The Old Jimmy Woodser
The old Jimmy Woodser comes into the bar
Unwelcomed, unnoticed, unknown,
Too old and too odd to be drunk with, by far;
So he glides to the end where the lunch baskets are
And they say that he tipples alone.
His frockcoat is green and the nap is no more,
And his hat is not quite at its best;
He wears the peaked collar our grandfathers wore,
The black-ribbon tie that was legal of yore,
And the coat buttoned over his breast.
When first he came in, for a moment I thought
That my vision or wits were astray;
For a picture and page out of Dickens he brought---
‘Twas an old file dropped in from the Chancery Court
To the wine-vault just over the way.
But I dreamed, as he tasted his “bitter” to-night
And the lights in the bar-room grew dim,
That the shades of the friends of that other day’s light,
And of girls that were bright in our grandfathers” sight,
Lifted shadowy glasses to him.
Then I opened the door, and the old man passed out,
With his short, shuffling step and bowed head;
And I sighed; for I felt, as I turned me about,
An odd sense of respect---born of whisky no doubt---
For the life that was fifty years dead.
And I thought---there are times when our memory trends
Through the future, as ‘twere on its own---
That I, out-of-date ere my pilgrimage ends,
In a new-fashioned bar to dead loves and dead friends
Might drink, like the old man, alone.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Related quotes
The Soldier's Funeral
The muffled drum rolled on the air,
Warriors, with stately step, were there;
On every arm was the black crape bound,
Every carbine was turned to the ground;
Solemn, the sound of their measured tread,
As silent and slow, they followed the dead.
The riderless horse was led in the rear;
There were white plumes waving over the bier;
Helmet and sword were laid on the pall,
For, it was a soldier's funeral.
That soldier had stood on the battle plain,
Where every step was over the slain;
But the brand and the ball had passed him by,
And he came to his native land, to die.
'Twas hard to come to that native land,
And not clasp one familiar hand;
'Twas hard to be numbered amid the dead,
Before he could hear his welcome said.
But, 'twas something to see its cliffs once more,
And to lay his bones on his own loved shore;
To think, that the friends of his youth might weep,
O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep.
The bugles ceased their wailing sound,
As the coffin was lowered into the ground;
A volley was fired, a blessing said,
One moment's pause, and they left the dead.
I saw a poor and aged man -
His step was feeble, his cheek was wan;
He knelt him down on the new-raised mound,
His face was bowed on the cold damp ground;
He raised his head, his tears were done -
The father had prayed o'er his only son.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Drop Dead Gorgeous
Totally out of control
She owns me
I didnt know that she'd know She stoned me
I think I got it bad and I cant let it go
I thought and youd be much better
All of the cashmere all orange and green
Shes naturally drop dead gorgeous
cleanly gardenia and black lessareen
shes naturally drop dead gorgeous
its so not fair
Completely inside my head imagine pretending
Shes the book that Ive read with a beautiful ending
It really drives me mad I cant leave her alone
cause I wont let me forget her
Rose colored glasses you know what that says
shes naturally drop dead gorgeous
Her sweet molasses on my slice of bread
shes naturally drop dead gorgeous
Totally out of control
She owned me
Sweet almond eyes just to see and be seen
shes naturally drop dead gorgeous
she tasted like cherries sweet loves grenadine
shes naturally drop dead gorgeous
Makes love like a rabbit to my velveteen
shes naturally drop dead gorgeous
a gem with a smile like a young norma jean
shes naturally drop dead gorgeous
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Old Man With His Hat
There Little Robbie found him in an old yellow album
A blurred picture of a half old man with his hat
Standing in front of the coffin
He smiles shy but wide with his teeth gone making a hole like Little Robbie when he lose his baby teeth
Little Robbie doesn’t recognize him and he wonder where he is now
Maybe he is one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
So he asks to his big sister
But his sister doesn’t recognize him and she wonder who he is
Maybe he is one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
So he asks to his mother
But his mother doesn’t recognize him and she wonder how he was there
Maybe he is one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
So he asks to his father
But his father doesn’t recognize him and he wonder what he did there
Maybe he is one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
So he asks to his uncle
But his uncle doesn’t recognize him and he wonder when the picture taken
Maybe he is one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
So he asks hopelessly to his grandfather
His grandfather takes a deep look to that picture and wonders why Little Robbie asks
Little Robbie says, “I want to meet him! I want to know about him! I want to play with him! ”
Maybe he is one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
But his grandfather shakes his head, “No, he is not.”
