En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Spirits of Our Fathers

THE SPIRITS of our fathers rise not from every wave,
They left the sea behind them long ago;
It was many years of “slogging,” where strong men must be brave,
For the sake of unborn children, and, maybe, a soul to save,
And the end a tidy homestead, and four panels round a grave,
And—the bones of poor old Someone down below.

Some left happy homes in old lands when they heard the New Land call
(Some were gentlemen and some were social wrecks)
Some left squalor and starvation—they were soldiers one and all,
And their weapons were the cross-cut and the wedges and the maul.
(How we used to run as children when we heard the big trees fall!
While they paused to wipe their faces and their necks.)

They were buried by our uncles where the ground was hard to dig
(It was little need for churchmen that they had),
And they sobbed like grown-up children, for their hearts were soft and big.
And the myrtle and the ivy, and the vine-tree and the fig—
And the heather—and the shamrock, where th’ mother kept the pig,
Waited vainly for the Grand Australian Dad.

The spirits of our fathers have belts and bowyangs on
(Oh, Father! do you live again and know?)
Strapped riding pants and leggings parched and perished in the sun,
And love-belts “worked” by sweethearts ere the digging days were done,
And the cabbage-tree that went out with the muzzle-loading gun
That was carried round the cattle out beyond the furthest run
Where the brave exploring drovers used to go.

The spirits of our fathers, they rise from every grave
(Each side the line that Burke and Leichhardt crossed),
And where still in “settled districts” ghastly Bush-lost madmen rave
(While the grim search parties, haggard, struggle hopelessly to save)
Till the spirit timber beacons and the spirit waters lave,
And no spirit of a father has been lost.

The spirits of our fathers, they rise from level sand
(Like an ocean where an ocean used to be),
Out where Heaven’s grandest ’lectrics light the Never Never Land
With the glorious hope and promise that the Bushmen understand
When the rain and grass are coming till the desert-plain is grand,
And the drought-divorced Australian meets his soul.

Listen! There’s the word that’s spoken when no other soul seems near,
And the one who hears is sober, calm and sane,
And the name called, amongst many, when the called alone can hear—
Words by lone huts and in prison, speaking comfort, hope and cheer—
And the Warning, not admited to each other, calm and clear—
Then the fathers of a nation speak again.

There are spirits of our fathers in the theatres to-night
(And the places where rich sons of settlers go),
And a half-dressed daughter shivers, and a tailored son turns white,
For the heritage world-squandered, and the Land put out of sight,
And that awful thirst for Nothing that they bought with their birthright
And a haggard mother’s spirit bending low.

There are spirits of our fathers by the pleasant South Coast roads
Where motor cars of sons of stockmen go,
In the wealth robbed from Up Country, oh, the shame of it is black!
And the laugh and giggle ceases and the car swerves and turns back,
’Tis the old dad, smiling grimly, with arms folded by the track,
And the shades of horse and swagmen that they know.

There’s the flagship of the First Fleet rising grimly on the tide
(Out by Watson where the motor, launches go),
And the features known to many of our families of pride—
But the launches veer like seabirds, veer and turn and circle wide
From the shadow of a free ship where the waiting liners ride
And pale faces of brave emigrants look sadly o’er the side—
Boys and girls who were our parents long ago.

There the word said in the Senate by the patriot unafraid
(Senate where the comic fatmen never mind)
And the tissue starts and wakens, summons “Haw-haws!” to its aid,
But the honest men sit upright who were wearied of tirade.
And a nation’s aims are furthered! and a nation’s law is made—
For the spirit of a father stands behind.

poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Patteran

From over the leagues of ice and snow, and the miles of scorching sand;
From back of the days of long ago, and the lonely sea and land—
To the end of the world and our Gipsy race, to the death of our dark-eyed line,
I have set the lines on my children’s palms as my fathers did on mine,
That the world shall know and my name shall glow in the light of the aftershine—
I have set the lines on my children’s palms as my fathers did on mine.
I have given them health and strength, pure blood, clear skins for a glorious youth;
I have set in their souls contempt for sham, and a deathless regard for truth;
I have bequeathed the spirit to fight, I have given the will to rise,
And the slumbering fires of Hate and Love in their dreaming, dreaming eyes.
That the world shall know and my name shall glow in the light of the aftershine,
I have set the lines on my children’s palms as my fathers did on mine.

