Noise Pollution 1
The scientific efficacy is noisily murdering
Unlike enlivening
The olden household's hushy sibilance
The olden street children's play-scream
The olden vendors' musical sale-phonetics
The olden bullock-cart's running rhythm
The cart-man's 'hi hi
The jhatka's galloping trots
Of and on a cow's 'ammaaaah'
Dawn and dusk the cattle's dusty grazing treads
The rooster's cackle', the crow's' caw-caw'
Squeak, screech of chirping birds
Headed high by white collared eagles
The coherently, agreeably hissing breeze
Etcetera, etcetera all olden
All in melodious harmony neatly audible
With the evincing spherical silence
Today..
Everything deafening, deadening
Two, three, four and more wheeled wheeling
Small, big, bigger motoring
Up and down on earth thundering
Sounding smoky machinery nauseating
Multicoloured noisy stink
Murdering, murdering, murdering
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Related quotes
Golden--of the selkirks
A trail upwinds from Golden;
It leads to a land God only knows,
To the land of eternal frozen snows,
That trail unknown and olden.
And they tell a tale that is strange and wild--
Of a lovely and lonely mountain child
That went up the trail from Golden.
A child in the sweet of her womanhood,
Beautiful, tender, grave and good
As the saints in time long olden.
And the days count not, nor the weeks avail;
For the child that went up the mountain trail
Came never again to Golden.
And the watchers wept in the midnight gloom,
Where the canyons yawn and the Selkirks loom,
For the love that they knew of olden.
And April dawned, with its suns aflame,
And the eagles wheeled and the vultures came
And poised o'er the town of Golden.
God of the white eternal peaks,
Guard the dead while the vulture seeks!--
God of the days so olden.
For only God in His greatness knows
Where the mountain holly above her grows,
On the trail that leads from Golden.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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The Old Scotish Cavalier
I.
Come listen to another song,
Should make your heart beat high,
Bring crimson to your forehead,
And the lustre to your eye;-
It is a song of olden time,
Of days long since gone by,
And of a Baron stout and bold
As e'er wore sword on thigh!
Like a brave old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!
II.
He kept his castle in the north,
Hard by the thundering Spey;
And a thousand vassals dwelt around
All of his kindred they.
And not a man of all that clan
Had ever ceased to pray
For the Royal race they loved so well,
Though exiled far away
From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers,
All of the olden time!
III.
His father drew the righteous sword
For Scotland and her claims,
Among the loyal gentlemen
And chiefs of ancient names
Who swore to fight or fall beneath
The standard of King James,
And died at Killiecrankie pass
With the glory of the Graemes;
Like a true old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!
IV.
He never owned the foreign rule,
No master he obeyed,
But kept his clan in peace at home,
From foray and from raid;
And when they asked him for his oath,
He touched his glittering blade,
And pointed to his bonnet blue,
That bore the white cockade:
Like a leal old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!
V.
At length the news ran through the land-
THE PRINCE had come again!
That night the fiery cross was sped
O'er mountain and through glen;
And our old Baron rose in might,
Like a lion from his den,
And rode away across the hills
To Charlie and his men,
With the valiant Scottish cavaliers,
All of the olden time!
VI.
He was the first that bent the knee
When the STANDARD waved abroad,
He was the first that charged the foe
On Preston's bloody sod;
And ever, in the van of fight,
The foremost still he trod,
Until, on bleak Culloden's heath,
He gave his soul to God,
Like a good old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!
VII.
Oh! never shall we know again
A heart so stout and true-
The olden times have passed away,
And weary are the new:
The fair White Rose has faded
From the garden where it grew,
And no fond tears save those of heaven
The glorious bed bedew
Of the last old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!
poem by William Edmondstoune Aytoun
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The love I look for
The love I look for
Could not come from you.
My mind is set to fall
At Peterloo.
But you'ld protect me,
I'd be safe with you.
You could but love me
In the olden way,
With gifts of jewels, children,
Time to play,
Be man to woman
In the olden way.
