal thirst.
Never was a Newton
Crowned and honoured well,
But first, alone, Galileo
Wasted in a cell.
In each other's faces
Looked the pioneers;
Drank the wine of courage
All their battle years.
For their weary sowing
Through the world wide,
Green they saw the harvest
Ere the day they died.
But the grey, grey company
Stood every man alone
In the chilly dawnlight,
Scarcely had they known
Ere the day they perished,
That their beacon-star
Was not glint of marsh-light
In the shadows far.
The brave white witnesses
To the truth within
Took the dart of folly,
Took the jeer of sin;
Crying "Follow, follow,
Back to Eden gate!"
They trod the Polar desert,
Met a desert fate.
Be laurel to the victor,
And roses to the fair,
And asphodel Elysian
Let the hero wear;
But lay the maiden lilies
Upon their narrow biers --
The lone grey company
Before the pioneers.
poem by Jessie Mackay
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We Trace Our Roots
there are ways of tracing our roots
where we come from
why we are here
how our forefathers braved
the seas and survived the big waves
of uncertainties
the cold, dark nights of their fears
how they all believed in dreams
how they trusted the direction given by the stars
how they solidified their hearts
with faith and hope
and love
as i listen to all of you talk about the stories
of our ancestors
my mind begins to to grow and travel
like roots
deep down the earth
tracing some humus
where i must live again
perhaps ever braver than the pioneers
they are our ancestors
and i think, they still believe that since we come from them
we must all be like them,
my dear cousin, now we have become the roots ourselves
and another child shall come
in the future
and listen some more, wanting to become branches and leaves and flowers
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Player's Ball
Here's a little somethin for the players out there hustlin
Gettin down for theirs
From east pointe, college park, decatur, devries...
My man, the scene was so thick
Lowriders, seventy-seven sevilles
El do's, nuttin but them 'llacs
All the players (deporte in the house) all the hustlers
I'm talkin bout a black man heaven here
Youknowhati'msayin? yeah
*singing*
Cadillacs are comin, from everywhere (yeahhh)
Limbo boppin good cause love is in the air
To all you players and you pimps smoke out and have a ball
And if your hoe is actin crazy --
-- put her on the wall
Now now now everybody's dancin and just feelin right
I see all of you players got yourselves laid in on ice
I hope when all y'all dance is over, can i get onn, yeah
My kids'll have a story, that still be told, whoooa, about
All the players came, from far and wide
Wearin afros and braids, kickin them gangster rides
Now i'm here to tell ya, there's a better day
When the player ball is happenin, all day eryday
song performed by by Outkast
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Heritage Of Ease
Are we so flabby, and are we so soft?
I have pondered the question long and oft;
And happy-go-lucky we may appear
When the fat and easy days are here,
When it's easy come and it's easy go,
And there's never a long, hard row to hoe.
But exceedingly hard and remarkably tough
Are the terms that fit when the days grow rough,
And Australia faces the jobs ahead
That fall in the seasons of stress and dread.
And the sturdier stuff of the pioneers
Has not all gone with the old, stern years.
And the tasks we faced and the loads we bore,
When the folly of nations brought us war,
Were not too many and not too great
To bend our backs or to halt our gait.
For the same old metal they tried anew,
And then, as ever, the stuff rang true.
But the soft times came; and the seed we sowed
On the days we travelled the easy road,
We must harvest now, as we all repent
Of a flabbiness passed to a Government
And nurtured there, while we rage and rear
To be up and waging the fight once more.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Song of the Future
'Tis strange that in a land so strong
So strong and bold in mighty youth,
We have no poet's voice of truth
To sing for us a wondrous song.
Our chiefest singer yet has sung
In wild, sweet notes a passing strain,
All carelessly and sadly flung
To that dull world he thought so vain.
"I care for nothing, good nor bad,
My hopes are gone, my pleasures fled,
I am but sifting sand," he said:
What wonder Gordon's songs were sad!
And yet, not always sad and hard;
In cheerful mood and light of heart
He told the tale of Britomarte,
And wrote the Rhyme of Joyous Garde.
And some have said that Nature's face
To us is always sad; but these
Have never felt the smiling grace
Of waving grass and forest trees
On sunlit plains as wide as seas.
"A land where dull Despair is king
O'er scentless flowers and songless bird!"
But we have heard the bell-birds ring
Their silver bells at eventide,
Like fairies on the mountain side,
The sweetest note man ever heard.
The wild thrush lifts a note of mirth;
The bronzewing pigeons call and coo
Beside their nests the long day through;
The magpie warbles clear and strong
A joyous, glad, thanksgiving song,
For all God's mercies upon earth.
And many voices such as these
Are joyful sounds for those to tell,
Who know the Bush and love it well,
With all its hidden mysteries.
We cannot love the restless sea,
That rolls and tosses to and fro
Like some fierce creature in its glee;
For human weal or human woe
It has no touch of sympathy.
For us the bush is never sad:
Its myriad voices whisper low,
In tones the bushmen only know,
Its sympathy and welcome glad.