I have given the love for their native land, wherever that land may be
(My children came from the East, my friends, and round by the Northern Sea),
And a son of a son of mine enemy, to the end of his treacherous line,
Shall be stricken to earth, if he dare but speak, by a son of a son of mine.
That the world shall know and my name shall glow in the light of the aftershine,
I have set the lines on my children’s palms as my fathers did on mine.

poem by Henry Lawson
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A Zimbabwean asks a question

O Great Spirit,
You who in Your form of the Chapungu,
the great eagle with sharper eye than any aeroplane,
watches over us and knows all things;
who even descends from your great circles of flight
over our beautiful land of stone and earth and tree
to show a child lost in the bush
the way back to the village and to home,
please show us, too, the way back home, to You.

You know I talk to you each day in my heart,
but today a man has asked me to speak some words
that many people may hear.

So I speak for Zimbabwe, and for the Africa
of which we are so proud:
for we in Africa are proud; and proud for You:
that in a mad and busy world, we have not forgotten
that every blade of grass and flower,
lizard, singing bird, lion, elephant,
are You in all your great disguises
and that all that we see around us
is You in the spirits of our ancestors
who listen to us and guide us;
and so we know that we must listen
to every creature to hear news of You...

and in the evening of each day
(which, we cannot now forget, may be our last)
as the men come home from work
and the women and children back from the fields,
and the smoke from the evening fires
rises above the huts,
and the smells of cooking fill the air,
we tell all our children round the fire
the truth about You
in all the tales our fathers and grandfathers have told us -
told to these children who have so recently come from You;
by those grandparents who will so soon come back to You;
they have so much to share and listen to,
about You!

And would you not agree, O Great Spirit,
that the smile of an African child
is the biggest thing you ever saw - or made?
It reminds every mother and father of Your smile,
and tells every grandparent what is in store for them...

So we rejoice to think, O Great Spirit,
that we are still your children,
and that You know what is best for us -

And so I ask you, especially today, O Great Spirit,
for all who may read this:

Are the spirits angry with us?
If they are, please tell me why?
And so, what can we do to stay close to You?

Many men have many answers to these questions
in the reasoning of men;
but nothing from men quite seems to 'do the trick';
so now, I'm simply asking You
to speak in Your own way;

since nothing from men quite seems to 'do the trick';

and, O Great Spirit,
Chapungu,
it is Your world, which we look after, and not ours...

poem by Michael Shepherd
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My Fathers Chair

My fathers chair still standing there
All alone since the long night
Now its three years on and I still feel
Hell come home, well be alright
So wheres this healing time brings
I was told the pain would ease
But it still hurts like the first night
That night my brother, my mother and i
Were looking up at a distant star
And wishing we could reach that far
And back in the house
And alone for the first time
We told each other we cared
We avoided my fathers chair
I watch my family, we hold on
We are strong and well be alright
The clock continues counting down, all the while
And every child will share the long night
But do the spirits meet again
Why am I still so filled with doubt
Is my soul everlasting
And the far distant future
When I knew youd be gone
Came too fast and stays too long
Why do they leave the weak of spirit
And take the strong
When the world turns sour
And I get sick from the smell
And I cant find no comfort there
I climb into my fathers chair

song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Fathers Eyes

(by eric clapton)
Sailing down behind the sun,
Waiting for my prince to come.
Praying for the healing rain
To restore my soul again.
Just a toerag on the run.
How did I get here?
What have I done?
When will all my hopes arise?
How will I know him?
When I look in my fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes.
When I look in my fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes.
Then the light begins to shine
And I hear those ancient lullabies.
And as I watch this seedling grow,
Feel my heart start to overflow.
Where do I find the words to say?
How do I teach him?
What do we play?
Bit by bit, Ive realized
Thats when I need them,
Thats when I need my fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes.
Thats when I need my fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes.
Then the jagged edge appears
Through the distant clouds of tears.
Im like a bridge that was washed away;
My foundations were made of clay.
As my soul slides down to die.
How could I lose him?
What did I try?
Bit by bit, Ive realized
That he was here with me;
I looked into my fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes.
I looked into my fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes.
I looked into my fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes.

song performed by by Eric Clapton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gayashuta to the Sons of Onas

