En.Citatepedia^®.ro

To Jim

I gaze upon my son once more,
With eyes and heart that tire,
As solemnly he stands before
The screen drawn round the fire;
With hands behind clasped hand in hand,
Now loosely and now fast—
Just as his fathers used to stand
For generations past.
A fair and slight and childish form,
And big brown thoughtful eyes—
God help him! for a life of storm
And stress before him lies:
A wanderer and a gipsy wild,
I’ve learnt the world and know,
For I was such another child—
Ah, many years ago!

But in those dreamy eyes of him
There is no hint of doubt—
I wish that you could tell me, Jim,
The things you dream about.
Dream on, my son, that all is true
And things not what they seem—
’Twill be a bitter day for you
When wakened from your dream.

You are a child of field and flood,
But with the gipsy strains
A strong Norwegian sailor’s blood
Is running through your veins.
Be true, and slander never stings,
Be straight, and all may frown—
You’ll have the strength to grapple things
That dragged your father down.

These lines I write with bitter tears
And failing heart and hand,
But you will read in after years,
And you will understand:
You’ll hear the slander of the crowd,
They’ll whisper tales of shame,
But days will come when you’ll be proud
To bear your father’s name.

But oh! beware of bitterness
When you are wronged, my lad—
I wish I had the faith in men
And women that I had!
’Tis better far (for I have felt
The sadness in my song)
To trust all men and still be wronged
Than to trust none and wrong.

Be generous and still do good
And banish while you live
The spectre of ingratitude
That haunts the ones who give.
But if the crisis comes at length
That your future might be marred,
Strike hard, my son, with all your strength!
For your own self’s sake, strike hard!

poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Am Your Higher Ground

The tears of my heart are falling
And each dropp is a part of me
My heart is thoroughly broken
Oh my Father in heaven can't you see

My heart lays wet on my pillow
I am wounded and broken inside
I try to hang on to what I have
Yet the floodgates are opened wide

The cry of my soul is to heaven
Yet the flood of my heart rises still
Who will heal my heart of this rupture
I have swallowed a most bitter pill

In the midst of this flood that is rising
I am overwhelmed by what I can see
I shut my eyes and cast them to heaven
And the Lord says ' keep your eyes upon me.'

Be still my child and trust in me yet
I have captured each tear in my hand
I see your afflictions and troubled heart
Upon I alone you must stand

For when the enemy comes in like a flood
And there's no hiding place to be found
I am your refuge and strong high tower
I am your higher ground

Come away with me in the midst of this storm
Will you place your heart in my hand
Trust in me oh child of mine
And together, you shall surely stand

poem by Frank McEleny
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Father

Father oh father
Hear me if you can
Is it true what they say
That life is a dream
I dont understand
The things that make rain in my eyes
Are they real or are they lies
You know I hear so much about you now
Id give anything
To go on a little boat with you
Talk about the scheme of things
On a little boat with you
Father oh father
Guide me if you can
Or give me the chance to follow you home
I am your son but I wish I knew you
When you were young
Were you lonely as a boy
You know Id give so much to see you now
Id go anywhere
Pick a little stick and walk with you
Talk about the scheme of things
On a short walk with you
Father oh father
You give me just a little hope
I feel something out there reaching for me
Well here I am
Wont you take me with you
Out of this maze
And away from this place
Because it gets so cold and lonely here
Ill do anything
To sit on a little rock with you
Talk about the scheme of things
On a small rock with you
Show me show me show me the way
Before they grind me down
And bleach me grey
Send me power not to be afraid
And when I close my eyes
Let me see you once in the light
Father oh father
Heal me if you can
Is it true what they say
That life is a dream

song performed by by Cat Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Diary Of Me