For us the roving breezes bring
From many a blossum-tufted tree --
Where wild bees murmur dreamily --
The honey-laden breath of Spring.
* * * *
We have our tales of other days,
Good tales the northern wanderers tell
When bushmen meet and camp-fires blaze,
And round the ring of dancing light
The great, dark bush with arms of night
Folds every hearer in its spell.
We have our songs -- not songs of strife
And hot blood spilt on sea and land;
But lilts that link achievement grand
To honest toil and valiant life.
Lift ye your faces to the sky
Ye barrier mountains in the west
Who lie so peacefully at rest
Enshrouded in a haze of blue;
'Tis hard to feel that years went by
Before the pioneers broke through
Your rocky heights and walls of stone,
And made your secrets all their own.
For years the fertile Western plains
Were hid behind your sullen walls,
Your cliffs and crags and waterfalls
All weatherworn with tropic rains.
Between the mountains and the sea
Like Israelites with staff in hand,
The people waited restlessly:
They looked towards the mountains old
And saw the sunsets come and go
With gorgeous golden afterglow,
That made the West a fairyland,
And marvelled what that West might be
Of which such wondrous tales were told.
For tales were told of inland seas
Like sullen oceans, salt and dead,
And sandy deserts, white and wan,
Where never trod the foot of man,
Nor bird went winging overhead,
Nor ever stirred a gracious breeze
To wake the silence with its breath --
A land of loneliness and death.
At length the hardy pioneers
By rock and crag found out the way,
And woke with voices of today
A silence kept for years and tears.
Upon the Western slope they stood
And saw -- a wide expanse of plain
As far as eye could stretch or see
Go rolling westward endlessly.
The native grasses, tall as grain,
Bowed, waved and rippled in the breeze;
From boughs of blossom-laden trees
The parrots answered back again.
They saw the land that it was good,
A land of fatness all untrod,
And gave their silent thanks to God.
The way is won! The way is won!
And straightway from the barren coast
There came a westward-marching host,
That aye and ever onward prest
With eager faces to the West,
Along the pathway of the sun.
The mountains saw them marching by:
They faced the all-consuming drought,
They would not rest in settled land:
But, taking each his life in hand,
Their faces ever westward bent
Beyond the farthest settlement,
Responding to the challenge cry
of "better country farther out".
And lo, a miracle! the land
But yesterday was all unknown,
The wild man's boomerang was thrown
Where now great busy cities stand.
It was not much, you say, that these
Should win their way where none withstood;
In sooth there was not much of blood --
No war was fought between the seas.
It was not much! but we who know
The strange capricious land they trod --
At times a stricken, parching sod,
At times with raging floods beset --
Through which they found their lonely way
Are quite content that you should say
It was not much, while we can feel
That nothing in the ages old,
In song or story written yet
On Grecian urn or Roman arch,
Though it should ring with clash of steel,
Could braver histories unfold
Than this bush story, yet untold --
The story of their westward march.
* * * *
But times are changed, and changes rung
From old to new -- the olden days,
The old bush life and all its ways,
Are passing from us all unsung.
The freedom, and the hopeful sense
Of toil that brought due recompense,
Of room for all, has passed away,
And lies forgotten with the dead.
Within our streets men cry for bread
In cities built but yesterday.
About us stretches wealth of land,
A boundless wealth of virgin soil
As yet unfruitful and untilled!
Our willing workmen, strong and skilled,
Within our cities idle stand,
And cry aloud for leave to toil.
The stunted children come and go
In squalid lanes and alleys black:
We follow but the beaten track
Of other nations, and we grow
In wealth for some -- for many, woe.
And it may be that we who live
In this new land apart, beyond
The hard old world grown fierce and fond
And bound by precedent and bond,
May read the riddle right, and give
New hope to those who dimly see
That all things yet shall be for good,
And teach the world at length to be
One vast united brotherhood.
* * * *
So may it be! and he who sings
In accents hopeful, clear, and strong,
The glories which that future brings
Shall sing, indeed, a wondrous song.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Deer Hunt
Hunter pursuits a white-tailed deer and suddenly it disappears in the thick jungle.
The way back is forgotten and he was left behind.
There live a Widow and a Virgin who were pioneers of the secret forest provide him hospitality.
The hunter doesn't want to white wash and he catches these two birds (huntresses) in one stone.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Perhaps He Can Tell Us What He Knows
If one continues to remove obstacles,
Off of one's path.
And a journey one has taken has had,
Nothing but obstructions along the way.
To make it easier for others to follow.
One day someone will ask,
To have a curiosity finally revealed.
'This path we have taken,
Seems to have been cleared...
Prior to us getting here.
Who planted the trees and flowers,
Along this path and paved it?
How can we rightfully call ourselves pioneers,
When someone else obviously...
Had to have been here before we came.'
~That's a very good question.
Let us wait until others awaken to notice.
But for now we will take the credit.
There appears to be an elderly man up ahead,
Picking weeds.
Perhaps he can tell us what he knows.
