Mr. What's-His-Name
They called him Mr. What's-his-name:
From where he was, or why he came,
Or when, or what he found to do,
Nobody in the city knew.
He lived, it seemed, shut up alone
In a low hovel of his own;
There cooked his meals and made his bed,
Careless of all his neighbors said.
His neighbors, too, said many things
Expressive of grave wonderings,
Since none of them had ever been
Within his doors, or peered therein.
In fact, grown watchful, they became
Assured that Mr. What's-his-name
Was up to something wrong--indeed,
Small doubt of it, we all agreed.
At night were heard strange noises there,
When honest people everywhere
Had long retired; and his light
Was often seen to burn all night.
He left his house but seldom--then
Would always hurry back again,
As though he feared some stranger's knock,
Finding him gone, might burst the lock.
Beside, he carried, every day,
At the one hour he went away,
A basket, with the contents hid
Beneath its woven willow lid.
And so we grew to greatly blame
This wary Mr. What's-his-name,
And look on him with such distrust
His actions seemed to sanction just.
But when he died--he died one day--
Dropped in the street while on his way
To that old wretched hut of his--
You'll think it strange--perhaps it is--
But when we lifted him, and past
The threshold of his home at last,
No man of all the crowd but stepped
With reverence,--Aye, _quailed_ and _wept_!
What was it? Just a shriek of pain
I pray to never hear again--
A withered woman, old and bowed,
That fell and crawled and cried aloud--
And kissed the dead man's matted hair--
Lifted his face and kissed him there--
Called to him, as she clutched his hand,
In words no one could understand.
Insane? Yes.--Well, we, searching, found
An unsigned letter, in a round
Free hand, within the dead man's breast:
'Look to my mother--_I'm_ at rest.
You'll find my money safely hid
Under the lining of the lid
Of my work-basket. It is hers,
And God will bless her ministers!'
And some day--though he died unknown--
If through the City by the Throne
I walk, all cleansed of earthly shame,
I'll ask for Mr. What's-his-name.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Poem for a mother whose lost her son
I held him safe within my womb
And kissed him in the birthing room
I held his hand in sickness too
And now I don't know what to do
My son, my child, my flesh and bone
Has died and left me all alone
And in the night when no one sees
I cry and end up on my knees
I cry to God and ask Him why
My precious son he had to die
And when the morning light appears
That's one more night I've spent in tears
And as the years they slip away
I learn to live just day by day
I turn to God who was so far
I look to where the answers are
I put my hand into His hand
He pulls me up and now I stand
I hear my Father say to me
'My Son He died upon a tree
I know the pain that mothers feel
When life turns black and robs and steals
And takes a portion of your heart
And tears your very soul apart'
Oh Lord I pray, please make me whole
Replace the joy that life has stole
This pain, this loss, is part of me
But still I'm longing to be free
I choose to walk out through the door
And melancholy reigns no more
I leave behind the shades of grey
To walk in light, to kneel and pray
' Come to me child, I've heard your cry
I saw your tears when your child died
Rest in me and find your peace
Replace your pain and find release'
Despite the fact we had to part
You still live on within my heart
There'll never be a day go by
A tear wont fall from your mother's eye
poem by Frank McEleny
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Dying Gamblers Story
In a little secret Gambling house in a city known for fame
There sits a man of tender years his head bowed down in shame
That young man told a story as sad as can be
And if you will but listen this is what he said to me.
A year ago I had a wife but she was called one day
And as she lay so near to death she pressed my hand to say
I'm giving you my wedding ring to cherish all your life
And with these words the reaper called away my loving wife.
Soon I started gambling til I never had a thing
And on a hand I thought would win I bet my dead wife's ring
I drew the card and looked at it, Oh God I cried aloud
I've lost my dead wife's wedding ring to this drunken jeering around.
When he had finished speaking he bowed his head and sighed
And we who heard his story knew that he had died
But that dying gamblers story didn't mean a thing
Too bad they said, dealt the cards, and bet his dear wife's ring.
poem by Kenneth T. Schofield
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Grave that I Dug for You!