My brothers! Sons of Onas! hear my voice!
And Gayashuta's spirit shall rejoice;
For age has settled on his drooping head;
His hopes have wither'd, and his joys have fled.
When youth and strength were seated on his brow,
He felt not hunger, pain, and want, as now;
For then the wild deer bounded o'er the plain,
And never was his arrow sped in vain.
Our land embraced the mountain and the flood,
The chase—our pleasure—furnish'd us with food.
The red man's tribes the mighty Spirit bless'd,
And every stranger was his welcome guest.
With pleasure, when they sought our lonely haunts,
We gave them shelter, and relieved their wants.
My brothers! when your fathers sought our shores,
The wide extended fertile plains were ours.
They loved the land their mighty ships had found,
And Onas call'd his red-skinn'd brethren round—
They ask'd us, and we gave them of our land,
Whereon to plant, and where their wigwams stand:
And Gayashuta's voice was foremost heard,
To urge and aid the suit his friend preferr'd.
My brothers! Gayashuta had not thought,
When first the Groves of Pines* your fathers sought,
Of age or weakness—strength was in his frame,
And cowards shrunk beneath his eye of flame.
Your fathers saw him then,—he now is old,
And you will ne'er his alter'd form behold,
His wither'd, bending form, that scarce appears
The ghost of what it was in former years.
He wonders, when his shadow meets his eye,
It is so shrunk, so changed from days gone by!
No longer can he track the flying game,
Or point the arrow with unerring aim;
He has no children to supply his wants,
The whites have scared the wild deer from his haunts.
In hunting all the day the youth must toil,
And scarce the chase will yield sufficient spoil
To satisfy themselves—there is none left
For those who are of friends and strength bereft.
For Gayashuta is not here alone—
A remnant yet remains of days long gone.
They were your fathers’ friends, they now are weak,
And poor and feeble—shall they vainly speak!
My brothers! Sons of Onas! in his youth,
Your fathers gave this belt, the badge of truth,
To Gayashuta, this he sends to you,
The ancient bond of friendship to renew.
Look on this belt! and should it warm your heart,
Then comfort to your fathers’ friends impart.
My brothers! we are men, and only say
That we are hungry, naked, old, and gray.
We have no other friends on whom to call,
Than you, the Sons of Onas, friends to all.

(*The place where Philadelphia now stands was called by the Indians the Grove of the long pine trees.)

poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Appeal of the Choctaw

We cannot leave our fathers’ land!
We cannot leave our fathers’ graves!
The long-loved hills that round us stand—
Our valleys, with their pleasant waves.
Oh, bid us not to trace afar,
The pathway of the evening star;
We cannot find, where'er we roam,
A spot which bears, like this, the name of home!

What though the western forest rise,
More tall, more darkly close, than these;
And calm the stately wild deer lies,
In slumber ‘neath the stately trees;—
Though hill and vale are passing fair,
And all seems bright and lovely there,
We cannot love the beauteous spot,
To us the great Manitto gave it not!

What care we for those prairies wide?
Our fathers never hunted there;—
Those cavern echoes ne'er, in pride,
Flung back their wild halloo of war.
Those wooded glens, and shaded streams,
Came never to our children's dreams;
Nor have we, in our young hearts’ glee,
Loved, like familiar friends, each rock and tree.

But here, amid the tempest's rush,
Our spirit fathers’ voices thrill!
They come at midnight's moonlit hush,
Or when the eve-star lights the hill.
The thoughts of other times are spread
O'er every gray crag's misty head;—
And how then can we lightly leave
The scenes to which our hearts so fondly cleave?

Then have we not in worship bow'd,
Before your God, the humbled head?
And tamed our spirits, fierce and proud,
To till our hunting grounds for bread?
And now, that in our bosom's cell,
A white man's calmer soul would dwell,
You seek to grasp our planted soil,
And drive us hence, in distant lands to toil!