Umm pum-pum-pum
Pum-pum, pum-pum, pum-pum
Look behind myself
As I reflect on all the memories
The times they come and go
Lost everything from friends to Family
If I could turn back the hands
There would be some things I'd change about me
I know that my past is not what my future holds
Where I come from
Who could believe
All the pain and misery
Look in my eyes and you'll see
The diary of me
Rewind my life
Just go back and correct all the wrong
And ask God to direct my path
So that I can make it home
And if I could turn back the hands of time
There would be some things I would change about me
But I know that my past is not what my future holds
'Cause
Where I'm from
Who could believe
All the pain, misery
Look in my eyes and you will see
The diary of me
Years ago a child was born (a child was born) (ooh)
And raised without a man (without my... father, and wonder why he's in these streets) (ooh)
My mother's gone (mothers gone, yet still... found the strength to pray for me) (ooh)
But still reached out her hand
Just open the book (na-na-na-na-na-na)
Turn the pages of my life (na-na-na)
And you will read
A true story about one man's journey
Where I'm from (ahh...)
Who would believe, yeah
That all the hurt and pain and misery (ahh...)
Look in my eyes (ahh...)
You'll see the diary of me (pum-pum-pum-pum-pum)
Where I'm from (where I'm from, who could believe) (ahh...)
Who could believe (the hurt and pain and misery)
(Look in my eyes) in my eyes (and you will see) (ahh...)
(The makings of) the makings of
(My diary) my diary
(Where I'm from) look in my eyes (ahh...)
(Who could believe) you'll see
(The hurt and pain and misery)
(Look in my eyes) (ahh...)
(And you will see) yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah
(The makings of my diary)
(Where I'm from...) (ahh...)

song performed by by R. Kelly
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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The Afterglow

Oh, for the fire that used to glow
In those my days of old!
I never thought a man could grow
So callous and so cold.
Ah, for the heart that used to ache
For those in sorrow’s ways;
I often wish my heart could break
As it did in those dead days.

Along my track of storm and stress,
And it is plain to trace,
I look back from the loneliness
And the depth of my disgrace.
’Twas fate and only fate I know,
But all mistakes are plain,
’Tis sadder than the afterglow,
More dreary than the rain.

But still there lies a patch of sun
That ne’er will come again,
Those golden days when I was one
Of Nature’s gentlemen.
And if there is a memory
Could break me down at last,
It sure would be the thought of this,
The sunshine in the past.

But ’spite of sunshine on the track—
And well the sun might shine—
My heart grows hard when I look back
From these dark days of mine.
A nobler child was never born
In all the Southern land—
The slave of selfish ignorance
That could not understand.

Oh, I had lived for many years
In a world of my ideal,
With no false laughter, no false tears,
And it seemed very real.
But I was wakened from my dreams,
And learnt with hardening eyes
A world of selfish treachery,
Of paltry shame and lies.

I left the truest friends on earth
Who did not need my aid,
And worked for those who were not worth
The sacrifice I made.
And while I blindly strove to raise
The coward and the clown,
They sneaked behind by shady ways
And tore my palace down.

But let those faithless friends of mine
Who’d think of me with scorn,
Remember that for many years
A heavy load I’ve borne.
And my true friends when all is done,
And my sad soul is gone,
Will think of battles I have won
When I lead rivals on.

And though from spite and worldly things
I well should be exempt,
For little men and paltry men
I scarce can feel contempt.
They followed me with flattery
In the days when I was brave—
But for those who have been true to me
I’ll strike back from the grave!

poem by Henry Lawson
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If I Can Dream

(words & music by brown)
There must be lights burning brighter somewhere
Got to be birds flying higher in a sky more blue
If I can dream of a better land
Where all my brothers walk hand in hand
Tell me why, oh why, oh why cant my dream come true
There must be peace and understanding sometime
Strong winds of promise that will blow away
All the doubt and fear
If I can dream of a warmer sun
Where hope keeps shining on everyone
Tell me why, oh why, oh why wont that sun appear
Were lost in a cloud
With too much rain
Were trapped in a world
Thats troubled with pain
But as long as a man
Has the strength to dream
He can redeem his soul and fly
Deep in my heart theres a trembling question
Still I am sure that the answer gonna come somehow
Out there in the dark, theres a beckoning candle
And while I can think, while I can talk
While I can stand, while I can walk
While I can dream, please let my dream
Come true, right now
Let it come true right now
Oh yeah

song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Into the darkness of His hand

In the deepest valley and the darkest night
There is a hand that holds my hand
And like a child I know not my way
All I know is with whom I stand

There seems to be no way ahead
And the road before me is crumbling
My hand is in my Fathers hand
It is all that keeps me from stumbling

You dare not look to you left or right
For it falls away to the dark abyss
And the path it seems to have come to an end
Yet my hand is held tightly in His

Just when I need my senses the most
And I must not be taken by surprise
I feel my hand in my Fathers hand
And He says ' my son, close your eyes.'