He is not one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
He is just an old man with his hat
“He accompanied your great grandfather when he sick until his death. This picture is taken in a burial of your great grandfather.”
His grandfather stares at little Robbie
“Now, are you disappointed? ”
He is not one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
He is just an old man with his hat
Little Robbie shakes his head, “No, I am not.”
Though he is not one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
Though he is just an old man with his hat
“But I still want to meet him, I want to know about him, and I want to play with him! ”
And then he could be one of his grandfathers, one of his great uncles, one of his old families
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Poison Whisky
(ed king - ronnie vanzant)
Daddy was a cajun, raised on southern land
And so my kinfolks tell me, was a street-fightin man.
Well, they rushed him down to see the doctor
Hey doctor, wont you check his head?
The only thing that was wrong with him
Was johnny walkers red
He drank ole poison whisky
til it killed him dead.
It happened back in the bayou many years ago
Satan came to take him and he did it real slow
Well, they rushed him back to see the doctor
The doctor just shook his head,
Twenty years of rotgut whisky
Done killed the poor man dead.
He drank ole poison whisky
til it killed him dead.
Take a tip from me, people... brothers cant you see
Aint no future in ole poison whisky.
Theyre gonna rush you down to see the doctor,
The doctors gonna shake his head.
The only thing hes gonna tell ya
Stop drinkin johnny walkers red
Dont drink poison whisky, dont you drink it boy.
song performed by by Lynyrd Skynyrd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sad picture piece
The picture we took together
And put together piece by piece
All of us as a Group
With smiles on our faces we
Were laughing together
Creating what we thought
Was a big happy picture
Now in the future we look
At that big picture piece
And see a sad picture piece
Comparing it to today, most of us…
Dead, war reached us.
What use to be happy picture piece.
Turned to what it really was.
A sad picture piece we put together
As a Group.
Smiling, laughing, naive
Naïve of what the future
Could bring
Friends dying, revealing what they
Really did with there life
In the past, happy as can be
Together wishing for more
Seeing that picture now
Remembering all the thing’s I had
In the past, also with things I lost
Now you see a picture with lies
But also the truth
Both makes the group shot of friends
We put together
A big, but small sad picture piece.
poem by Marcellus Watts
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Silence Of The Damned
Can your hear the silence.
something isn't right.
dead is the night.
who turn out the lights.
then they converge upon me like vulture.
a breeze of wind blows and
bring the chills right down to my very bones.
I know I'm done for but don't even care
cause its not my nightmare but yours.
twisted and turned. living on dead memories.
eating upon them so slowly.
Can you hear the silence.
something isn't right. dead is the night.
Who turned off the lights.
who is it this time.
again they converge.
but this isn't my nightmare.
its yours. watch in despair.
suck in your last bit of air.
no life left for me.
giving up and letting the leeches feed.
for everyone has their needs.
everyone needs to bleed.
and this time its you destiny.
Can you hear the silence.
something isn't right.
dead is the night.
who turned of the light.
who is it this time.
just remember this is not my nightmare but your.
you open the door welcome them in.
so now you must try to fend hyenas off if you can.
if not welcome to the damned.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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A Smothering of Poets
A love which ends badly-
if we let it-
freezes Time;
and we move on
covering it;
leaving it unchanged and unresolved.
We plant the last Kiss
with a question mark
knotted in the Semi-finish..
We drag our Dead Poet Love
into the future
bound and gagged
in the truck of the car
because all past loves
are Dead Poets;
we ignore the muffled cries
in the rear;
drive toward the future
tamping down the present
with a finger
dipped in
past and jaded memory.
We smother old past poets
put them away in the dark closet
because New Love
most often
doesn't share our love of
Former Poetries.