Oh, white men! ye have fair smooth brows,
And lips whose words we well might trust,
But treachery mingles in your vows,
Your chain of friendship is but dust!
Ye come with falsehood in your hearts,
Ye frame your laws with wily arts,
And bid us ‘neath their shades to dwell
, That we may wither by their blighting spell!

poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Hunters Lullaby

Your fathers gone a-hunting
Hes deep in the forest so wild
And he cannot take his wife with him
He cannot take his child
Your fathers gone a-hunting
In the quicksand and the clay
And a woman cannot follow him
Although she knows the way
Your fathers gone a-hunting
Through the silver and the glass
Where only greed can enter
But spirit, spirit cannot pass
Your fathers gone a-hunting
For the beast well never cannot bind
And he leaves a baby sleeping
And his blessings all behind
Your fathers gone a-hunting
And hes lost his lucky charm
And hes lost the guardian heart
That keeps the hunter from the harm
Your fathers gone a-hunting
He asked me to say goodbye
And he warned me not to stop him
I wouldnt, I wouldnt even try

song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Oft saw my dad cry (to dad)

A father's love
Can never match
A mother's…
At least in
Children's eyes…

A father's love
Cannot be shown
As easily
As in
a mother's sighs

A father's love
Is of labor dear
More distant so by nature
than… in tender
nurture lies

A father's love
Is of hidden tears
And rarely
Shown raw
emotions

Held within
A rough façade
Of gentle heart…
Of kind and
Cloistered emotions

Fathers withhold
Within themselves
Caring feelings (and memories)
Of small smiles
And big wide eyes

Fathers hold back
Tears inside while…
drying other's eyes
Yet fathers weep Inside,
so deep…most children
Know not why

And more than once
I caught a peek of tears
In my dad's eyes
And on his cheek
Fathers are …
of stern stuff made
Yet fathers
…Often cry…

poem by David Whalen
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Fathers Are The Men From Sky

Fathers, the men who are like a pen
We never can see whatever is going on inside them
But suddenly that pen is finished and then?

Fathers, the men who try hard for the pleasure of their family
They just want the less for themselves because of the comfort of their children
Looking forward to spend a day with his family in a place that is hilly

Fathers, the men who justify the wishes of their children to their own wishes
They just live to see the victory of their children and family
But their life sometimes is as short as the golden fishes

Fathers, the men who are noble, they leave their tired face out of the house's door
They came in with a happy face, but we know they are tired from inside
We know that they are sad from the core.

Fathers, the men who listen to the pain of family members
People who are powerful to solve the problems and hard conditions
But no one has the ear to understand them; they just talk with the embers

Fathers,
Warm and kind people who never bother

Fathers,
Who are unique in their way, after them there is no tother

Fathers,
Are the men who are like the kind brothers.

poem by Ellias Anderson
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Hymn I

O THOU, whose presence went before
Our fathers in their weary way,
As with Thy chosen moved of yore
The fire by night, the cloud by day!
When from each temple of the free,
A nation's song ascends to Heaven,
Most Holy Father! unto Thee
May not our humble prayer be given?
Thy children all, though hue and form
Are varied in Thine own good will,
With Thy own holy breathings warm,
And fashioned in Thine image still.
We thank Thee, Father! hill and plain
Around us wave their fruits once more,
And clustered vine, and blossomed grain,
Are bending round each cottage door.
And peace is here; and hope and love
Are round us as a mantle thrown,
And unto Thee, supreme above,
The knee of prayer is bowed alone.
But oh, for those this day can bring,
As unto us, no joyful thrill;
For those who, under Freedom's wing,
Are bound in Slavery's fetters still:
For those to whom Thy written word
Of light and love is never given;
For those whose ears have never heard
The promise and the hope of heaven!
For broken heart, and clouded mind,
Whereon no human mercies fall;
Oh, be Thy gracious love inclined,
Who, as a Father, pitiest all!
And grant, O Father! that the time
Of Earth's deliverance may be near,
When every land and tongue and clime
The message of Thy love shall hear;
When, smitten as with fire from heaven,
The captive's chain shall sink in dust,
And to his fettered soul be given
The glorious freedom of the just!

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Mothers And Daughters / Fathers And Sons

Neil Diamond - Mothers and Daughters, Fathers and Sons
And so they came with perfect schemes
And precious dreams that made them one
One by one
Oh, and there they stood lost in the haze
With spirits blazing like the sun
Mothers and daughters,
Fathers and sons
They held the light
Yes they did
And it shined all night
Oh, all night
And they took the blows
Yes they did
Never letting go
Oh no, oh no
Oh no
And so they came with perfect schemes
And precious dreams that made them one
One by one
Oh, look up and see the eagles fly
And fill the sky beneath the sun
Mothers and daughters,
Fathers and sons
You hold the light
Yes you do
And you've got the right
Oh, got the right
And you'll feel the blows
Yes you will
Don't you dare let go
Oh no, oh no
Said that we have the right
Yes we do
It's down in black and white
Oh oh, oh oh
And we made it so
Yes we did
And we won't let go
Oh no, oh no

song performed by by Neil Diamond
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Corner Stone (For Father's Day)