And my head screams out ' you'll fall and die, '
Yet my heart feels my hand in His hand
And the Lord says ' trust in me,
Shut you eyes and together we'll stand'

And so fear and doubt gave way to trust
I closed my eyes and held His hand tight
He led me through the deepest valley
He led me through the darkest night

poem by Frank McEleny
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This Woman's Work

Pray God you can cope
I stand outside
This woman's work
This woman's world
Ooooh it's hard on the man
Now his part is over
Now starts the craft of the Father

I know you've got a little life in you left
I know you've got a lot of strength left
I know you've got a little life in you yet
I know you've got a lot of strength left

I should be crying but I just can't let it show
I should be hoping but I can't stop thinking
All the things we should've said that I never said
All the things we should have done that we never did
All the things we should have given but I didn't

Oh darling make it go
Make it go away

Give me these moments
Give them back to me
Give me that little kiss
Give me your ...
I know you have a little life in you yet
Give me your hand babe
I know you have a lot of strength left
Give me your prayers
I know you have a little life in you yet
Ooooh oooh oooh
I know you have a lot of strength left
Your loved child
I know you have a little life in you yet
Whatever you need baby
I know you have a lot of strength left
Give me your hand
I know you have a little life in you yet
Give me you hand
I know you have a lot of strength left

I should be crying but I just can't let it show
I should be hoping but I can't stop thinking
Of all the things we should've said that we never said
All the things we should have done that we never did
All the things that you wanted from me
All the things that you needed tell me
All the things I should have given but I didn't
Oh darling make it go away
Just make it go away now

song performed by by Maxwell from Now
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song For The Fisherman

There were thousands of days
as we traveled down North Road,
and I remember my uncle on his last day,
and how I would kill to shake his hand again.
And on goes the battle of years upon years.
My father's eyes bring me solace,
and his look of focus I try to instill.
As my Mother reads as an example
of strength beyond strength,
and with her I became me.
There are two girls
with whome i've known longer than anyone,
and my debt to them is Lifetime.
The gathering of boys I rely on,
know exactly who they are
And I will build their protecting with bloody hands.
Some were dealt knuckles and some delivered kissesm
but initially my heart was in the right place.
There are times when being engulfed by mountains
are the only signs of safety I know.
And I realize I think this way out of neglection
and at the exact thought I reclaim those days of scenery.
There are places like the bluffs in Kasilof
and the gravel pits in Sand Lake,
that most of us will never forget.
Those are the things I wanted to speak of,
those are the things that I dream about,
Those are the things that I will definately die with,
and this is the song for the fisherman.

song performed by by 36 Crazyfists
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stand

I held your hand,
To help you stand,
So that you wouldn't fall.
And so we went,
Through the grass and dirt,
Together we took our walk.
We took our stroll,
On miles on end,
And not once did you loose faith,
For I was there holding your hand,
And keeping your little leg's straight.
I was the leader,
Your father, your dad,
Wherever I'd go you went.
You were my child,
My baby my son,
You showed me what true love meant.
For you were me,
My twin, myself,
When I was but your age.
And you did the things,
That I once did,
How I wish age wasn't a haste.
Now the years have gone on by,
We both now have matured,
And as I look, now I see,
My little boy had grown.
He stands alone so straight and tall
And smiles so proud and free,
And now I know he is a man,
For he is there, to help me stand.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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How Beautiful You Are