It was three o'clock in the morning
On the final day of spring,
I was stuck in a hole in the graveyard
Of Saint Matthews, Nether Ling,
I like to dig them at nightfall when
The folk are home, in bed,
Not wandering round the churchyard
Making a racket, waking the dead!
It's creepy enough as it is, whenever
The Moon sails over the church,
And shines its beams on the headstones
Of Jack Dervish, or Bill Burch,
Of mad old Widow Maloney, who,
The stories do abound,
Was carried kicking and screaming
In her coffin, and put in the ground.
My job is a labour of love, I've lived
In this village, all my life,
I know each one who lives here, every
Mistress, husband and wife,
Whenever I dig a grave, I know
Exactly who it's for,
And shed the bitter, parting tear
For the ones who go before.
I've even dug for my own, my
Darling mother, and my dad,
They left on that last long journey when
I was but still a lad,
The Vicar made me the Sexton, so
That I could earn my keep,
Living alone in the cottage, ghosts
Would haunt me in my sleep.
I often manage an extra grave,
That I dig by the iron fence,
All overhung with the creepers, that
I buy, for Peter's Pence,
They're there for the poor and needy who
Can't manage a burial fee,
So I carry the bodies at midnight, drop
Them in, all buried for free!
I always attend the services,
And stand right up at the back,
And that's where I first saw Caroline,
My love, my Caroline Black,
She went to her brother's funeral
With veil, and covered in lace,
But the wind blew up as she left, and then
I saw sweet Caroline's face.
I fell; I saw and was smitten,
She had given me half a smile,
I felt so bold as to ask her if
I could walk with her, for a while.
We went some way, she held my hand
And she looked me, square in the eye,
‘What would you say if I told you that
My mother's about to die? '
It seemed that her mother had cancer,
So she told me, with a tear,
They'd told her mother three months ago
She wouldn't live out the year,
She lived way up on the hillside there
In the mansion called ‘Beau Clair',
I thought that she must have money
But she said - ‘The cupboard is bare! '
The money they'd paid for the funeral
Of her brother had been the last,
Her father had gone some years ago,
And had left them little cash,
‘How will I bury my mother, ' Caroline
Cried, as women will do,
‘Now don't you fret, ' I assured her,
I have a grave I've dug for you! '
The mother died the following week,
The doctor had thought it strange,
He'd given the mother a bill of health
To last to a ripe old age,
The coroner was quite upset
When he found how the woman died,
It seemed the autopsy findings showed
Her full of insecticide.
The brother was raised at once, I know,
I dug him up in the night,
Surrounded by Sheriff's officers
Who carried a lantern light,
They found the same insecticide
Had seeped right into his bones,
And Caroline went on trial that day
In spite of her sobs, and moans.
I saw her once, right after the trial
When the judge put on his hat,
That little black square of portent
That had sentenced Caroline Black.
He'd said: ‘You shall be hanged by the neck,
Pray God for your soul to save,
Your crimes are the crimes of parricide,
They will follow you, into the grave! '
They let me into the holding cell
As she waited to be sent down,
So pale and brave now the deed was done
Though she kept her eyes on the ground.
‘If only…' I had begun to say,
But she stayed me: ‘What can you do? '
‘I can keep you warm, and comfortable,
In the grave that I dug for you! '
9 September 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An UnavoidAble Fate
My name is taylor
13 today horay
but from that dream
i can not stray
got a letter today
from my dad
it got me so mad
it said not to look for him
so i left my brother and mother
and went to find him
i didn't know i had a stalker
who followed me town to town
he was quite not much of a talker
and then i died no lie
and i woke up screaming for my life
i pulled my self from the hollow box
who said being in a cofin rocks
and so i carried on
find my father i did
he taught me many new things
fire earth water wind
a gift this power brings
and when i went out
i found my killer
but from above i fell in love
there was a dark side to him
and when he he said he loved me
time stood still
i didnt realise he was my kill
when he went back to his roots
i followed silenlty 3 years past
and im home at last
i'am 16 now
and walking alone
i found
my brother kye he's 13 now
by acident of cource
and he knew who i was
filled with love for him
dropped my gaurd i did
and next thing i knew
my lover found me and my brother
he took kye away made him pay
used him as bait i was the fish
i faught him and almost killed me
but my heart took over
and he got the chance
we faught some more in a dance
and when i had no strengh
my brother cried help me sister
plz oh why and curled in to a ball
crying in pain and as
he emerged a new power he gained
he jump from the rock water in hand
shot my lover down on to the land
i told my brother to stop
and he looked at me sad
i pulled my lover up
and said he was bad
i told him i loved him
and sent him to a place
where he will find no love or grace
so me and my brother crawled back to dad
told him our wish and told him we were sad
he frowned and said.......