The father is the source of strength of his family.
He can weather storm in order to protect them.
He will endure rain or shine to provide his love ones.
He is always ready to give his support and guidance all the time.
The father is consistent for his duty and love for the family.
He can move mountains and shy away the temptation.
He gives himself fully to his family with love and devotion.
Children who have a father to guide them are blessed from heaven.
A husband is a gift for his wife and siblings.
The fathers may look tough in the outside yet so soft inside.
His happiness is to see his family well provided.
He sacrifices his own needs for the sake of his family.
Fathers may mean sometimes but his heart is bleeding for his child.
Fathers are the makers of what we become.
Fathers are always there to lend a helping hand.
Fathers sometimes misunderstood of his wisdom not knowing the meaning.
Fathers are gifted to be strong and stable, firm and durable as the homes foundation.
The father is the source of life itself as we become a family.
A home with out a father can not be a family at all.
A child is lucky who have a father's love and care.
A mother is blessed to have her partner and companion in life.
A house is not a home with out the foundation.
A family is blissful when love abounds.
God bless the fathers that honor his love for his family.
And for whom who remain faithful in their vows of love and devotion.

poem by Emelita C. Smith
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Father & Son

There is the family photograph
That is your father’s face,
There is your father’s father
Grey-gathering years apace;
The son, bright-eyed in the morning,
The father, lined and drawn,
The son became the father
On the day that you were born.

We’ve all set out on the highway
Our fathers wished us well,
The sons became the fathers
In the same distinctive spell;
The road of all beginnings
Is all there is to lend,
But many a twist, and many a turn
Has marred us at the end.

He was my father’s father,
I am my father’s son,
We’ve travelled as far, and farther
Than our father’s years have run;
The twists and turns of fortune
Mean nothing, lost or won,
But the love of a father’s father,
And the love of a father’s son.

3 September 1977

poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Messenger-Bird

Thou art come from the spirits' land, thou bird!
Thou art come from the spirits' land!
Through the dark pine-grove let thy voice be heard,
And tell of the shadowy band!

We know that the bowers are green and fair
In the light of that summer shore,
And we know that the friends we have lost are there,
They are there-and they weep no more!

And we know they have quench'd their fever's thirst
From the Fountain of Youth ere now,
For there must the stream in its freshness burst,
Which none may find below!

And we know that they will not be lur'd to earth
From the land of deathless flowers,
By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth,
Though their hearts were once with ours;

Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze,
And bent with us the bow,
And heard the tales of our fathers' days,
Which are told to others now!

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain!
Can those who have lov'd forget?
We call-and they answer not again-
-Do they love-do they love us yet?

Doth the warrior think of his brother there,
And the father of his child?
And the chief, of those that were wont to share
His wanderings through the wild?

We call them far through the silent night,
And they speak not from cave or hill;
We know, thou bird! that their land is bright,
But say, do they love there still?

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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God of our fathers

With their eyes set on the distance
our fathers
trekked into their promised land
as children of the God
of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

After the murders on Piet Retief and his men
our fathers made a holy covenant
with the almighty God
to rescue them in their laager at Blood River
against a very big army
of about twenty thousand Zulus.

With their victory
they did not go forth
to wipe out every single Zulu,
rather with the Bible in the hand
they wanted to teach
other people about God.

When the Xhosas slaughtered
almost all their livestock,
were burning their own harvests
believing the medium Nonqawuse
that ancestral spirits
will rise to wipe out the white man

and thousands of them
were dying from starvation
our fathers reached out their hands
and in neighbourly love gave food to those people,
doing what they could
to try and save them.

