When Underneath the Brown Dead Grass
When underneath the brown dead grass
My weary bones are laid,
I hope I shall not see the glass
At ninety in the shade.
I trust indeed that, when I lie
Beneath the churchyard pine,
I shall not hear that startling cry
“‘Thermom’ is ninety-nine!”
If one should whisper through my sleep
“Come up and be alive,”
I’d answer—No, unless you’ll keep
The glass at sixty-five.
I might be willing if allowed
To wear old Adam’s rig,
And mix amongst the city crowd
Like Polynesian “nig”.
Far better in the sod to lie,
With pasturing pig above,
Than broil beneath a copper sky—
In sight of all I love!
Far better to be turned to grass
To feed the poley cow,
Than be the half boiled bream, alas,
That I am really now!
For cow and pig I would not hear,
And hoof I would not see;
But if these items did appear
They wouldn’t trouble me.
For ah! the pelt of mortal man
Weighs less than half a ton,
And any sight is better than
A sultry southern sun.
poem by Henry Kendall
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Bourke
I’ve followed all my tracks and ways,from old bark school to Leicester Square,
I’ve been right back to boyhood’s days, and found no light or pleasure there.
But every dream and every track—and there were many that I knew—
They all lead on, or they lead back, to Bourke in Ninety-one, and two.
No sign that green grass ever grew in scrubs that blazed beneath the sun;
The plains were dust in Ninety-two, that baked to bricks in Ninety-one.
On glaring iron-roofs of Bourke, the scorching, blinding sandstorms blew,
And there was nothing beautiful in Ninety-one and Ninety-two.
Save grit and generosity of hearts that broke and healed again—
The hottest drought that ever blazed could never parch the hearts of men;
And they were men in spite of all, and they were straight, and they were true,
The hat went round at trouble’s call, in Ninety-one and Ninety-two.
They drank, when all is said and done, they gambled, and their speech was rough—
You’d only need to say of one—‘He was my mate!’ that was enough.
To hint a bushman was not white, nor to his Union straight and true,
Would mean a long and bloody fight in Ninety-one and Ninety-two.
The yard behind the Shearers’ Arms was reckoned best of battle grounds,
And there in peace and quietness they fought their ten or fifteen rounds;
And then they washed the blood away, and then shook hands, as strong men do—
And washed away the bitterness—in Ninety-one and Ninety-two.
The Army on the grand old creek was mighty in those days gone by,
For they had sisters who could shriek, and brothers who could testify;
And by the muddy waterholes, they tackled sin till all was blue—
They took our bobs and damned our souls in Ninety-one and Ninety-two.
By shanty bars and shearing sheds, they took their toll and did their work—
But now and then they lost their heads, and raved of hotter hells than Bourke:
The only message from the dead that ever came distinctly through—
Was—‘Send my overcoat to hell’—it came to Bourke in Ninety-two.
I know they drank, and fought, and died—some fighting fiends on blazing tracks—
I don’t remember that they lied, or crawled behind each others’ backs;
I don’t remember that they loafed, or left a mate to battle through—
Ah! men knew how to stick to men in Ninety-one and Ninety-two.
They’re scattered wide and scattered far—by fan-like tracks, north, east, and west—
The cruel New Australian star drew off the bravest and the best.
The Cape and Klondyke claim their bones, the streets of London damned a few,
And jingo-cursed Australia mourns for Ninety-one and Ninety-two.
For ever westward in the land, Australians hear—and will not heed—
The murmur of the board-room, and the sure and stealthy steps of greed—
Bourke was a fortress on the track! and garrisons were grim and true
To hold the spoilers from Out Back, in Ninety-one and Ninety-two.
I hear it in the ridges lone, and in the dread drought-stricken wild—
I hear at times a woman’s moan—the whimper of a hungry child:
And—let the cynics say the word: ‘a godless gang, a drunken crew’—
But these were things I never heard in Ninety-one and Ninety-two.
They say that things have changed out there, and western towns have altered quite:
They don’t know how to drink and swear, they’ve half forgotten how to fight;
They’ve almost lost the strength to trust, the faith in mateship to be true—
The heart that grew in drought and dust in Ninety-one and Ninety-two.
We’ve learned to laugh the bitter laugh since then—we’ve travelled, you and I;
The sneaking little paragraph, the dirty trick, the whispered lie
Are known to us—the little men—whose souls are rotten through and through—
We called them scabs and crawlers then, in Ninety-one and Ninety-two.