We reel in the Future now
before it is born;
strangled;
we make Hope for New Love
to lie
down in the cold;
but, our warm coat
is in the closet
which means
at odd times
in the chill
we dream of dead poets,
who sometimes
don't remain
dead still
in the trunk of the car
in the closet
in the category
nil.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Our time is now
Days continue to pass, still no future in sight
took a left at the fork, i should have turned right
oh how i wish i could see, the beginning to the end of time
and defy the laws of our human mind
instead stuck i stay, forced to live day by day
but is it really such a curse? striving to make each day better than the worst, realizing were not promised tomorrow, this is a thought ment to borrow
what if the future i saw, was bitter and dead
a thought as this would confuse the head
maybe find a feeling of inevitability, and refuse every responsibility
then lie down and wait, to let this impending future become your fate
perhaps your future was the other way around
walking on the sky instead of the ground
would you try as hard to find your light, or dive from a plane that never took flight, because you were blinded by your future shinning so bright
living day by day is a curse? i believe the opposite, reverse
so before from reality you are torn, in seeking the future i must worn
the only rewards are sickle and thorn,
for our time is now, thats why we were born.
'Death is the future for us all, we walk a lifetime, untill we fall' E.A.F
poem by Ethan A. Francis
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The Secret Whisky Cure
’Tis no tale of heroism, ’tis no tale of storm and strife,
But of ordinary boozing, and of dull domestic life—
Of the everlasting friction that most husbands must endure—
Tale of nagging and of drinking—and a secret whisky cure.
Name of Jones—perhaps you know him—small house-agent here in town—
(Friend of Smith, you know him also—likewise Robinson and Brown),
Just a hopeless little husband, whose deep sorrows were obscure,
And a bitter nagging Missis—and death seemed the only cure.
’Twas a common sordid marriage, and there’s little new to tell—
Save the pub to him was Heaven and his own home was a hell:
With the office in between them—purgatory to be sure—
And, as far as Jones could make out—well, there wasn’t any cure.
’Twas drink and nag—or nag and drink—whichever you prefer—
Till at last she couldn’t stand him any more than he could her.
Friends and relatives assisted, telling her (with motives pure)
That a legal separation was the only earthly cure.
So she went and saw a lawyer, who, in accents soft and low,
Asked her firstly if her husband had a bank account or no;
But he hadn’t and she hadn’t, they in fact were very poor,
So he bowed her out suggesting she should try some liquor cure.
She saw a drink cure advertised in the Sydney Bulletin—
Cure for brandy, cure for whisky, cure for rum and beer and gin,
And it could be given secret, it was tasteless, swift and sure—
So she purchased half a gallon of that Secret Whisky Cure.
And she put some in his coffee, smiling sweetly all the while,
And he started for the office rather puzzled by the smile—
Smile or frown he’d have a whisky, and you’ll say he was a boor—
But perhaps his wife had given him an overdose of Cure.
And he met a friend he hadn’t seen for seven years or more—
It was just upon the threshold of a private bar-room door—
And they coalised and entered straight away, you may be sure—
But of course they hadn’t reckoned with a Secret Whisky Cure.
Jones, he drank, turned pale, and, gasping, hurried out the back way quick,
Where, to his old chum’s amazement, he was violently sick;
Then they interviewed the landlord, but he swore the drink was pure—
It was only the beginning of the Secret Whisky Cure.
For Jones couldn’t stand the smell of even special whisky blends,
And shunned bar-rooms to the sorrow of his trusty drinking friends:
And they wondered, too, what evil genius had chanced to lure
Him from paths of booze and friendship—never dreaming of a Cure.
He had noticed, too, with terror that a something turned his feet,
When a pub was near, and swung him to the other side the street,
Till he thought the devils had him, and his person they’d immure
In a lunatic asylum where there wasn’t any Cure.
He consulted several doctors who were puzzled by the case—
As they mostly are, but never tell the patient to his face—
Some advised him ‘Try the Mountains for this malady obscure:’
But there wasn’t one could diagnose a Secret Whisky Cure.
And his wife, when he was sober?—Well, she nagged him all the more!
And he couldn’t drown his sorrow in the pewter as of yore:
So he shot himself at Manly and was sat upon by Woore,
And found rest amongst the spirits from the Secret Whisky Cure.
And the moral?—well, ’tis funny—or ’tis woman’s way with men—
She’s remarried to a publican who whacks her now and then,
And they get on fairly happy, he’s a brute and he’s a boor,
But she’s never tried her second with a Secret Whisky Cure.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Death of a Therapist
Sitting in a black chair
After a heavy drink
Hanging from a light fitting
Face down on the floor
Who killed the therapist?
Nobody is sure
That night she left the latch off
The back door
There was a twitchy curtain at number 24
A psychotic son aged 21 and on the run
The cops are looking for
Was it in the dish she ate at exactly a quarter past eight
Every night
She had turned an awful shade of green a ghastly sight!