When droughts, illness of the livestock,
locusts were ravaging, even when the British Empire
came to take the mineral treasures,
were burning down farms and towns,
were murdering women and children
in concentration camps

our fathers went on their knees,
placing their destiny in the hands
of the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob
knowing that his shadow was falling over them,
that He keeps account
was folding His Godly hand over them

l’Envoi
and now that thousands of farmers
are being killed on their farms
are being tortured, murdered and robbed
Afrikaners with qualifications
and experience, even artisans
are unemployed on the street,
people in cities
are hijacked, robbed and raped

I am praying to the God
of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.
to keep His hand over us,
to draws His laager
around the lives and property
of everyone that comes to Him,
to free us from this oppression.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Dreams Of Our Fathers

Oh, Im choking, Im choking
On the smoke from this burning house
I claw and I scrape
But I cant seem to get out
But who then, who is this
Thats scratching from the ground
Oh, its my world, too
But whose gold is this Im digging out?
When we go, where we go
When were dead
Is the verdict still out?
Do we get into line
To line up with those long dead now?
With the muffled tears of sorrow
Bones underground
Is this time our time?
Yes, it is
Without or with this shadow of doubt
I dont want to wake up
Lost in the dreams of our fathers
Oh, its such a waste child
To live and die for the dreams of our fathers
Though I must confess, yes
My view is a wonder about this
This love I possess, love
Must be the dreams of our fathers
I wanna go, I wanna run
We turn, so sure someones looking down
Its haunting me, haunting me
Leaves us here to get out
Though I dont believe, I dont believe
This flavor in my mouth
Is from my tongue alone
So bitter I wanna spit it out
I repeat these words
They come out
Under the blue light in the sky
My empty pages are filling up
With these wicked lies
But I hear deep in myself
An echo, an echo
Of empty, empty emptiness
Comes up and swells inside
I dont want to wake up
Lost in the dreams of our fathers
Oh, its such a waste child
To live and die for the dreams of our fathers
Though I must confess, yes
My view is a wonder about this
This love I possess, love
It must be the dreams of our fathers
Rain on my head
Rain on my head
Rain on me
And then give me air
Rain on my love
Again and again
Why cant I dream you away from me?
Look here, look here
Bloated, floating
Go belly down
Belly up in the water
But who is this here thats drowned?
We followed a drunken man
He got us all spinning round
But its like he swallowed himself
And didnt leave us a way out
I dont want to wake up
Lost in the dreams of our fathers
Oh, its such a shame child
To live and die for the dreams of our fathers
Though I must confess, yes
My view is a wonder about this
This love I possess, love
It must be the dreams of our fathers
This love I possess, love
It must be the dreams of our fathers
This love I possess, love
It must be the dreams of our fathers
This love I possess, love
It must be the love of our fathers
The dreams
The dreams
The dreams
This love I possess love

song performed by by Dave Matthews Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Australia's Peril

We must suffer, husband and father, we must suffer, daughter and son,
For the wrong we have taken part in and the wrong that we have seen done.
Let the bride of frivolous fashion, and of ease, be ashamed and dumb,
For I tell you the nations shall rule us who have let their children come!

How shall Australia escape it – we in the South and alone
Who have taken the sword for no right of England and none of our own?
(Can we bring back the husbands and fathers, can we bring the lovers and sons?
From the Dead to the homes we have ruined with the fire of our murdering guns?)

Who shall aid and protect us when the blood-streaked dawn we meet?
Will England, the hated of nations, whose existence depends on her fleet?
Who, because of the deer-parks and game-runs where her wheat-fields and pastures should be,
Must bring food for her herded thousands and shepherd it over the sea?

The beak of the British Octopus, or the Bosses within our reach
Who spend the hot days on the Mountains or summer at Manly Beach!
The thousands of paltry swindlers who are fathoms beneath our scorn –
Or the army of brave sons grown from the children who should have been born!

The wealth you have won has been wasted on trips to the English Rome,
On costly costumes from Paris, and titles and gewgaws from "home".
Shall a knighthood frighten Asia when she comes with the hate of hell?
Will the motor-launch race the torpedo, or the motor-car outspeed the shell?

Keep the wealth you have won from the cities, spend the wealth you have won on the land,
Save the floods that run into the ocean – save the floods that sink into the sand!
Make farms fit to live on, build workshops and technical schools for your sons;
Keep the wealth of the land in Australia – make your own cloth, machines, and guns!

