The Empty Glass
THERE ARE three lank bards in a borrowed room—
Ah! The number is one too few—
They have deemed their home and the bars unfit
For the thing that they have to do.
Three glasses they fill with the Land’s own wine,
And the bread of life they pass.
Their glasses they take, which they slowly raise—
And they drink to an empty glass.
(There’s a greater glare in the street to-night,
And a louder rush and roar,
There’s a mad crowd yelling the winner’s name,
And howling the cricket score:
Oh! The bright moonlight on the angels white,
And the tombs and the monuments grand—
And down by the water at Waverley
There’s a little lone mound of sand.)
Oh, the drinkers would deem them drunk or mad,
And the barmaid stare and frown—
Each lays a hand on the empty glass
Ere they turn it upside down.
There’s a name they know, in a hand they know,
Was scratched with a diamond there—
And they place it in sight—turn on more light—
And they fill their glasses fair.
There’s a widow that weeps by the Hornsby line,
And she stood by him long and true—
But the widow should think by the Hornsby line
That others have loved him too,
’Twas a peaceful end, and his work was done,
When called with the year away;
And the greatest lady in all the land
Is working for her to-day.
If the widow should fear for her children’s fate,
Or brood on a future lot,
In a frivolous land with her widowed state
In a short twelve months forgot.
She can lay her down for a peaceful rest
And forget her grief in sleep,
For his brothers have taken an oath to-night,
An oath that their hearts can keep.
They have taken an oath to his memory,
A pledge they cannot recall,
To stand by the woman that stood by him,
Through poverty, illness and all.
They are young men yet, or the prime of life,
And as each lays down his trust,
May the world be kind to the left behind,
And their native land be just.
(Silence of death in town to-night,
And the streets seem strangely clear—
Have the pitiful slaves of the gambling curse
Fled home for a strange new fear?
Oh, the soft moonlight on the angels white,
Where the beautiful marbles stand—
And down by the rollers at Waverley
There’s a mound of the golden sand.)
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mermaid I
AS we lay musing in our beds,
So well and so warm at ease,
I thought upon those lodging-beds
Poor seamen have at seas.
Last Easter day, in the morning fair,
We was not far from land,
Where we spied a mermaid on the rock,
With comb and glass in hand.
The first came up the mate of our ship,
With lead and line in hand,
To sound and see how deep we was
From any rock or sand.
The next came up the boatswain of our ship,
With courage stout and bold:
‘Stand fast, stand fast, my brave lively lads,
Stand fast, my brave hearts of gold!’
Our gallant ship is gone to wreck,
Which was so lately trimmd;
The raging seas has sprung a leak,
And the salt water does run in.
Our gold and silver, and all our cloths,
And all that ever we had,
We forced was to heave them overboard,
Thinking our lives to save.
In all, the number that was on board
Was five hundred and sixty-four,
And all that ever came alive on shore
There was but poor ninety-five.
The first bespoke the captain of our ship,
And a well-spoke man was he;
‘I have a wife in fair Plymouth town,
And a widow I fear she must be.’
The next bespoke the mate of our ship,
And a well-bespoke man was he;
‘I have a wife in fair Portsmouth,
And a widow I fear she must be.’
The next bespoke the boatswain of our ship,
And a well-bespoke man was he;
‘I have a wife in fair Exeter,
And a widow I fear she must be.’
The next bespoke the little cabbin-boy,
And a well-bespoke boy was he;
‘I am as sorry for my mother dear
As you are for your wives all three.
‘Last night, when the moon shin’d bright,
My mother had sons five,
But now she may look in the salt seas
And find but one alive.’
‘Call a boat, call a boat, you little
Plymouth boys,
Don’t you hear how the trumpet[s] sound?
[For] the want of our boat our gallant ship
is lost,
And the most of our merry men is drownd.’