Or was it in the glass of burgundy she liked to drink at nine
Did someone tamper with her chicken kievs?
Did someone spike her wine?
Or did she simply DIE?
YES DIE Lie DEAD as a dodo for hours on the floor?
No flowers, no wild applauses
Just behind the door
The coroner had a twitch when he said 'Natural causes'
But still they're looking for
A man called moses who leaves roses for the poor and outside unsuspecting doors
The curtain twitcher at number24
A chef called mabel who had a problem with drink and spoke to the shrink, face to face, leaving a gift of fine burgundy wine in a bright
yellow case on the side
A son on the run with a gun who hated his mum and thought the shrink had taken her in, to hide her from him
Were they 'Identical twins? '
An old man with a dribble and a grudge with an oversized head
Had wished the shrink dead
For stealing his fudge and leaving him cold in his bed
Or casinova Dan tha 'man' she left him for
Who left her lipstick love notes by the door
Afraid that she would stalk him kept his bunny by his bed
Then fled after finishing her off
Settling the dust of an unsettled score?
The mystery remains unsolved
But much later dead clients were found
One lying in the laundry basket 'upside down'
A body floating in the swimming pool where she had drowned
And a cupboard full of strangers hanging up with coats
Marked 'lost and found! '
The therapist had been a serial killer for sometime
Some put put it down to ingesting Mabel's 'Toxic wine'
Mabel was arrested for her brutal crime
But a shadow of doubt was cast across the jury
Because she always arrived after nine never in time
And the wine on the side was not red
Rumour has it she hit her head
Fell back in the chair
Slid onto the floor
And was found face down
By Mabel who broke down the door
All admitted she took fright and quitted the scene in shock
Without calling the cops
She was acquitting found Not Guilty! for knocking her off
Sent to rehab to dry out threw all her licquor out
But a shadow of doubt still continues to hang over,
Casanova Dan
The dribbling man
The son on the run with a gun, only 21
And now postman called Fred
Who found mrs P dead at number 24
And was seen to be dragging a large parcel away from the door
poem by Yvette Smith
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OTHER WORLD...by Talile Ali
TIMINGS EVERYTHING
WHAT A MESS
I DON'T THINK
YOU KNOW I GUESS
WERE YOU TOO DRUNK
WERE YOU AWARE
OR JUST SO WELL LUBED
YOU DIDN'T CARE
WORDS WERE SPOKEN
TRUTHS WERE SHARED
SEEMED IF EVERYTHING
END UP SQUARED
ABOUT HOW YOU'VE ALWAYS KNEW YOU LOVED ME
AND HOW YOU THOUGHT WE COULD NEVER BE
SO YOU SETTLED FOR WHAT YOU THOUGHT COULD BE
A LIFE OF ABUSE AND NOT HAVING ME
BUT THE NEXT DAY
IT WAS A BLUR
YOU EVEN ASKED ME
WAS I THERE FOR SURE?
THAT'S WHEN I KNEW
BLACK OUTS WERE YOUR CURE
YOU'VE BEEN THRU A LOT
OF HELLISH EVENTS
I WISH I WAS THERE
TO MAYBE PREVENT
SEVERAL OF THOSE OCCASSION
I KNOW I'D BE DEAD
BUT THERE'D BE SOME DEAD BODIES
WITH MANY CRUSHED HEADS
FOR WHAT THEY DID TO YOU
OH THEY'D WISH THEY WERE DEAD
MY HEART IS ALL HURT
AND SO IS MY HEAD
WITH WHATS JUST OCCURRED
MY INNOCENTS DEAD
SO OTHER WORLD IS
THIS GAME THAT YOU'RE IN
WE'RE IN IT TOGETHER
THIS LOVE THAT'S YOUR SIN
AND LYING TO ME
THAT'S NOT EVEN WHERE WE BEGIN
poem by Talile Ali
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All Dead, All Dead
Memories, my memories
How long can you stay
To haunt my days
She came without a farthing
A babe without a name
So much ado about nothing
Is what shed try to say
So much ado my lover
So many games we played
Through every fleeted summer
Through every precious day
All dead all dead
All the dreams we had
And I wonder why I still live on
All dead all dead
And alone Im spared
My sweeter half instead
All dead
And gone
All dead...