what are you talking about your mothers not dead
WHAT me and my brother wisperd hand in hand
so come be with me beacuse this is my fated destiny
poem by Amber Shoremarston
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The Dead To The Living
Work while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work.
IN the childhood of April, while purple woods
With the young year's blood in them smiled,
I passed through the lanes and the wakened fields,
And stood by the grave of the child.
And the pain awoke that is never dead
Though it sometimes sleeps, and again
It set its teeth in this heart of mine,
And fastened its claws in my brain:
For it seemed so hard that the little hands
And the little well-loved head
Should be out of reach of my living lips,
And be side by side with the dead--
Not side by side with us who had loved,
But with these who had never seen
The grace of the smile, the gold of the hair,
And the eyes of my baby-queen.
Yet with trees about where the brown birds build,
And with long green grass above,
She lies in the cold sweet breast of earth
Beyond the reach of our love;
Whatever befalls in the coarse loud world,
We know she will never wake.
When I thought of the sorrow she might have known,
I was almost glad for her sake. . . .
Tears might have tired those kiss-closed eyes,
Grief hardened the mouth I kissed;
I was almost glad that my dear was dead
Because of the pain she had missed.
Oh, if I could but have died a child
With a white child-soul like hers,
As pure as the wind-flowers down in the copse,
Where the soul of the spring's self stirs;
Or if I had only done with it all,
And might lie by her side unmoved!
I envied the very clods of earth
Their place near the child I loved!
And my soul rose up in revolt at life,
As I stood dry-eyed by her grave,
When sudden the grass of the churchyard sod
Rolled back like a green smooth wave;
The brown earth looked like the brown sea rocks,
The tombstones were white like spray,
And white like surf were the curling folds
Of the shrouds where the dead men lay;
For each in his place with his quiet face
I saw the dead lie low,
Who had worked and suffered and found life sad,
So many sad years ago.
Unchanged by time I saw them lie
As when first they were laid to rest,
The tired eyes closed, the sad lips still,
And the work-worn hands on the breast.
There were some who had found the green world so grey,
They had left it before their time,
And some were little ones like my dear,
And some had died in their prime;
And some were old, they had had their fill
Of bitter unfruitful hours,
And knew that none of them, none, had known
A flower of a hope like ours!
Through their shut eyelids the dead looked up,
And without a voice they said:
'We lived without hope, without hope we died,
And hopeless we lie here dead;
And death is better than life that draws
Pain in, as it draws in breath,
If life never dreams of a coming day
When life shall not envy death.
Through the dark of our hours and our times we lived,
Uncheered by a single ray
Of such hope as lightens the lives of you
Who are finding life hard to-day;
With our little lanterns of human love
We lighted our dark warm night--
But you in the chill of the dawn are set
With your face to the eastern light.
Freedom is waiting with hands held out
Till you tear the veil from her face--
And when once men have seen the light of her eyes,
And felt her divine embrace,
The light of the world will be risen indeed,
And will shine in the eyes of men,
And those who come after will find life fair,
And their lives worth living then!
Will you strive to the light in your loud rough world,
That these things may come to pass,
Or lie in the shadow beside the child,
And strive to the sun through the grass?'
'My world while I may,' I cried; 'but you
Whose lives were as dark as your grave?'
'We too are a part of the coming light,'
They called through the smooth green wave.
Their white shrouds gleamed as the flood of green
Rolled over and hid them from me--
Hid all but the little hands and the hair,
And the face that I always see.