You want to know why i hate you?
Well i'll try and explain...
You remember that day in paris
When we wandered through the rain
And promised to each other
That we'd always think the same
And dreamed that dream
To be two souls as one
And stopped just as the sun set
And waited for the night
Outside a glittering building
Of glittering glass and burning light...
And in the road before us
Stood a weary greyish man
Who held a child upon his back
A small boy by the hand
The three of them were dressed in rags
And thinner than the air
And all six eyes stared fixedly on you
The father's eyes said "beautiful!
How beautiful you are!"
The boy's eyes said
"how beautiful!
She shimmers like a star!"
The childs eyes uttered nothing
But a mute and utter joy
And filled my heart with shame for us
At the way we are
I turned to look at you
To read my thoughts upon your face
And gazed so deep into your eyes
So beautiful and strange
Until you spoke
And showed me understanding is a dream
"i hate these people staring
Make them go away from me!"
The fathers eyes said "beautiful!
How beautiful you are!"
The boys eyes said
"how beautiful! she glitters like a star!"
The child's eyes uttered joy
And stilled my heart with sadness
For the way we are
And this is why i hate you
And how i understand
That no-one ever knows or loves another
Or loves another

song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mater Dolorosa

Who is this that sits by the way, by the wild wayside,
In a rent stained raiment, the robe of a cast-off bride,
In the dust, in the rainfall sitting, with soiled feet bare,
With the night for a garment upon her, with torn wet hair?
She is fairer of face than the daughters of men, and her eyes,
Worn through with her tears, are deep as the depth of skies.

This is she for whose sake being fallen, for whose abject sake,
Earth groans in the blackness of darkness, and men's hearts break.
This is she for whose love, having seen her, the men that were
Poured life out as water, and shed their souls upon air.
This is she for whose glory their years were counted as foam;
Whose face was a light upon Greece, was a fire upon Rome.

Is it now not surely a vain thing, a foolish and vain,
To sit down by her, mourn to her, serve her, partake in the pain?
She is grey with the dust of time on his manifold ways,
Where her faint feet stumble and falter through year-long days.
Shall she help us at all, O fools, give fruit or give fame,
Who herself is a name despised, a rejected name?

We have not served her for guerdon. If any do so,
That his mouth may be sweet with such honey, we care not to know.
We have drunk from a wine-unsweetened, a perilous cup,
A draught very bitter. The kings of the earth stood up,
And the rulers took counsel together, to smite her and slay;
And the blood of her wounds is given us to drink today.

Can these bones live? or the leaves that are dead leaves bud?
Or the dead blood drawn from her veins be in your veins blood?
Will ye gather up water again that was drawn and shed?
In the blood is the life of the veins, and her veins are dead.
For the lives that are over are over, and past things past;
She had her day, and it is not; was first, and is last.

Is it nothing unto you then, all ye that pass by,
If her breath be left in her lips, if she live now or die?
Behold now, O people, and say if she be not fair,
Whom your fathers followed to find her, with praise and prayer,
And rejoiced, having found her, though roof they had none nor bread;
But ye care not; what is it to you if her day be dead?

It was well with our fathers; their sound was in all men's lands;
There was fire in their hearts, and the hunger of fight in their
hands.
Naked and strong they went forth in her strength like flame,
For her love's and her name's sake of old, her republican name.
But their children, by kings made quiet, by priests made wise,
Love better the heat of their hearths than the light of her eyes.

Are they children of these thy children indeed, who have sold,
O golden goddess, the light of thy face for gold?
Are they sons indeed of the sons of thy dayspring of hope,
Whose lives are in fief of an emperor, whose souls of a Pope?
Hide then thine head, O beloved; thy time is done;
Thy kingdom is broken in heaven, and blind thy sun.

What sleep is upon you, to dream she indeed shall rise,
When the hopes are dead in her heart as the tears in her eyes?
If ye sing of her dead, will she stir? if ye weep for her, weep?
Come away now, leave her; what hath she to do but sleep?
But ye that mourn are alive, and have years to be;
And life is good, and the world is wiser than we.

Yea, wise is the world and mighty, with years to give,
And years to promise; but how long now shall it live?
And foolish and poor is faith, and her ways are bare,
Till she find the way of the sun, and the morning air.
In that hour shall this dead face shine as the face of the sun,
And the soul of man and her soul and the world's be one.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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They Say...

They say dreams never do come true..
But they are wrong, I say they do
I dream of violence, I dream of hurt
I dream of children, they live in dirt
I dream of you, I dream of me
I dream of how this was never meant to be
I dream of my feelings, I dream of my thoughts
I dream of these things, I dream of them lots
I dream of my loved ones, I dream of the dead
I dream of these thoughts, exploding my head
I dream of you yelling, I dream of you crying
I dream of you hiding, I dream of you lying
I dream of you hurting, I dream of you shutting me out of your life
I dream of the of the only one I can trust, I dream of my knife.
They say dreams never do come true,
But they are wrong, I say they do.

poem by Cheyanne Whien
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They say dreams never do come true.