The love that's love has
Other gifts to bring,
A share in weakness, dreams,
And suffering.
These are the only
Gifts I'd have to bring.
The love I look for
Does not come from you.
I see it dawning in
Deep eyes of blue.
I dare to hope for
Love, but not from you.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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The Squatter Of The Olden Time
I'll sing to you a fine new song, made by my blessed mate,
Of a fine Australian squatter who had a fine estate,
Who swore by right pre-emptive at a sanguinary rate
That by his rams, his ewes, his lambs, Australia was made great
Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
His hut around was hung with guns, whips, spurs, and boots and shoes,
And kettles and tin pannikins to hold the tea he brews;
And here his worship lolls at ease and takes his smoke and snooze,
And quaffs his cup of hysouskin, the beverage old chums choose
Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
And when shearing time approaches he opens hut to all,
And though ten thousand are his flocks, he featly shears them all,
Even to the scabby wanderer you'd think no good at all;
For while he fattens all the great, he boils down all the small
Like a fine old Murray squatter, one of the olden time.
And when his worship comes to town his agents for to see,
His wool to ship, his beasts to sell, he lives right merrily;
The club his place of residence, as becomes a bush J.P.,
He darkly hints that Thompson's run from scab is scarcely free
This fine old Murray settler, one of the olden time.
And now his fortune he has made to England straight goes he,
But finds with grief he's not received as he had hoped to be.
His friends declare his habits queer, his language much too free,
And are somewhat apt to cross the street when him they chance to see
This fine Australian squatter, the boy of the olden time.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The Higher Courage
Come back again, my olden heart!
Ah, fickle spirit and untrue,
I bade the only guide depart
Whose faithfulness I surely knew:
I said, my heart is all too soft;
He who would climb and soar aloft
Must needs keep ever at his side
The tonic of a wholesome pride.
Come back again, my olden heart!
Alas, I called not then for thee;
I called for Courage, and apart
From Pride if Courage could not be,
Then welcome, Pride! and I shall find
In thee a power to lift the mind
This low and grovelling joy above
’Tis but the proud can truly love.
Come back again, my olden heart!
With incrustations of the years
Uncased as yet, as then thou wert,
Full-filled with shame and coward fears
Wherewith amidst a jostling throng
Of deeds, that each and all were wrong,
The doubting soul, from day to day,
Uneasy paralytic lay.
Come back again, my olden heart!
I said, Perceptions contradict,
Convictions come, anon depart,
And but themselves as false convict.
Assumptions, hasty, crude and vain,
Full oft to use will Science deign;
The corks the novice plies to-day
The swimmer soon shall cast away.
Come back again, my olden heart!
I said, Behold, I perish quite,
Unless to give me strength to start,
I make myself my rule of right
It must be, if I act at all,
To save my shame I have at call
The plea of all men understood,
Because I willed it, it is good.
Come back again, my olden heart!
I know not if in very deed
This means alone could aid impart
To serve my sickly spirit’s need;
But clear alike of wild self-will,
And fear that faltered, paltered still,
Remorseful thoughts of after days
A way espy betwixt the ways.
Come back again, old heart! Ah me!
Methinks in those thy coward fears
There might, perchance, a courage be,
That fails in these the manlier years;
Courage to let the courage sink,
Itself a coward base to think,
Rather than not for heavenly light
Wait on to show the truly right.
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Shell Have To Go
Your chances are running out
I can see possibilities clearly
The poor man who put those
Rumours about
Obviously didnt really hear me
Breaking our backs with slurs
And taking our tax for murdering
The only thing I know
Shell have to go
Your grass may be greener man
I was born on the pavement
Im standing in
Its blue grass honey
Its a working man
Its more than all the things
That youre demanding
Breaking our backs with slurs
And taking our tax for murdering
The only thing I know
Shell have to go
song performed by by Simply Red
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Country Roads ~ White Horse Road
By White Horse Tavern, White Horse Road
In olden days wound down;
And many a waggon bore its load
And many a bullock felt the goad
From town to country town.