And then we can document that with re-writes.~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Boneyard
On the thirteenth day of the seventh month
Big Max came into town,
He came with a clutch of plans, he said,
We'd be ‘mad to turn him down! '
He walked right into the council
And he huddled up with the mayor,
The mayor could only see dollar signs
As he sat him down in his chair!
We're just a common old country town,
There's not much happens here,
The town grew up around farmers,
Pioneers of yesteryear!
There's shops and government offices,
A bank and a couple of pubs,
And the highlight of the weekend whirl
Is a night at the social clubs!
We also have two cemeteries,
The ‘Old' one and the ‘New',
There's not been a burial in the Old
Since 1852,
It sits right there, at the edge of town,
All weeds and overgrown,
A bit of an eyesore, tell the truth,
While the New is nicely mown!
The news went round like a forest fire,
Big Max had bought the Old,
He wanted to build a Burger joint
And a Pizza Bar all told,
And then the parking, fifty cars
Should take up all the ground,
Where the bones of our pioneers had lain,
The founders of the town!
The moans and mutterings grew apace,
The mayor was brought to book,
How dare he sell off the hallowed ground?
This Max might be a crook!
The council went in a huddle
And approved the mayor's plan,
They quoted some ancient ordinance
While the people shouted: ‘Scam! '
But then the heavy equipment came
The dozers, trucks and rigs,
With men they hired from the city
To compound his dirty tricks,
While Max looked on, a complacent smile
Was fixed on his ugly face,
‘Just wait ‘til you're tasting the burgers! '
He'd reply, when they'd shout: ‘Disgrace! '
As fast as the headstones tumbled, they
Were laid around the edge,
‘They'll come in handy for fencing,
We won't need to grow a hedge.'
But then the coffins began to rise
And they spilled their cache of bones,
The dozers piled them in heaps, as if
They were shunting piles of stones.
That night, a wind in the eucalypts
Swirled round that hallowed site,
It moaned with a grim and haunted sound
And it howled to the dawning light,
While Max, they threw him out of the pub
And told him he'd have to roam,
With the souls of the dead uncovered there
As his men took off, went home.
The lightning flashed as he walked the streets
And the thunder chilled his spine,
The rain came down in a stream not seen
Since the winter of '59,
He sought relief by a dozer, sheltered
Under a locked up truck,
Then heard a sigh, as a ghost went by
And a hundred more rose up!
He tried to run, but the ground, undone
Was a series of pits and holes,
He ended up to his waist in one,
And turned, and prayed for his soul.
The last of the standing headstones there
Then toppled, and pinned him down,
When the sun rose up in the morning
One of the council found him, drowned!
The ‘Old' has become a pretty park
In the shade of the eucalypts,
The headstones laid, flat to the ground
In a lawn that is kept well clipped,
The pioneers have been laid to rest
Once more in their holy ground,
And we're more than blessed, though I must confess,
There isn't a burger in town!
27 May 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wıshes of Freedom
Caged in the small jail
Of my body
I live,
And
Call myself
“Free spirit”.
Bound by the chains
Of rules
Set by a few of us
We act,
And
Call ourselves
“Independent”.
Tied by the ropes of
Society
Like a herd of sheep
We follow each
Blindly behind another
And call ourselves
“Pioneers”.
Jailed in small
Cabins of regulations
We kill for lust and greed
And call ourselves
“Martyrs”
Captured in small guarded boundaries
Of earth
We breathe
And
Call ourselves
“Free countries”.
Mounting the horse
Of my winged thoughts
I often wish
To break the jails
Loosen the ropes
Fly out
Beyond the reach
Of the vast sky.
I often wish,
If we could be
More real,
True pioneers and martyrs.
For then,
Freedom won’t mean
Small boundaries
Of guarded earth.
Will have
The whole of it
To roam about.
But,
Soon as the gallop stops
I am back in my jail
My wishes of freedom
A cry so frail.
And
Caged in the small jail
Of my body
I live,
And continue
Calling myself
“Free spirit”.
poem by Anjali Kakati
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fragment
At last I entered a long dark gallery,
Catacomb-lined; and ranged at the side
Were the bodies of men from far and wide
Who, motion past, were nevertheless not dead.
"The sense of waiting here strikes strong;
Everyone's waiting, waiting, it seems to me;
What are you waiting for so long? --
What is to happen?" I said.
"O we are waiting for one called God," said they,
"(Though by some the Will, or Force, or Laws;
And, vaguely, by some, the Ultimate Cause;)
Waiting for him to see us before we are clay.
Yes; waiting, waiting, for God to know it." ...
"To know what?" questioned I.
"To know how things have been going on earth and below it:
It is clear he must know some day."
I thereon asked them why.
"Since he made us humble pioneers
Of himself in consciousness of Life's tears,
It needs no mighty prophecy
To tell that what he could mindlessly show
His creatures, he himself will know.
"By some still close-cowled mystery
We have reached feeling faster than he,
But he will overtake us anon,
If the world goes on."
poem by Thomas Hardy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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