Clear out the Calico Jimmy, the nigger, the Chow, and his pals;
Be your foreword for years: Irrigation. Make a network of lakes and canals!
See that your daughters have children, and see that Australia is home,
And so be prepared, a strong nation, for the storm that most surely must come.

poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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For Fathers On Father's Day

Seeing as Father's Day is drawing near
Prepare good fathers for the high chairs
Where to receive some genuine cheers
For how much they've truly cared
And for the time that they've shared
Doing the duties of sensitive fathers
Not like those men who are careless
Living their lives tough and heartless
Standing together let's not be scared
Of saying what should've been declared
Truth is there are some who are called fathers
Although they aren't doing the duty of fathers
Even though by name they are known to be
So far their fatherly duty is still yet to be seen
Father, if yesterday you were going your own ways
But today you become a father change your ways
Prepare to start taking on the duty of a father
Be aware this could mean it's time to work harder
With the woman whose child you are the father
Given that God has been the very first father
He has exemplified us of how to take care
In every way that we should live and share
Similar to how He does it for all
Even as ‘He maketh His sun to rise
On the evil and on the good,
And sendeth the rain on the just
And on the unjust (Matt5: 45) '
I will say three cheers due
Unto all the caring fathers
Though I wish every father
Good, bad or unlikable
Happy Father's Day!

All right reserved

poem by Clarence Prince
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In The Memory of Fathers' Day

Every have their own, on one special day
My father, in his day, has his own special way.
For this, we’re profound to make fathers’ day.
Nothing is better than love, with gay
Love for dad, must never be away.
For which to you, happy fathers’ day.
Father and son
This way, have spun.
Forever, love to you, rise,
Even when away.
And father and son, have its way,
Our love, forever, unastray.
Everybody have their own special days
And dad, is mine, day of light,
Forever, out of fathers’ day.
Even when, we shall away
Fathe and son-love, never astray.
And all have their own ways
And coming is only, for special days.
We’ll waiting, father and son.

poem by Deepta Protik Osman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Never-Never Country

By homestead, hut, and shearing-shed,
By railroad, coach, and track --
By lonely graves of our brave dead,
Up-Country and Out-Back:
To where 'neath glorious the clustered stars
The dreamy plains expand --
My home lies wide a thousand miles
In the Never-Never Land.

It lies beyond the farming belt,
Wide wastes of scrub and plain,
A blazing desert in the drought,
A lake-land after rain;
To the sky-line sweeps the waving grass,
Or whirls the scorching sand --
A phantom land, a mystic land!
The Never-Never Land.

Where lone Mount Desolation lies,
Mounts Dreadful and Despair --
'Tis lost beneath the rainless skies
In hopeless deserts there;
It spreads nor'-west by No-Man's-Land --
Where clouds are seldom seen --
To where the cattle-stations lie
Three hundred miles between.

The drovers of the Great Stock Routes
The strange Gulf country know --
Where, travelling from the southern drought
The big lean bullocks go;
And camped by night where plains lie wide,
Like some old ocean's bed,
The watchmen in the starlight ride
Round fifteen hundred head.

And west of named and numbered days
The shearers walk and ride --
Jack Cornstalk and the Ne'er-do-well
And the grey-beard side by side;
They veil their eyes -- from moon and stars,
And slumber on the sand --
Sad memories steep as years go round
In Never-Never Land.

By lonely huts north-west of Bourke,
Through years of flood and drought,
The best of English black-sheep work
Their own salvation out:
Wild fresh-faced boys grown gaunt and brown --
Stiff-lipped and haggard-eyed --
They live the Dead Past grimly down!
Where boundary-riders ride.

The College Wreck who sank beneath,
Then rose above his shame,
Tramps west in mateship with the man
Who cannot write his name.
'Tis there where on the barren track
No last half-crust's begrudged --
Where saint and sinner, side by side,
Judge not, and are not judged.

Oh rebels to society!
The Outcasts of the West --
Oh hopeless eyes that smile for me,
And broken hearts that jest!
The pluck to face a thousand miles --
The grit to see it through!
The communion perfected! --
And -- I am proud of you!

The Arab to true desert sand,
The Finn to fields of snow,
The Flax-stick turns to Maoriland,
While the seasons come and go;
And this old fact comes home to me --
And will not let me rest --
However barren it may be,
Your own land is the best!

And, lest at ease I should forget
True mateship after all,
My water-bag and billy yet
Are hanging on the wall;
And if my fate should show the sign
I'd tramp to sunsets grand
With gaunt and stern-eyed mates of mine
In the Never-Never Land.

poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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