And could I roll the summers back, or bring the dead time on again;
Or from the grave or world-wide track, call back to Bourke the vanished men,
With mind content I’d go to sleep, and leave those mates to judge me true,
And leave my name to Bourke to keep—the Bourke of Ninety-one and two.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Ninety Miles An Hour
ninety miles an hour
Words by h blair & d. robertson
Sung by bob dylan
I took you home from a party and we kissed in fun
A few stolen kisses and no harm was done
Instead of stopping when we could we went right on
Till suddenly we found that the brakes were gone.
You belong to someone else, and i do too
It's just crazy bein' here with you
As a bad motorcycle with the devil in the seat
Going ninety miles an hour down a dead end street
Ninety miles an hour down a dead end street.
I didn't want to want you, but now i have no choice
It's too late to listen to that warning voice
All i hear is thunder of two hearts beat
Going ninety miles an hour down a dead end street
Ninety miles an hour down a dead end street.
You're not free to belong to me
And you know i could never be your own
Your lips on mine are like a sweet, sweet wine
But we're heading for a wall of stone.
Warning signs are flashing ev'ry where, but we pay no heed
'stead of slowing down the place, we keep a pickin' up speed
Disaster's getting closer ev'ry time we meet
Going ninety miles an hour down a dead end street
Yeah, ninety miles an hour down a dead end street
Well, ninety miles an hour down a dead end street.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ninety Miles An Hour (Down A Dead End Street)
I took you home from a party and we kissed in fun
A few stolen kisses and no harm was done
Instead of stopping when we could we went right on
Till suddenly we found that the brakes were gone.
You belong to someone else, and I do too
It's just crazy bein' here with you
As a bad motorcycle with the devil in the seat
Going ninety miles an hour down a dead end street
Ninety miles an hour down a dead end street.
I didn't want to want you, but now I have no choice
It's too late to listen to that warning voice
All I hear is thunder of two hearts beat
Going ninety miles an hour down a dead end street
Ninety miles an hour down a dead end street.
You're not free to belong to me
And you know I could never be your own
Your lips on mine are like a sweet, sweet wine
But we're heading for a wall of stone.
Warning signs are flashing ev'ry where, but we pay no heed
'Stead of slowing down the place, we keep a pickin' up speed
Disaster's getting closer ev'ry time we meet
Going ninety miles an hour down a dead end street
Yeah, ninety miles an hour down a dead end street
Well, ninety miles an hour down a dead end street.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Party In My Bones
party in my bones
I'm shuffling down on the street
this cold night laid me bare
I'm going down with the stream
into the city's blare
Passing by the hooker's row tempting lips,
oh burning curse
Hey babe save yourself for tomorrow
keep your passion in your purse
Came on! I can hear those crazy tones
If I can't find a party,
I'll have a party in my bones
I'm spinning round and round
around my tattooed bones
The dreams are razed to the ground
and covered with heavy stones
Passing by the junky's square
it feels so dizzy, feels so gay
A giddy sniff from the air
and I'm dating fairies right away
Come on! I can hear those crazy tones
If I can't find a party,
I'll have a party in my bones
I'm falling outta my skin
into the midnight glass
The shade of human sin
is walking on magic grass
Bright morning makes me sober
twilight's gone it seems so dull
I fall prey to the brandy soaked suburb
Hey, pour some brandy in my skull!
Come on! I can hear those crazy tones
If I can't find a party,
I'll have a party in my bones
song performed by by Quimby
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All Souls
I
A THIN moon faints in the sky o'erhead,
And dumb in the churchyard lie the dead.
Walk we not, Sweet, by garden ways,
Where the late rose hangs and the phlox delays,
But forth of the gate and down the road,
Past the church and the yews, to their dim abode.
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.
II
Fear not that sound like wind in the trees:
It is only their call that comes on the breeze;
Fear not the shudder that seems to pass:
It is only the tread of their feet on the grass;
Fear not the drip of the bough as you stoop:
It is only the touch of their hands that grope -
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the dead can yearn and the dead can smite.
III
And where should a man bring his sweet to woo
But here, where such hundreds were lovers too?
Where lie the dead lips that thirst to kiss,
The empty hands that their fellows miss,
Where the maid and her lover, from sere to green,
Sleep bed by bed, with the worm between?
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.
IV
And now that they rise and walk in the cold,
Let us warm their blood and give youth to the old.
Let them see us and hear us, and say: 'Ah, thus
In the prime of the year it went with us!'
Till their lips drawn close, and so long unkist,
Forget they are mist that mingles with mist!
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the dead can burn and the dead can smite.