Whilst the raging seas do roar,
And the lofty winds do blow,
And we poor seamen do lie on the top,
Whilst the landmen lies below.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Drink Yer Glasses Empty
Listen up and Ill tell you what youll do
Forget about music and alcohol to
Forget about yer baby, weve got other work for you
Better drink yer glasses empty now, its time to rise n shine
Theres one less cause in the world to be leavin for
It was back in 39 when I was one year old
Sitting by the backyard fence and the world had turned to cold
Drink yer glasses empty now was all that they were told
Drink yer glasses girls and boys, its time to hit the sky
To the tune of thunder, theres no time to wonder why
Wed love to take life over, that is plain
Forget about sorrow, forget about pain
And watch a john wayne movie to remind us once again
Better drink yer glasses empty now, its time to hit the line
You got one less cause in the world to be leavin for
Drink yer glasses girls and boys, its time to hit the sky
To the tune of thunder, theres a tear in every eye
Id like to take things one at a time
Forget about reason, forget about rhyme
Because beg, steal, or borrow you got another hill to climb
So drink yer glasses empty now, its time to hit the road
Theres one less cause in the world to be leavin for
Drink yer glasses girls and boys, its time to hit the sky
To the tune of thunder, theres no time to wonder why
Wed like to take life over again
When time of war had passed away into the rain
And watch a john wayne movie to remind us of the planes
Just drink yer glasses empty now, its time to rise n shine
Theres one less cause in the world to be leavin for
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Victor Daley
I thought that silence would be best,
But I a call have heard,
And, Victor, after all the rest,
I well might say a word:
The day and work is nearly done,
And ours the victory,
And we are resting, one by one,
In graveyards by the sea.
But then you talked of other nights,
When, gay from dusk to dawn,
You wasted hours with other lights
That went where you have gone.
You spoke not of the fair and “fast”,
But of the pure and true—
“Sweet ugly women of the past”
Who stood so well by you.
You made a jest on that last night,
I met it with a laugh:
You wondered which of us should write
The other’s epitaph.
We filled the glasses to the brim—
“The land’s own wine” you know—
And solemnly we drank to him
Who should be first to go.
No ribald jest; we were but two—
The royst’ring days were past—
And in our heart of hearts we knew,
That one was going fast.
We both knew who should win the race—
Were rest or fame the prize—
As with a quaint smile on your face
You looked into my eyes.
You talked about old struggles brave,
But in a saddened tone—
The swindles editors forgave
For laughter’s sake alone.
You talked of humorous distress,
And bailiffs that you knew,
But with a touch of bitterness
I’d never seen in you.
No need for tears or quick-caught breath—
You sleep not in the sand—
No need for ranting song of death,
With the death drink in our hand.
No need for vain invective hurled
At “cruel destiny”,
Though you seem dead to all the world
You are not dead to me.
I see you walk into the room—
We aye remember how—
And, looking back into the gloom,
You’ll smile about it now.
’Twas Victor’s entry, solemn style—
With verse or paragraph:
Though we so often saw your smile
How many heard you laugh?
They dare to write about the man
That they have never seen:
The blustering false Bohemian
That you have never been;
Some with the false note in their voice,
And with the false tear shed,
Who in their secret heart rejoice
For one more rival—dead.
They miss the poems, real and true,
Where your heart’s blood was shed.
And rave of reckless things that you
Threw out for bitter bread.
They “weep” and “worship” while you “rest”,
They drivel and they dote—
But, Victor, we remember best
The things we never wrote.
The things that lie between us two,
The things I’ll never tell.
A fool, I stripped my soul, but you—
You wore your mask too well
(How strangely human all men be,
Though each one plays a part).
You only dropped it once for me,
But then I saw your heart.
A souls’-match, such as one might strike
With or without intent
(How strangely all men are alike—
With masks so different).
No need to drop the mask again,
On that last night, I know—
It chanced when we were sober men,
Some seven years ago.
They slander you, fresh in the sand,
They slander me alive;
But, when their foul souls flee the land,
Our spirits shall arrive.
In slime and envy let them rave,
And let the worst be said:
“A drunkard at a drunkard’s grave,”
“A brilliant drunkard dead.”