Thro' Ringwood on, by hill and vale,
Their patient way they went.
Until they came to Lilydale,
The olden town of Lilydale.
And teamsters paused at Lilydale,
A place of calm content.
But days of bitumen and tar
Have changed the ancient mode;
And now the speeding motor car,
Where traffic-cops and bowsers are,
Go down the White Horse Road,
Upon a smooth, broad way they sail,
Till, sudden, up and down,
The bumps begin at Lilydale,
The rocky road to Lilydale,
The holey road to Lilydale,
A very peaceful town.
Beyond the town, the bumps are past,
And vexed springs settle down;
But many an angry look is cast
And many a curse speeds backwards fast
Toward that backward town.
On to the foothills leads the trail
By smooth and pleasant ways,
But, oh, that stretch thro' Lilydale!
The sleepy town of Lilydale,
Where folk still think, in Lilydale,
In terms of bullock drays.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Lilydale
Three hills lead on to Lilydale,
Where runs the White Horse Road.
Three slopes dip down into the vale
The placid vale of Lilydale,
That somnolent abode
Of dreams that compass olden days,
Of tranquil life and easy ways,
Where transient beauty tints her trees
With golden Autumn's harmonies.
For Lilydale is now a dame
Unhurried and content.
Traditions that attend her name
Serve her from all she needs of fame,
Who scorns the brandishment
Of modern haste and modern show.
And, as the speeding motors go
Down thro' her street, to hasten by,
She marks them with a sleepy sigh.
Amid her grazing kine she goes
The 'milkers', 'stores' and 'fats.'
A cow she venerates, and knows
How well to hoard the wealth that flows
From her rich river flats
One passion lures her from her course;
Her great love for a likely horse.
Tempting to revels now and then
With her twin dreamer, Yarra Glen.
Three hills lead on to Lilydale,
Three slopes dip down below.
And every hill, and every vale
Tell once more the olden tale
Of days when life moved slow;
Save when the dashing fours-in-hand
Came clattering to this new-found land,
And wakened this bucolic spot
To life's high fever - long forgot.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Mother's Day
Matriarchy's coming fast,
Matriarchy's here!
Man's supremacy at last
Finds the end is near.
Since the days of troglodytes,
Man, the lord and master,
Sees his olden cherished rights,
Slipping fast and faster.
Daddy has no time to roam,
The household bills he's clearing,
Mummy's left four kids at home
And gone electioneering.
Mummy holds a sacred trust
To talk the public dizzy,
Daddy has to earn a crust,
And, gosh! it keeps him busy.
Once a chattel and a slave,
We grabbed her by her hair
And flung her in our private cave
To do our cooking there.
But, since her olden bonds were loosed,
More liberty she's craving,
And lovely woman rules the roost,
While mankind does the slaving.
Marriage is a full-time job
For Daddy, ever toiling:
He has to work, the poor old swab,
To keep the pot a-boiling.
But Mummy has the time to spare
To right a stricken nation.
Oh, cares! Oh, clubs! Oh, flowing hair!
This is emancipation!
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Horses and Men in Rain
Let us sit by a hissing steam radiator a winter's day, gray wind pattering frozen raindrops on the window,
And let us talk about milk wagon drivers and grocery delivery boys.
Let us keep our feet in wool slippers and mix hot punches--and talk about mail carriers and
messenger boys slipping along the icy sidewalks.
Let us write of olden, golden days and hunters of the
Holy Grail and men called "knights" riding horses in the rain, in the cold frozen rain for ladies they loved.
A roustabout hunched on a coal wagon goes by, icicles drip on his hat rim, sheets of ice wrapping
the hunks of coal, the caravanserai a gray blur in slant of rain.