They say dreams never do come true..
But they are wrong, I say they do
I dream of violence, I dream of hurt
I dream of children, they live in dirt
I dream of you, I dream of me
I dream of how this was never meant to be
I dream of my feelings, I dream of my thoughts
I dream of these things, I dream of them lots
I dream of my loved ones, I dream of the dead
I dream of these thoughts, exploding my head
I dream of you yelling, I dream of you crying
I dream of you hiding, I dream of you lying
I dream of you hurting, I dream of you shutting me out of your life
I dream of the of the only one I can trust, I dream of my knife.
They say dreams never do come true,
But they are wrong, I say they do.

poem by Sylvi Hart
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Gypsy Vans

Unless you come of the gipsy stock
That steals by night and day,
Lock your heart with a double lock
And throw the key away.
Bury it under the blackest stone
Beneath your father's hearth,
And keep your eyes on your lawful own
And your feet to the proper path.
Then you can stand at your door and mock
When the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't right that the Gorgio stock
Should live as the Romany do.

Unless you come of the gipsy blood
That takes and never spares,
Bide content with your given good
And follow your own affairs.
Plough and harrow and roll your land,
And sow what ought to be sowed;
But never let loose your heart from your hand,
Nor flitter it down the road!
Then you can thrive on your boughten food
As the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't nature the Gorgio blood
Should love as the Romany do.

Unless you carry the gipsy eyes
That see but seldom weep,
Keep your head from the naked skies
Or the stars'll trouble your sleep.
Watch your moon through your window-pane
And take what weather she brews;
But don't run out in the midnight rain
Nor home in the morning dews.
Then you can buddle and shut your eyes
As the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't fitting the Gorgio ryes
Should walk as the Romany do.

Unless you come of the gipsy race
That counts all time the same,
Be you careful of Time and Place
And Judgment and Good Name:
Lose your life for to live your life
The way that you ought to do;
And when you are finished, your God and your wife
And the Gipsies'll laugh at you!
Then you can rot in your burying place
As the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't reason the Gorgio race
Should die as the Romany do.

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Gipsy Vans

Unless you come of the gipsy stock
That steals by night and day,
Lock your heart with a double lock
And throw the key away.
Bury it under the blackest stone
Beneath your father's hearth,
And keep your eyes on your lawful own
And your feet to the proper path.
Then you can stand at your door and mock
When the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't right that the Gorgio stock
Should live as the Romany do.

Unless you come of the gipsy blood
That takes and never spares,
Bide content with your given good
And follow your own affairs.
Plough and harrow and roll your land,
And sow what ought to be sowed;
But never let loose your heart from your hand,
Nor flitter it down the road!
Then you can thrive on your boughten food
As the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't nature the Gorgio blood
Should love as the Romany do.

Unless you carry the gipsy eyes
That see but seldom weep,
Keep your head from the naked skies
Or the stars'll trouble your sleep.
Watch your moon through your window-pane
And take what weather she brews;
But don't run out in the midnight rain
Nor home in the morning dews.
Then you can buddle and shut your eyes
As the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't fitting the Gorgio ryes
Should walk as the Romany do.

Unless you come of the gipsy race
That counts all time the same,
Be you careful of Time and Place
And Judgment and Good Name:
Lose your life for to live your life
The way that you ought to do;
And when you are finished, your God and your wife
And the Gipsies'll laugh at you!
Then you can rot in your burying place
As the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't reason the Gorgio race
Should die as the Romany do.

poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Look To The Rainbow (feat. Barbara Cook)