Because we would not crawl to them,
Their hands we would not shake,
Because their greed we would condemn,
Their bribes we would not take:
Because unto the fair and true
Our hearts and songs we gave—
But I forgot them when I threw
My white flower on your grave.
So let us turn, and with a smile
Let those poor creatures pass
While we, the few who wait awhile,
Drink to an empty glass.
We’ll live as in the days gone by,
To no god shall we bow—
Though, Victor, there are times when I
Feel jealous of you now.
But I’ll have done with solemn songs,
Save for my country’s sake;
It is not meet, for all the wrongs,
That any heart should break.
So many need to weep and smile,
Though all the rest should frown,
That I’d take your burden up awhile
Where you have laid it down.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Word from the Bards
IT IS New Year’s Day and I rise to state that here on the Sydney side
The Bards have commenced to fill out of late and they’re showing their binjies with pride
They’re patting their binjies with pride, old man, and I want you to understand,
That a binjied bard is a bard indeed when he sings in the Southern Land,
Old chaps,
When he sings in the Southern Land.
For the Southern Land is the Poet’s Home, and over the world’s wide roam,
There was never till now a binjied bard that lived in a poet’s home, old man;
For the poet’s home was a hell on earth, and I want you to understand,
That it isn’t exactly a paradise down here in the Southern Land,
Old chap,
Down here in the Southern Land.
The Beer and the Bailiff were gone last night and the “temple” doorstep clean,
And our heads are clear and our hearts are light with wine from the Riverine—
With wine from the Riverine, old man, and I want you to understand
That Bard, Beer and Bailiff too long were kin down here in the Southern Land,
Old man,
Down here in the Southern Land.
It is not because of a larger fee, nor yet that the bards are free,
For the bards I know and the bards I see are married enough for three;
Are married enough for three, old man, and I want you to understand,
They’ve a right to be married enough for four, down here in the Southern Land,
My girl,
Down here in the Southern Land.
But I think it’s because a bird went round and twittered in ears of men
That bards have care and the world seems bare as seen from the rhyming den,
And twittered in ears of men, old chaps, and got folks to understand
That a poet is something more than a joke down here in the Southern Land,
Old man,
Down here in the Southern Land.
poem by Henry Lawson
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In The Cup
There is grief in the cup!
I saw a proud mother set wine on the board;
The eyes of her son sparkled bright as she poured
The ruddy stream into the glass in his hand.
The cup was of silver; the lady was grand
In her satins and laces; her proud heart was glad
In the love of her fair, noble son; but, oh! sad,
Oh! so sad ere a year had passed by,
And the soft light had gone from her beautiful eye.
For the boy that she loved, with a love strong as death,
In the chill hours of morn with a drunkard's foul breath
And a drunkard's fierce oath, reeled and staggered his way
To his home, a dark blot on the face of the day.
There is shame in the cup!
The tempter said, 'Drink,' and a fair maiden quaffed
Till her cheeks glowed the hue of the dangerous draught.
The voice of the tempter spoke low in her ear
Words that once would have started the quick, angry tear,
But wine blunts the conscience, and wine dulls the brain,
She listened and smiled, and he whispered again.
He lifted the goblet: 'Once more,' he said, 'drink,'
And the soul of the maiden was lost in the brink.
There is death in the cup!
A man in God's image, strong, noble, and grand,
With talents that crowned him a prince of the land,
Sipped the ruddy red wine!-sipped it lightly at first,
Until from its chains broke the demon of thirst.
And thirst became master, and man became slave,
And he ended his life in the drunkard's poor grave.