All dead all dead
At the rainbows end
And still I hear her own sweet song
All dead all dead
Take me back again
You know my little friends
All dead
And gone
All dead and gone
Her ways are always with me
I wander all the while
But please you must forgive me
I am old but still a child
All dead all dead
But I should not grieve
In time it comes to everyone
All dead all dead
But in hope I breathe
Of course I dont believe
Youre dead
And gone
All dead
And gone
song performed by by Queen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death
He, born of my girlhood, is dead, while my life is yet young in my heart
Ere the breasts where his baby lips fed have forgotten their softness, we part.
We part. He was mine, he was here, though he travelled by land and by sea,
My son who could trample on fear, my babe who was moulded in me.
As I sat in the darkness, it seemed I could still feel his touch on my head;
He came in the night as I dreamed, and he knelt at the side of my bed;
He murmured the words I had taught when his lips were the lips of a child,
Ere the strength of his arm had been bought and the love that upheld him defiled;
Then my faltering spirit grew bold, and my heart had forgotten its drouth,
And I crooned little songs as of old, till I woke at his kiss on my mouth.
Now waking and sleeping are pain. Nevermore will he kiss, nevermore
Shall I hear his low whistle again at the gate, or his step on the floor,
For to-night he was here while I slept, and this is the end of it all.
Now that welter of darkness has swept us apart, can he come if I call?
Can he come, little chap with the eyes that brought light out of heaven to earth?
Can he come, though the soul of me cries for the joy that I bought by his birth?
I can see but the horror that bids the heart of the mother despair,
The vision that burns on my lids, the face that will always be there,
For he holds out his hands to me, red, and his eyes tell the truth as he stands.
He is dead. He is dead. He is dead. He is dead, with the blood on his hands.
poem by John Le Gay Brereton
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Thy Will Be Done!
I always thought that Jean La Mare was strange,
Gave me the creeps,
With lank, uncared for russet hair
And eyes with depths and deeps,
She hung her head when walking by
Wore dresses to her shins,
She had no friends at school, at lunch
Sat by the rubbish bins.
Her father was the picture of a
Martinet of old,
Bolt upright, at attention he
Would rant at her, and scold.
An Army Colonel, long retired
His wife dead in the ground,
His thoughts for bringing daughters up
Were ancient, and profound.
She dared not answer back, nor baulk
At anything he said,
He kept her close, so close we thought
That she slept in his bed.
We never saw her out of school
She cooked and cleaned and swept,
When asked if she'd be at the Ball,
She turned away, and wept.
Time passed, and we had left the school,
Got on with living life,
I met someone, and pretty soon
Had caught myself a wife,
But my old friend from schooldays
Richard Carson, lived alone,
He said he'd not met anyone
Who thrilled him to the bone.
We'd all turned just on thirty when
He dropped the big surprise,
He said that he'd asked Jean La Mare!
I answered, 'Is that wise? '
It seems the Martinet had died,
Was safely in his box,
So Jean was free, and so was he
To tie the wedding knots.
I saw her at the wedding there,
The first time then for years,
I saw her laugh for once, she laughed
So much, it came to tears.
They seemed so happy in that church,
Her burden dead and gone,
But Richard told me later of
Her curse - 'Thy Will Be Done! '
For every evening of her life
She'd get down on her knees,
Before a varnished wooden box
And pray that she had pleased!
The box stood on the mantelpiece
And Richard dared not ask
Just what was in that box; he thought
It was her father's ash!
She'd pray and ask for guidance, then
She'd listen in the gloom,
He never heard a murmur but, she did,
Before that tomb!
She'd answer statements no-one made,
Would wail, then plead, implore,
While Richard stayed away and hid,
Stood listening by the door!
He asked her what her father said
When he'd approached him once,
The old man turned and marched away,
He'd felt quite like a dunce!
He'd asked if he could take her out,
The Colonel stood and glared:
'If you should even speak to her, young man,
I'll see you dead! '
But Jean had blushed and looked away,
And wouldn't answer then,
She muttered: 'He just didn't want me
Mixing with young men! '
But then she started acting strange,
Would slyly look away,
Whenever he came in the room
As she was going to pray.
He came to see me, looking ill,
He said he was unwell,
That Jean was getting stranger by the day
His life was hell!