On the day I was born
Set me father said he
I've got an elegent legacy waiting for me
It's a rhyme for your lips
It's a song for your heart
To sing it whenever the world falls apart
Look, look , look to the rainbow
Follow it over the hills and stream
Look, look, look to the rainbow
Follow the fellow who follows our dream
It was a sumtuous gift
To beguife to a child
Or the lore of that song kept her feet running wild
For you never grow old
And you never stand still
With whipper will singing beyond the next hill
Look, look , look to the rainbow
Follow it over the hills and stream
Look, look, look to the rainbow
Follow the fellow who follows a dream
Strike one me heart and I roam the world free
To the east with a lark
To the west with the sea
And I searched all the Earth
And I scanned all the sky
But I found it at last
In my own true love's eyes
Look, look , look to the rainbow
Follow it over the hills and stream
Look, look, look to the rainbow
Follow the fellow who follows the dream
Follow the fellow
Follow the fellow
Follow the fellow
Who follows the dream

song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Writer's Dream

A writer wrote of the hearts of men, and he followed their tracks afar;
For his was a spirit that forced his pen to write of the things that are.
His heart grew tired of the truths he told, for his life was hard and grim;
His land seemed barren, its people cold—yet the world was dear to him;—
So he sailed away from the Streets of Strife, he travelled by land and sea,
In search of a people who lived a life as life in the world should be.
And he reached a spot where the scene was fair, with forest and field and wood,
And all things came with the seasons there, and each of its kind was good;
There were mountain-rivers and peaks of snow, there were lights of green and gold,
And echoing caves in the cliffs below, where a world-wide ocean rolled.
The lives of men from the wear of Change and the strife of the world were free—
For Steam was barred by the mountain-range and the rocks of the Open Sea.

And the last that were born of a noble race—when the page of the South was fair—
The last of the conquered dwelt in peace with the last of the victors there.
He saw their hearts with the author’s eyes who had written their ancient lore,
And he saw their lives as he’d dreamed of such—ah! many a year before.
And ‘I’ll write a book of these simple folk ere I to the world return,
‘And the cold who read shall be kind for these—and the wise who read shall learn.

‘Never again in a song of mine shall a jarring note be heard:
‘Never again shall a page or line be marred by a bitter word;
‘But love and laughter and kindly hours will the book I’ll write recall,
‘With chastening tears for the loss of one, and sighs for their sorrows all.
‘Old eyes will light with a kindly smile, and the young eyes dance with glee—
‘And the heart of the cynic will rest awhile for my simple folk and me.’

The lines ran on as he dipped his pen—ran true to his heart and ear—
Like the brighter pages of memory when every line is clear.
The pictures came and the pictures passed, like days of love and light—
He saw his chapters from first to last, and he thought it grand to write.
And the writer kissed his girlish wife, and he kissed her twice for pride:
‘’Tis a book of love, though a book of life! and a book you’ll read!’ he cried.

He was blind at first to each senseless slight (for shabby and poor he came)
From local ‘Fashion’ and mortgaged pride that scarce could sign its name.
What dreamer would dream of such paltry pride in a scene so fresh and fair?
But the local spirit intensified—with its pitiful shams—was there;
There were cliques wherever two houses stood (no rest for a family ghost!)
They hated each other as women could—but they hated the stranger most.

The writer wrote by day and night and he cried in the face of Fate—
‘I’ll cleave to my dream of life in spite of the cynical ghosts that wait.
‘’Tis the shyness born of their simple lives,’ he said to the paltry pride—
(The homely tongues of the simple wives ne’er erred on the generous side)—
‘They’ll prove me true and they’ll prove me kind ere the year of grace be passed,’
But the ignorant whisper of ‘axe to grind!’ went home to his heart at last.

The writer sat by his drift-wood fire three nights of the South-east gale,
His pen lay idle on pages vain, for his book was a fairy tale.
The world-wise lines of an elder age were plain on his aching brow,
As he sadly thought of each brighter page that would never be written now.
‘I’ll write no more!’ But he bowed his head, for his heart was in Dreamland yet—
‘The pages written I’ll burn,’ he said, ‘and the pages thought forget.’

But he heard the hymn of the Open Sea, and the old fierce anger burned,
And he wrenched his heart from its dreamland free as the fire of his youth returned:—
‘The weak man’s madness, the strong man’s scorn—the rebellious hate of youth
‘From a deeper love of the world are born! And the cynical ghost is Truth!’
And the writer rose with a strength anew wherein Doubt could have no part;
‘I’ll write my book and it shall be true—the truth of a writer’s heart.