Wealth, fame, talents, beauty, and life swallowed up,
Grief, shame, death, destruction, are all in the cup.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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White Town
Its midnight down in sector two
Little girl walkin dressed in innocence and cool
Only fourteen and dressed up for the score
Hold that breath now boy, he(? )
She dances, baby, to the beat
Of breaking glass and running feet
Down in white town
Down in white town
Down in white town
Oh, she comes home from work and grabs something to eat
Turn the corner and walks down her street
In a row of houses, chic, shiny and dirty and grey
Disappears like the scenery in another mans play
And as she dances, oh, to the beat
Oh the trooper stickin dresses for the number on the sheet
Down in white town
Down in white town
Down in white town
Down in white town
Yeah, mr. outside, youre walkin so free
If you turn your eyes so you dont see
You act like youre the hand turns the key
And you become the hand that turns the key
And no matter how I try I cannot understand
The way that they will turn a man
Into a stranger in his own land
Down in white town
(repeat to fade)
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It Is Later Than You Think
Lone amid the cafe's cheer,
Sad of heart am I to-night;
Dolefully I drink my beer,
But no single line I write.
There's the wretched rent to pay,
Yet I glower at pen and ink:
Oh, inspire me, Muse, I pray,
It is later than you think!
Hello! there's a pregnant phrase.
Bravo! let me write it down;
Hold it with a hopeful gaze,
Gauge it with a fretful frown;
Tune it to my lyric lyre . . .
Ah! upon starvation's brink,
How the words are dark and dire:
It is later than you think.
Weigh them well. . . . Behold yon band,
Students drinking by the door,
Madly merry, bock in hand,
Saucers stacked to mark their score.
Get you gone, you jolly scamps;
Let your parting glasses clink;
Seek your long neglected lamps:
It is later than you think.
Look again: yon dainty blonde,
All allure and golden grace,
Oh so willing to respond
Should you turn a smiling face.
Play your part, poor pretty doll;
Feast and frolic, pose and prink;
There's the Morgue to end it all,
And it's later than you think.
Yon's a playwright -- mark his face,
Puffed and purple, tense and tired;
Pasha-like he holds his place,
Hated, envied and admired.
How you gobble life, my friend;
Wine, and woman soft and pink!
Well, each tether has its end:
Sir, it's later than you think.
See yon living scarecrow pass
With a wild and wolfish stare
At each empty absinthe glass,
As if he saw Heaven there.
Poor damned wretch, to end your pain
There is still the Greater Drink.
Yonder waits the sanguine Seine . . .
It is later than you think.
Lastly, you who read; aye, you
Who this very line may scan:
Think of all you planned to do . . .
Have you done the best you can?
See! the tavern lights are low;
Black's the night, and how you shrink!
God! and is it time to go?
Ah! the clock is always slow;
It is later than you think;
Sadly later than you think;
Far, far later than you think.
poem by Robert William Service
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Halloween Creatures Of The Night
(10/5/11)
This was the night that I was told
Not to walk this lonely dark road
For this was the night that they would all come out
This is what Halloween was about.
Out of the shadows they all came
And many of them was known by name.
There was Frankenstein, the werewolf, the mummy too.
There was count Dracula and his batty friends
The line continued - there was no end.
Then came the witches mixing their brew
In a cauldron pot - would this line ever stop.
The ghouls, the goblins and the ghosts
With their glasses ready to toast.
Backing up the line with sickle in hand
Was the grim reaper, the most feared in the land.
They would go to every street in every town
Letting the kids know that they was around.
They hide behind every shadow and every wall
As the kids came to call.
Out of their hiding places they would jump out and shout
The kids would turn and run about.
Every where they turned there was one of them
No one to help them - not even a friend.
The children going to homes with their Halloween baskets
Till they got to the house with the open casket
Count Dracula would sit up and turn his head
Pretty comical for one who’s dead.
They would turn and run as fast as their feet would allow
Some of them didn’t even touch the ground.
The creatures of the night look forward to this every year
They have so much fun and instill their fear.
BOOBOO
poem by Louis Rams
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Burial of Barber
BEAR him, comrades, to his grave;
Never over one more brave
Shall the prairie grasses weep,
In the ages yet to come,
When the millions in our room,
What we sow in tears, shall reap.
Bear him up the icy hill,
With the Kansas, frozen still
As his noble heart, below,
And the land he came to till
With a freeman's thews and will,
And his poor hut roofed with snow!
One more look of that dead face,
Of his murder's ghastly trace!
One more kiss, O widowed one!