V
Till they say, as they hear us - poor dead, poor dead! -
'Just an hour of this, and our age-long bed -
Just a thrill of the old remembered pains
To kindle a flame in our frozen veins,
Just a touch, and a sight, and a floating apart,
As the chill of dawn strikes each phantom heart -
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear, and the dead have sight.'
VI
And where should the living feel alive
But here in this wan white humming hive,
As the moon wastes down, and the dawn turns cold,
And one by one they creep back to the fold?
And where should a man hold his mate and say:
'One more, one more, ere we go their way'?
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the living can learn by the churchyard light.
VII
And how should we break faith who have seen
Those dead lips plight with the mist between,
And how forget, who have seen how soon
They lie thus chambered and cold to the moon?
How scorn, how hate, how strive, we too,
Who must do so soon as those others do?
For it's All Souls' night, and break of the day,
And behold, with the light the dead are away. . . .
poem by Edith Wharton
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99 Lbs
Written by: d. bryant
Twenty-five pounds of pure cane sugar
Shes got in each and every kiss
You wouldnt know what Im talking bout
If you never had a love like this
Well, I dont mean to be frank with you all
Its a natural fact
Good things come wrapped up in small, small packages now
Well you cant argue with that
Oh, oh, yeah
Ninety-nine pounds of natural born goodness
Ninety-nine pounds of soul, oh, oh
Ninety-nine pounds of natural born goodness
Ninety-nine pounds of soul
Twenty-five pounds of tenderness
She got in each and every touch
Twenty-five pounds of understanding my woman
cause I was the one running round town worrying too much
Twenty-four pounds of sunday
That I cant see, yeah
And it all adds up to ninety-nine big pounds
Oh, Im talking about a feline friend
Ninety-nine pounds of natural born goodness
Ninety-nine pounds of soul
Ninety-nine pounds of natural born goodness
Ninety-nine pounds of soul
Ninety-nine pounds of natural born goodness
Ninety-nine pounds of soul
Ninety-nine pounds of natural born goodness
Ninety-nine pounds of soul
Ninety-nine pounds of natural born goodness
Ninety-nine pounds of soul
Ninety-nine pounds of natural born goodness
Ninety-nine pounds of soul
song performed by by Black Crowes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Four Angels
As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree
The Angel of the Earth came down, and offered Earth in fee;
But Adam did not need it,
Nor the plough he would not speed it,
Singing: --"Earth and Water, Air and Fire,
What more can mortal man desire?"
(The Apple Tree's in bud)
As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree
The Angel of the Waters offered all the Seas in fee;
But Adam would not take 'em,
Nor the ships he wouldn't make 'em,
Singing:--"Water, Earth and Air and Fire,
What more can mortal man desire? "
(The Apple Tree's in leaf.)
As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree
The Angel of the Air he offered all the Air in fee;
But Adam did not crave it,
Nor the flight he wouldn't brave it,
Singing: --"Air and Water, Earth and Fire,
What more can mortal man desire:"
(The Apple Tree's in bloom.)
As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree
The Angel of the Fire rose up and not a word said he;
But he wished a flame and made it,
And in Adam's heart he laid it,
Singing: --"Fire, Fire, burning Fire!
Stand up, and reach your heart's desire!"
(The Apple Blossom's set.)
As Adam was a-working outside of Eden-Wall,
He used the Earth, he used the Seas, he used the Air and all;
Till out of black disaster
He arose to be a master
Of Earth and Water, Air and Fire,
But never reached his heart's desire!
(The Apple Tree's cut down!)
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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At Bay Ridge, Long Island
Pleasant it is to lie amid the grass
Under these shady locusts, half the day,
Watching the ships reflected on the Bay,
Topmast and shroud, as in a wizard's glass;
To note the swift and meagre swallow pass,
Brushing the dewdrops from the lilac spray;
Or else to sit and while the noon away
With some old love-tale; or to muse, alas!
On Dante in his exile, sorrow-worn;
On Milton, blind, with inward-seeing eyes
That made their own deep midnight and rich morn;
To think that now, beneath Italian skies,
In such clear air as this, by Tiber's wave,
Daisies are trembling over Keats's grave.
poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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London Types: The Artist Muses At His Ease
The Artist muses at his ease,
Contented that his work is done,
And smiling-smiling!-as he sees
His crowd collecting, one by one.
Alas! his travail's but begun!