Let us nudge the steam radiator with our wool slippers and write poems of Launcelot, the hero, and
Roland, the hero, and all the olden golden men who rode horses in the rain.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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In olden days a glimpse of stocking was looked on as something shocking but now, God knows, anything goes.
quote by Cole Porter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In olden times sacrifices were made at the altar - a practice which is still continued.
quote by Helen Rowland
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Slavery was regarded by Aristotle as an ordinance of nature, and so probably was it by the slaves themselves in olden time.
quote by Alfred Marshall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rona in the Moon
Rona, Rona, sister olden,-
Rona in the moon!
You'll never break your prison golden,-
Never, late or soon!
Rona, for her crying daughter,
At the dead of night
Took the gourd and went for water;
Went without a light.
There she heard the owlets wrangle
With an angry hoot;
Stick and stone and thorny tangle
Wounded Rona's foot.
'Boil the moon!' she said in passion;
'Boil your lazy head!
Hiding thus in idle fashion
In your starry bed!'
Angry was the moon in heaven;
Down to earth she came:-
'Stay you ever unforgiven
For the word of shame!
Up!- you made the moon a byword -
Up and dwell with me!'
Rona felt the drawing skyward,-
Seized a ngaio tree.
But from earth the ngaio parted
Like a bitten thread;
Like a comet upward darted
Rona overhead.
In the moon is Rona sitting
Never to be free;
With the gourd she held in flitting
And the ngaio tree.
You'll never break your prison golden,-
Never, late or soon,
Rona, Rona, sister olden, -
Rona in the moon!
poem by Jessie Mackay
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In the olden days, the umpire didn't have to take any courses in mind reading. The pitcher told you he was going to throw at you.
quote by Leo Durocher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Religion is what keeps the poor from murdering the rich.
I am not one who was born in the custody of wisdom; I am one who is fond of olden times and intense in quest of the sacred knowing of the ancients.
quote by Gustave Courbet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Murder is Bad and Why?
The Man spoke:
'It is in the murdering' he said
that I find the most puzzlement.
Why should I or anyone not murder
one and all. It is, I think, human's basic instinct.
'Look' he said to the priest 'is not all of history;
more a story of murderous war than peace and tranquility?
'So what is most common to human nature?
Seems clear to me, humans murder their fellows, rest up during the peace
and, as soon as possible, get back to the murdering.'
The priest:
'Murder is wrong in God's eyes and in the eyes of society and
the murderer will pay with fire and brimstone, and the death penalty.
Ending murder is the bedrock of all society, even pirates have a code
that says don't murder your fellows.
Humm, said the man 'Society has several faces; it is ok to murder in war, but
not in peace. Where here is the consistency?
Even your God says do not take life but vengeance is mine and murdering in retaliation, he says, is mine. Seems murder is at best relative; sometimes the act of the monster and sometimes the act of the hero in war.
Who decides which is which; and I tell you father I see no hand of God in this but that of politicians. And no one will mistake them for God.
The Sociologist spoke then:
Well, here the point is clear; we kill those who threaten the peace and make society impossible by preying upon the weak. Without restraint bandits and warlords would rule, look abroad Iraq, Afghanistan and the rest. Rule by guns and by the strong is a recipe in the end for mankind's extinction. Therefore, we have the rule murder is not only bad, but stopping murder promotes the good.
The Little Girl:
I think God, and society makes murder bad to protect the children. I think God and society makes things crimes to protect us from adults who would be cruel and leave no one to grow up to inherit this earth.
The Democrat:
There lies the convincing point. Murder is bad because not murdering gives the species a better chance at survival. What species eat their young and have survived? None.
But the larger point is I think is that the genius needed for society to meet all its challenges cannot be predicted. Therefore, all must be preserved because no one can predict from where, or whom, critical keys to human survival will evince.
Take Einstein: who would have made the prediction that a math-challenged youngster would change the world? No one. So the point, kill no one since you are not God and can't know where human salvation will come from.
The Priest said:
Yes, and imagine the world, if Jesus had lived.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Religion is what keeps the poor from murdering the rich.
quote by Napoleon Bonaparte
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Religion is what keeps the poor man from murdering the rich.
quote by Napoleon Bonaparte
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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