She'd served him up a meal that made
Him sick, perspire and weak,
I told him he should get away...
He found it hard to speak!
I didn't want to interfere
But things were looking grim,
I went around to see them, well, not her,
I cared for him.
She flashed a look of hate at me,
Unbridled, undisguised,
She looked like some fanatic with
Grey analytic eyes.
She left us then to talk, and I
Saw on the mantelpiece,
The box that he'd described to me,
I said, 'Just call the Police! '
I'd flipped the clasp, the front swung down
It opened up to dread,
For staring at us both, we saw
His eyeless, staring head!
Then Jean came back, let out a scream,
Attacked me with a knife,
I caught her wrist, said: 'Richard,
Just restrain your crazy wife! '
She fell down on her knees and cried:
'I tried to be a son! '
Then listened, as if hearing it,
Then said, 'Thy will be done! '
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sunlight on the Sea
[The Philosophy of a Feast]
Make merry, comrades, eat and drink
(The sunlight flickers on the sea),
The garlands gleam, the glasses clink,
The grape juice mantles fair and free,
The lamps are trimm'd, although the light
Of day still lingers on the sky ;
We sit between the day and night,
And push the wine-flask merrily
I see you feasting round me still,
All gay of heart and strong of limb ;
Make merry, friends, your glasses fill,
The lights are growing dim.
I miss the voice of one I've heard
(The sunlight sinks upon the sea),
He sang as blythe as any bird,
And shook the rafters with his glee ;
But times have changed with him, I wot,
By fickle fortune cross'd and flung ;
Far stouter heart than mine he's got
If now he sings as then he sung.
Yet some must swim when others sink,
And some must sink when others swim ;
Make merry, comrades, eat and drink,
The lights are growing dim.
I miss the face of one I've loved—
(The sunlight settles on the sea ;)
Long since to distant climes he roved ;
He had his faults, and so have we ;
His name was mentioned here this day,
And it was coupled with a sneer ;
I heard, nor had I aught to say,
Though once I held his memory dear.
Who cares, 'mid wines and fruits and flowers,
Though death or danger compass him,
He had his faults, and we have ours,
The lights are growing dim.
I miss the form of one I know—
(The sunlight wanes upon the sea)
'Tis not so very long ago ;
We drank his health with three-times-three,
And we were gay when he was here ;
And he is gone, and we are gay.
Where has he gone ? or far or near ?
Good sooth, 'twere somewhat hard to say.
You glance aside, you doubtless think
My homily a foolish whim,
'Twill soon be ended, eat and drink,
The lights are growing dim.
The fruit is ripe, the wine is red ;
(The sunlight fades upon the sea.)
To us the absent are the dead,
The dead to us must absent be.
We, too, the absent ranks must joinn ;
And friends will censure and forget :
There's metal base in every coin ;
Men vanish, leaving traces yet
Of evil and of good behind,
Since false notes taint the skylark's hymn,
And dross still lurks in gold refined—
The lights are growing dim.
We eat and drink or ere we die,
(The sunlight flushes on the sea.)
Three hundred soldiers feasted high
An hour before Thermopylae ;
Leonidas pour'd out the wine,
And shouted ere he drain'd the cup,
'Ho ! comrades, let us gaily dine—
This night with Pluto we shall sup ;'
And if they leant upon a reed,
And if their reed was slight and slim,
There's something good in Spartan creed—
The lights are growing dim.
Make merry, comrades, eat and drink,
(The sunlight flashes on the sea ;)
My spirit is rejoiced to think
That even as they were so are we ;
For they, like us, were mortals vain,
The slaves to earthly passions wild,
Who slept with heaps of Persians slain
For winding-sheets around them piled.
The dead man's deeds are living still—
My Festive speech is somewhat grim—
Their good obliterates their ill—
The lights are growing dim.
We eat and drink, we come and go,
(The sunlight dies upon the open sea.)
I speak in riddles. Is it so ?
My riddles need not mar your glee ;
For I will neither bid you share
My thoughts, nor will I bid you shun,
Though I should see in yonder chair
Th' Egyptian's muffled skeleton.
One toast with me, your glasses fill,
Aye, fill them level with the brim,
De mortuis, nisi bonum, nil!