Lay your left hands on his brow,
Lift you right hands up and vow
That his work shall yet be done.
Patience, friends! The eye of God
Every path by Murder trod
Watches, lidless, day and night;
And the dead man in his shroud,
And his widow weeping loud,
And our hearts, are in his sight.
Every deadly threat that swells
With the roar of gambling hells,
Every brutal jest and jeer,
Every wicked thought and plan
Of the cruel heart of man,
Though but whispered, He can hear!
We in suffering, they in crime,
Wait the just award of time,
Wait the vengeance that is due;
Not in vain a heart shall break,
Not a tear for Freedom's sake
Fall unheeded: God is true.
While the flag with stars bedecked
Threatens where it should protect,
And the Law shakes hands with Crime,
What is left us but to wait,
Match our patience to our fate,
And abide the better time?
Patience, friends! The human heart
Everywhere shall take our part,
Everywhere for us shall pray;
On our side are nature's laws,
And God's life is in the cause
That we suffer for to-day.
Well to suffer is divine;
Pass the watchword down the line,
Pass the countersign: 'Endure.'
Not to him who rashly dares,
But to him who nobly bears,
Is the victor's garland sure.
Frozen earth to frozen breast,
Lay our slain one down to rest;
Lay him down in hope and faith,
And above the broken sod,
Once again, to Freedom's God,
Pledge ourselves for life or death,
That the State whose walls we lay,
In our blood and tears, to-day,
Shall be free from bonds of shame,
And our goodly land untrod
By the feet of Slavery, shod
With cursing as with flame!
Plant the Buckeye on his grave,
For the hunter of the slave
In its shadow cannot rest;
And let martyr mound and tree
Be our pledge and guaranty
Of the freedom of the West!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Land, Ho!
I know ’tis but a loom of land,
Yet is it land, and so I will rejoice,
I know I cannot hear His voice
Upon the shore, nor see Him stand;
Yet is it land, ho! land.
The land! the land! the lovely land!
‘Far off,’ dost say? Far off—ah, blessèd home!
Farewell! farewell! thou salt sea-foam!
Ah, keel upon the silver sand—
Land, ho! land.
You cannot see the land, my land,
You cannot see, and yet the land is there—
My land, my land, through murky air—
I did not say ’twas close at hand—
But—land, ho! land.
Dost hear the bells of my sweet land,
Dost hear the kine, dost hear the merry birds?
No voice, ’tis true, no spoken words,
No tongue that thou may’st understand—
Yet is it land, ho! land.
It’s clad in purple mist, my land,
In regal robe it is apparellèd,
A crown is set upon its head,
And on its breast a golden band—
Land, ho! land.
Dost wonder that I long for land?
My land is not a land as others are—
Upon its crest there beams a star,
And lilies grow upon the strand—
Land, ho! land.
Give me the helm! there is the land!
Ha! lusty mariners, she takes the breeze!
And what my spirit sees it sees—
Leap, bark, as leaps the thunderbrand—
Land, ho! land.