‘Ay! cover the wrong with a fairy tale—who never knew want or care—
‘A bright green scum on a stagnant pool that will reek the longer there.
‘You may starve the writer and buy the pen—you may drive it with want and fear—
‘But the lines run false in the hearts of men—and false to the writer’s ear.
‘The bard’s a rebel and strife his part, and he’ll burst from his bonds anew,
‘Till all pens write from a single heart! And so may the dream come true.

‘’Tis ever the same in the paths of men where money and dress are all,
‘The crawler will bully whene’er he can, and the bully who can’t will crawl.
‘And this is the creed in the local hole, where the souls of the selfish rule;
‘Borrow and cheat while the stranger’s green, then sneer at the simple fool.
‘Spit your spite at the men whom Fate has placed in the head-race first,
‘And hate till death, with a senseless hate, the man you have injured worst!
‘There are generous hearts in the grinding street, but the Hearts of the World go west;
‘For the men who toil in the dust and heat of the barren lands are best!
‘The stranger’s hand to the stranger, yet—for a roving folk are mine—
‘The stranger’s store for the stranger set—and the camp-fire glow the sign!
‘The generous hearts of the world, we find, thrive best on the barren sod,
‘And the selfish thrive where Nature’s kind (they’d bully or crawl to God!)

‘I was born to write of the things that are! and the strength was given to me.
‘I was born to strike at the things that mar the world as the world should be!
‘By the dumb heart-hunger and dreams of youth, by the hungry tracks I’ve trod—
‘I’ll fight as a man for the sake of truth, nor pose as a martyred god.
‘By the heart of “Bill” and the heart of “Jim,” and the men that their hearts deem “white,”
‘By the handgrips fierce, and the hard eyes dim with forbidden tears!—I’ll write!

‘I’ll write untroubled by cultured fools, or the dense that fume and fret—
‘For against the wisdom of all their schools I would stake mine instinct yet!
‘For the cynical strain in the writer’s song is the world, not he, to blame,
‘And I’ll write as I think, in the knowledge strong that thousands think the same;
‘And the men who fight in the Dry Country grim battles by day, by night,
‘Will believe in me, and will stand by me, and will say to the world, “He’s right!”’

poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Make me like a child

Lord, outside it’s pouring
and every thing ugly
I want to wash from me,
to fall in pools
at my feet.

Again to stand like a child
in the rain,
without worry
about where everything is going.

To rollick in bright drops
that hit splashing
against me

and to know with innocence
that everything comes from Your hand
and around me
every leave, branch, tree and flower
pays their homage to You.

You control even thunderbolts
and You are the One
that stops savage winds,
give life to an earth
that yearns for water.

l’Envoi
Lord, teach me
to serve You better and to understand,
and like a child to go to You
and in trust
to look at Your works
and to know that in everything
Your mighty hand
still folds around me protecting
and that all things
are possible and practicable to You.

Lord, again give to me
the trust and innocence of a child
that with my hope centred on You
I attempt to build my things
and although
the world about me blinds me,
like a scared child
to take Your strong hand in mine
and teach me
to keep You in my heart again.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What Do You Dream About?

Have you ever met anybody who does not dream?
All of us have dreamt of something good or bad before
Some dreams are believed to foretell the future
While few dreams remind us of things we have forgotten
Other dreams are just hallucination and nightmare
What do you dream about?
Some people dream every night
While the others dream once a while
Do you dream straight or opposite?
To dream straight is to see a vision
To dream straight is to have a revelation
Is your dream good, bad or frightening?
Has your dream ever come true?
Do you day-dream or dream while you sleep?
What do you really dream about?
Politicians dream of winning elections
Students dream of passing exams
Soldiers dream of winning battles
Everybody dreams of promotion on the job
Fishermen dream of catching lots of fishes
Some men see their future wives in a vision
Few women see their future husbands in a dream
Almost everybody dreams of winning the lottery
What do you actually dream about?
Many see their enemies in a dream
Few see their true friends in a vision
Others found solutions to their problems in a dream
Can we live on earth without dreaming?
Your answer is as good as mine
Whatever you may dream about
I hope your good dreams come true

poem by Julius Babarinsa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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