None, none can keep the years in line,
And what to Ninety-Eight is fun
May raise the gorge of Ninety-Nine!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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So Long Suicide
Now goodbye baby its time to break
Habits that youve faced
Sweet sorrow while the cherished dead
Oh in my mouth, every breath I take
Although I need you I dont want to bleed for you
So long suicide
Gone right outta sight outta mind
Leave me alone and abandoned
Hello, Im alive
Im lone and alive and I know
In my bones I know what Im good for
Hello Im alive
Im lone and alive
Yes I know, in my bones
I know what Im doing
I stole the beauty and taste the hurt
Theres always time for pretty flowers
Growing in the dirt
But time is your needle into my heart
And I must be hollow
Cause I cant follow there
(chorus)
Hello, Im alive
Im lone and alive and alone
In my bones I know what Im good for
Hello Im alive
Im lone and alive
Yes I know, in my bones
I know what Im doing
Im scared of being all unknowing
But I swear to live like anyone
And you know its hard to make it
But a light goes on.
And after all the crash and swell
We are just human
And after all is said and done
Were only human
Youre out of sight and out of mind
Im saying so long suicide
The half dream shape of yesterday
In bloom tomorrow
song performed by by Duran Duran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Glass War
Glass war, glass war, glass war, glass war, it's a glass war
Glass war, glass war, it's a glass war
Glass war, glass war
It's a glass war
Cause you can see right through the poisen
It's a glass war
Cause we all know the activeties
It's a glass war
Cause it's made of smoke and mirrors
It's a glass war
It's a glass war
It's a glass war
Cause only poor men are dyin in the
Gas war
Cause we know why it was started
It's an ass war
Cause the president's an asshole
It's an ass war
It's a glass war
It's a gas war
Cause the starters are all victims of the
Glass war
The slogan men were starters of the
Last war
Now the southern men are starters of the
Glass war
It's a Glass War
It's a Glass war
And the shards are gunna start another glass war
And the shards are gunna start another glass war
And the shards are gunna start another glass war
And the shards are gunna start another glass war
And the shards are gunna start another glass war
It's a glass war
It's a glass war
song performed by by NOFX
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Feeling Of Half-ness
i had long known that i cannot be full
i am always a glass half full.
This feeling of not having gone at length
to the place where i want to put all my legs and my hands
and let them do something that is so complete.
My cheeks are blushing.
My ears do not fully hear what I am saying to my heart.
My heart beats but always in half notes
In Whispers so that You may not hear everything
That I want to say. Always concealing.
Hiding the true color of this state: halfway
Half asleep. Half awake.
At the middle of things, I shall always be.
I am neither the beginning
Nor the End. I want to speak, but there are no words coming.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Halloween Quartet No 2 The Devils Specs
He picked up the glasses
from where they lay
and put them on
and as he looked around
his face paled with his shock.
Everything was desolate and dead.
Building stood black scorched beyond repair,
everything felt cold and dank
as if he were in a city of the dead.
The grass beneath his feet
was withered and brown.
Skeletal trees stood blackened
as if by some great fire.
The sights he saw frightened him.
He made a move to run
and tripped over a rotting corpse.
As he fell, the glasses
were tossed upon the ground.
As he rose his eyes widened,
everything was green again
and the glass were no were to be found.
Was this a vision of his future he had seen?
Only tomorrows knows.
31 October 2009
poem by David Harris
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The Thousandth Man
One man in a thousand, Solomon says,
Will stick more close than a brother.
And it's worth while seeking him half your days
If you find him before the other.
Nine nundred and ninety-nine depend
On what the world sees in you,
But the Thousandth man will stand your friend
With the whole round world agin you.
'Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show
Will settle the finding for 'ee.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em go
By your looks, or your acts, or your glory.
But if he finds you and you find him.
The rest of the world don't matter;
For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim
With you in any water.
You can use his purse with no more talk
Than he uses yours for his spendings,
And laugh and meet in your daily walk
As though there had been no lendings.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em call
For silver and gold in their dealings;
But the Thousandth Man h's worth 'em all,
Because you can show him your feelings.
His wrong's your wrong, and his right's your right,
In season or out of season.
Stand up and back it in all men's sight --
With that for your only reason!
Nine hundred and ninety-nine can't bide
The shame or mocking or laughter,
But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side
To the gallows-foot -- and after!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Springfield Magical
In this, the City of my Discontent,
Sometimes there comes a whisper from the grass,
"Romance, Romance — is here. No Hindu town
Is quite so strange. No Citadel of Brass
By Sinbad found, held half such love and hate;
No picture-palace in a picture-book
Such webs of Friendship, Beauty, Greed and Fate!"
In this, the City of my Discontent,
Down from the sky, up from the smoking deep
Wild legends new and old burn round my bed
While trees and grass and men are wrapped in sleep.