The lights are growing dim.
poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Shades Off
(ian hunter)
Where do you go when you've somewhere to run
But the time isn't right and there's things to be done
And you're trapped half-way up, you don't want to go back
So you keep going on - compromising the lack
And you see the green fields as you travel on by
And you look at the things you'd forgotten to try
And you wish you were young and you wish you were old
For the songs always sung and the stories been told
And you thought you were different but what did it mean
For you tricked yourself trying - life's still unseen
As it is, as it was, as it always will be
Will you find out at all what it is to be free
See it never was easy to live with a head
So i kept to the back room and i live there instead
What comes from the front-room is only for "friends"
I have a bay window but that's where it ends
And it's here i see pictures and my madness is clear
And there's no longer logic so therefore no fear
And i'm almost dead with uncontrollable light
Sometimes when i've written a song - it's alright...
song performed by by Ian Hunter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The House Of Dust: Part 01: 04: Up high black walls, up sombre terraces
Up high black walls, up sombre terraces,
Clinging like luminous birds to the sides of cliffs,
The yellow lights went climbing towards the sky.
From high black walls, gleaming vaguely with rain,
Each yellow light looked down like a golden eye.
They trembled from coign to coign, and tower to tower,
Along high terraces quicker than dream they flew.
And some of them steadily glowed, and some soon vanished,
And some strange shadows threw.
And behind them all the ghosts of thoughts went moving,
Restlessly moving in each lamplit room,
From chair to mirror, from mirror to fire;
From some, the light was scarcely more than a gloom:
From some, a dazzling desire.
And there was one, beneath black eaves, who thought,
Combing with lifted arms her golden hair,
Of the lover who hurried towards her through the night;
And there was one who dreamed of a sudden death
As she blew out her light.
And there was one who turned from clamoring streets,
And walked in lamplit gardens among black trees,
And looked at the windy sky,
And thought with terror how stones and roots would freeze
And birds in the dead boughs cry . . .
And she hurried back, as snow fell, mixed with rain,
To mingle among the crowds again,
To jostle beneath blue lamps along the street;
And lost herself in the warm bright coiling dream,
With a sound of murmuring voices and shuffling feet.
And one, from his high bright window looking down
On luminous chasms that cleft the basalt town,
Hearing a sea-like murmur rise,
Desired to leave his dream, descend from the tower,
And drown in waves of shouts and laughter and cries.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Aaron
Holiness on the head,
Light and perfection on the breast,
Harmonious bells below, raising the dead
To led them unto life and rest.
Thus are true Aarons dressed.
Profaneness in my head,
Defects and darkness in my breast,
A noise of passions ringing me for dead
Unto a place where is no rest.
Poor priest thus am I dressed.
Only another head
I have, another heart and breast,
another music, making live not dead,
without whom I could have no rest:
In him I am well dressed.
Christ is my only head,
My alone only heart and breast,
My only music, striking me even dead;
That to the old man I may rest,
And be in him new dressed.
So holy in my head,
Perfect and light in my dear breast,
My doctrine tuned by Christ, (who is not dead,
But lives in me while I do rest)
Come people; Aaron's dressed.
poem by George Herbert
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Regret
SOFTLY Death touched her and she passed away
Out of this glad, bright world she made more fair,
Sweet as the apple-blossoms, when in May
The orchards flush, of summer grown aware.
All that fresh delicate beauty gone from sight,
That gentle, gracious presence felt no more!
How must the house be emptied of delight,
What shadows on the threshold she passed o’er!
She loved me. Surely I was grateful, yet
I could not give her back all she gave me, —
Ever I think of it with vain regret,
Musing upon a summer by the sea;
Remembering troops of merry girls who pressed
About me, — clinging arms and tender eyes,
And love, like scent of roses. With the rest
She came to fill my heart with new surprise.
The day I left them all and sailed away,
While o’er the calm sea, ‘neath the soft gray sky
They waved farewell, she followed me, to say
Yet once again her wistful, sweet “good by.”
At the boat’s bow she drooped; her light green dress
Swept o’er the skiff in many a graceful fold,
Her glowing face, bright with a mute caress,
Crowned with her lovely hair of shadowy gold:
And tears she dropped into the crystal brine
For me, unworthy, as we slowly swung
Free of the mooring. Her last look was mine,
Seeking me still the motley crowd among.
O tender memory of the dead I hold
So precious through the fret and change of years
Were I to live till Time itself grew old,
The sad sea would be sadder for those tears.
poem by Celia Thaxter
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