poem by Thomas Edward Brown
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Dessert
(Carly SimonMike Mainieri)
I was in the desert
Amazed by all that sand
I as in a sea of white
Swimming through the land
Nobody shocked me
Nobody locked me up
Nobody took my time
Nobody shook me up
All that happened was the white night
The endless sand in the moonlight
I was in the desert
In the opalescent moon
Watching the horizon
And waiting for the moon
Nobody talked to me
Nobody looked me up
Nobody walked up to me
Nobody shook me up
All that happened was the white night
The endless sand in the moonlight
I was in the desert
Free to live or die
Looking in the mirror
And seeing just the sky
Nobody got to me
Nobody said what to me
Nobody shoved me
Nobody loved me
All that happened was the white night
The endless sand and the moonlight
song performed by by Carly Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Desert
(carly simon/mike mainieri)
I was in the desert
Amazed by all that sand
I as in a sea of white
Swimming through the land
Nobody shocked me
Nobody locked me up
Nobody took my time
Nobody shook me up
All that happened was the white night
The endless sand in the moonlight
I was in the desert
In the opalescent moon
Watching the horizon
And waiting for the moon
Nobody talked to me
Nobody looked me up
Nobody walked up to me
Nobody shook me up
All that happened was the white night
The endless sand in the moonlight
I was in the desert
Free to live or die
Looking in the mirror
And seeing just the sky
Nobody got to me
Nobody said what to me
Nobody shoved me
Nobody loved me
All that happened was the white night
The endless sand and the moonlight
song performed by by Carly Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ocean Land
Before eyes that are blind no more
A sight unseen that tears the soul
All we ever loved and known
Into mass graves is what we're shown"
"We see an ocean once was land"
& So they come to understand
This place where man used to be born
Will be man's water throne
"All that was magical, beautiful,
will be gone"
These measures call for divine intervention
"All the achievements of man,
one will stand all alone"
One that survives the final selection
"The sand in the hour glass,
moves so fast, slow the sand
And nothing that mankind has strived for
will be left in ocean land"
The rain will fall then
Filling the dried land
"Here are we, servants three
flesh and blood
Poor and weak,
hear thou speak of the flood"
It must be a sign
A message from God's hand
song performed by by Orphaned Land
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Brother, You’ll Take My Hand
NOT to the sober and staid,
Leading a quiet life,
But to men whose paths are laid
Ever through storm and strife—
Here is a song from me,
Sent to the tragic West,
Message of sympathy
To the hearts that can never rest.
This is the song I send
Out to the Western land—
Sinner, and martyr, and friend,
Brother! you’ll take my hand.
To you who have loved and lost;
To you whose souls have died
Cursing a fair false face
And the red warm lips that lied;
Loved with a boyish love,
With a love that was pure and true,
That set one woman above
The world that was known to you;
Eating your heart out now
Alone on a waste of sand—
I have been played with too.
Brother! you’ll take my hand.
To you who were loved too well,
And who cast that love aside
When your vanity was replete
And your passion was satisfied—
Haunted now day and night;
Haunted in every place
By the eyes of a suicide,
Set in a dead girl’s face.
Crouched in your misery
Out where the stars are grand—
O I am haunted too!
Brother! you’ll take my hand.
To you who had wealth or name,
Friends, love, and a future fair,
And who sacrificed all for drink
And the nights of Leicester Square:
In by the drunken town,
Out on the barren tramp,
Pacing it up and down
Alone by the listening camp;
Crouched in your agony,
Hiding your eyes with your hand—
I had the ball at my feet—
Brother! I understand.
There is a light for all;
Hold up your head and live!
Forgive the woman who wronged,
And the dead girl will forgive.
Brood not, but work for good;
Work in the world of men—
Strong is the man who fell
And rose from the depths again.
There shall be peace for you,
Sinners, who win the land.
I would fight upward too—
Brother! you’ll take my hand.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Come Away
(g.bowser/j.jupp)
Published by chappell & co., ltd. - capac
As I walk along the lonely streets
I cant talk to the people that I meet
I see them come, and I see them go
I see them smile, and say hello
Come with me and take my hand
Ooh, fly away to another land, oh yes we will
Come with me and take my hand
Well fly away to another land
Come over here little girl
And Ill show you another world
Where we can be free to do as we want
Live our lives as we please, and say what we like, oh
Come with me and take my hand, ooh
Well fly away to another land
Come with me and take my hand, oh
And fly away to another land
Theres so many things that remain to be done
And no one has thought of a way to begin
So follow me into my life
Come with me and take my hand (and take...)