Angels come down, with Christmas in their hearts,
Gentle, whimsical, laughing, heaven-sent;
And, for a day, fair Peace have given me
In this, the City of my Discontent!
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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The Grass Smells Red
The grass smells red.
Untill these mortal bounds find thier way into the catostrophic fire's of love and redemption, the grass will smell red.
The grass tells a story of wars unsung and battles lost.
The grass tells a story of love gained and a fury found again.
The grass smells red...but does it speak?
Does it's voice ring out like the bells in a steeple?
Does it feel the pain of those who died?
Did it hear the screams?
The grass smells red and it grow's red.
It feels red.
This grass will die red.
poem by Troy Nichols
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I Made Another Garden
I made another garden, yea,
For my new love;
I left the dead rose where it lay,
And set the new above.
Why did the summer not begin?
Why did my heart not haste?
My old love came and walked therein,
And laid the garden waste.
She entered with her weary smile,
Just as of old;
She looked around a little while,
And shivered at the cold.
Her passing touch was death to all,
Her passing look a blight:
She made the white rose-petals fall,
And turned the red rose white.
Her pale robe, clinging to the grass,
Seemed like a snake
That bit the grass and ground, alas!
And a sad trail did make.
She went up slowly to the gate;
And there, just as of yore,
She turned back at the last to wait,
And say farewell once more.
poem by Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy
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The Mower's Song
My Mind was once the true survey
Of all these Medows fresh and gay;
And in the greenness of the Grass
Did see its Hopes as in a Glass;
When Juliana came, and she
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.
But these, while I with Sorrow pine,
Grew more luxuriant still and fine;
That not one Blade of Grass you spy'd,
But had a Flower on either side;
When Juliana came, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.
Unthankful Meadows, could you so
A fellowship so true forego,
And in your gawdy May-games meet,
While I lay trodden under feet?
When Juliana came , and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.
But what you in Compassion ought,
Shall now by my Revenge be wrought:
And Flow'rs, and Grass, and I and all,
Will in one common Ruine fall.
For Juliana comes, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.
And thus, ye Meadows, which have been
Companions of my thoughts more green,
Shall now the Heraldry become
With which I shall adorn my Tomb;
For Juliana comes, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.
poem by Andrew Marvell
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The Summer Recess of 62.
It was the second day
of the summer recess
and Judith and you
walked through the field
behind her house
and sat down on the grass
the sky above blue
like an upside-down ocean
with the white clouds
like small fluffy islands
and she said
Mother doesn't trust you
why not?
you asked
she doesn't trust any male
she says they're all after
the one thing
you looked at her
sitting there beside you
her hair brown and curly
and her eyes blue
and bright
and you said
not all males
are the same
she looked up
at the sky
and said
I know but that's
how she sees things
my mother likes you
you said
she says you're good for me
keep me focused
she smiled
and lay back
on the grass
and you lay
beside her
and turned
to look at her there
taking in her profile
and she turned
to face you
and she said
does your mother
trust us to be together?
sure she does
you said
an airplane
went over the sky
a sparrow hawk
hovered above
its eyes watching
and waiting
you put your hand
on her hip
and she placed
her hand on yours
you felt her hipbone
beneath her green skirt
moved your palm
gently over and over
she moved your hand
off of her hip
and said
just in case
mother's looking at us
from the upstairs window
would she?
you asked
of course
she said
she held your hand
and took it
and laid it
on her breast
her heart
somewhere beating
your hand sensing
the softness beneath
the white blouse
and she said
just as well
she never saw us
last Christmas
and you smiled
and remembered
and the sparrow hawk
flew off through the sky
and the sound
of a distant train
and your heart thumping
like the downpour of rain.
poem by Terry Collett
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Noon
Noon! and in the garden bower
The hot air quivers o’er the grass,
The little lake is smooth as glass
And still so heavily the hour
Drags, that scarce the proudest flower
Pressed upon its burning bed
Has strength to lift a languid head:
—Rose and fainting violet
By the water’s margin set
Swoon and sink as they were dead
Though their weary leaves be fed
With the foam-drops of the pool
Where it trembles dark and cool
Wrinkled by the fountain spraying
O’er it. And the honey-bee
Hums his drowsy melody
And wanders in his course a-straying
Through the sweet and tangled glade
With his golden mead o’erladen,
Where beneath the pleasant shade
Of the darkling boughs a maiden
—Milky limb and fiery tress,
All at sweetest random laid—
Slumbers, drunken with the excess
Of the noontide’s loveliness.
poem by Clive Staples Lewis
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