Fly away to another land (fly away to another land)
Come with me and take my hand (ooh)
Fly away to another land (fly away to another land)
Come with me and take my hand (take my hand)
Fly away to another land (oh yes we will)
Come with me and take my hand (and take my hand, take my hand)
Fly away to another land (yeah)
Come with me and take my hand
Fly away to another land
Come with me and take my hand
Fly away to another land
song performed by by April Wine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Is My Land
Bill dees
The sun on the rim of the view overlooking all that I love
Lights up every leaf and blade, birds circling high above
With trembling hand I reach down and say this is my land
This land will pass on to my child, when hes grown
To love it as much as i, for all the sons gone by
And when hes a man hell do what he can
For this, my land, this is my land
When young men die in glory and for freedom take their stand
May they sing this same proud story, this is my land
Life fade away, and my body is laid to rest on the ground
May this comfort fill my soul more on the land, I know
That those after me say with much dignity
This is my land, this is my land
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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About a poem
You filled the glasses
Words into glasses glass made drops
Golden pots for a thunder-like
‘Drink’ of big silences
You filled the glasses
On the tables across the earth
Meanings laid walking on debris
You filled the glasses
Like hours into a sandclock
The sand upon which
You write up the names
Glass made drops
You write up the scars of a sip
Drunk you plough and keep ploughing
Over the dreams you spill
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Snow Fall in the Moonlight
Snow fall in the moonlight,
Like soft cotton falling from the sky,
Covering the ground and bushes in pure white,
Glowing beautifully in the night of December.
Snow fall in the moonlight,
Like a child I walked happily through the pure white snow,
Making soft crackling sound in the silent winter night,
When I reached the far end of the open field,
I turned to see the path I had taken,
A straight line through the pure white snow.
Snow fall in the moonlight,
Can there be a more beautiful sight than this?
As I look into the night sky,
And the soft snow flakes touches my face,
I breathe the fresh cold air of the winter night.
As I stood alone in silence, stillness in the air,
My feeling and longing comes to my lips,
And I thank Allah for this beautiful moment,
A chance to see snow fall in the moonlight!
(In memory of Belgian winter,1986)
poem by Spiritual Seeker
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Empty Hands
In the shadows of the smokestacks
Through the black snow, that lay on the land
Walked home one winter morning
With my live savings in my hand
Maryanne, shes fixin up some breakfast
Got the lights on, on the christmas tree
Sittin there, lookin up at an angel
With something dyin inside of me
Grew up with great expectations
Heard the promise and I knew the plan
They say people get what they deserve
But lord, sometimes its much worse than that
Maryanne, she takin in some laundry
I got a part time job in a drive-in stand
Oh lord, what did I do
To deserve these empty hands?
Chorus:
Across the cities
Across this land
Through the valleys
And across the sand
Too many people standin in line
Too many people with nothin planned
Theres too many people with
Empty hands
Now maryannes been cryin
lord knows, I love her the best I can
When my pride is bruised and broken
She slips her hand into my empty hands
Without hope, without love
Youve got nothing but pain
Just makes a man not give a dammn
Thats no way for us to live
Weve got to fill these empty hands
Chorus:
Across the cities
Across this land
Through the valleys
And across the sand
Too many people standin in line
Too many people with nothin planned
Theres too many people with
Empty hands
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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End Of A Dream
Dream.....
End of a dream.....
Where do you stand
at the end of
a dream..
All is behind; 'round in your
head
Splinters of sound, words that
were said;
Broken like toys, days that were
planned
Gone into mist, sunk into sand
There's no place to stand
At the end of a dream.....
End.....
End of a dream.....
Where do you go
At the end of a dream.....
Where is another way
where on this earth
Some thing of value
some thing of worth
A burned over land
Blackened by fire
No eager glee now
No hearts desire.....
END OF A DREAM
There's no place to go
At the end of a dream.....
End.....
End of a dream.....
What do you do
At the end of a dream....
Nothings ahead now.....
Something like lead
Lies where your heart lay:
Something is dead.....
An empty glass......to turn in
the hand
Wine is no more now,
you can't understand.....
There's nothing to do
At the end of a dream.....
Dream.....
End of a dream......
What do you learn
at the end of a dream.....
There's some little glow; more
than you know
Something that someday will
burst into flame
Flame into joy......
you'll understand
Green trees will grow again on
burnt-over land.....
END OF A DREAM
There's something to learn
at the of a dream....
End of a dream....
End of a dream.....
There's something to learn
FROM
The End Of A Dream.....
poem by Isabelle Cooper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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