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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the remnant of Leteng
When they imprisoned our minds into the grave...
among the dead we found breathing bones,
When they crucified our bright crude crave...
some of us died battling a way out
We rode over humps of pain to this far,
then broke the shells, they only heard the crepitate
now upon our house hopes precipitate
'However, long the night the dawn will break'
we've seen the silver lining,
Oree, the twins and mum have reason to stay smiling
I and Mogo have grown to be great authors
with the past, our past is past
poem by Mpho Leteng
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What Have They Done To Me
What have they done to me
To the air that I breathe and all I see
Diseased and abused and alone
Tell me what have they done to me
They took everything I had
And crushed it all into dust
Erased all my names so I would seem
So lost
So lost
So lost
I pulled myself from my woman
To wander through the night
I'm a long, long way from emptiness
So step aside
Am I to feel alive
Am I to feel alive
Am I to feel alive
But I nearly died
Am I to see the light
Am I to see the light
But I cried
For so long
So long
What have they done to me
To the birds that sing, yeah the simple things
I held all my curses
I can't seem to rest
But it's alright
It's alright
They took from me all that one could take
My children
My loves
My orchards of tears
It's all been borrowed so we must say
They sit in the kingdom of light
And now you know how one can be
As free as one could wanna be
Cause time won't let you walk away
Time won't let you be afraid
So don't be afraid
For too long
Too long
Am I to walk alone
Am I to walk alone
Am I to walk alone
But I nearly died
Am I to see the light
Am I to see the light
But I cried
Am I to walk alone
Am I to walk alone
Am I to walk alone
But I'm almost home
I might seem alive
I might seem alive
But I nearly died
I might seem alive
I might seem alive
I might seem alive
But I nearly died
Am I to walk alone
Am I to walk alone
Am I to walk alone
But I'm almost home
Yeah, I'm almost home
I might seem alive
I might seem alive
I might seem alive
But I nearly died
Yeah, I nearly died
So long
song performed by by Zwan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Little Litany
When God turned back eternity and was young,
Ancient of Days, grown little for your mirth
(As under the low arch the land is bright)
Peered through you, gate of heaven--and saw the earth.
Or shutting out his shining skies awhile
Built you about him for a house of gold
To see in pictured walls his storied world
Return upon him as a tale is told.
Or found his mirror there; the only glass
That would not break with that unbearable light
Till in a corner of the high dark house
God looked on God, as ghosts meet in the night.
Star of his morning; that unfallen star
In that strange starry overturn of space
When earth and sky changed places for an hour
And heaven looked upwards in a human face.
Or young on your strong knees and lifted up
Wisdom cried out, whose voice is in the street,
And more than twilight of twiformed cherubim
Made of his throne indeed a mercy-seat.
Or risen from play at your pale raiment's hem
God, grown adventurous from all time's repose,
Or your tall body climed the ivory tower
And kissed upon your mouth the mystic rose.
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Little Litany
When God turned back eternity and was young,
Ancient of Days, grown little for your mirth
(As under the low arch the land is bright)
Peered through you, gate of heaven--and saw the earth.
Or shutting out his shining skies awhile
Built you about him for a house of gold
To see in pictured walls his storied world
Return upon him as a tale is told.
Or found his mirror there; the only glass
That would not break with that unbearable light
Till in a corner of the high dark house
God looked on God, as ghosts meet in the night.
Star of his morning; that unfallen star
In that strange starry overturn of space
When earth and sky changed places for an hour
And heaven looked upwards in a human face.
Or young on your strong knees and lifted up
Wisdom cried out, whose voice is in the street,
And more than twilight of twiformed cherubim
Made of his throne indeed a mercy-seat.
Or risen from play at your pale raiment's hem
God, grown adventurous from all time's repose,
Or your tall body climbed the ivory tower
And kissed upon your mouth the mystic rose.
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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How Strange It Seems
Im a hack driver in new york city
Ive got seven kids on the lower east side
Im not a strong man, Im not very pretty
But in rush hour hell you should see me drive
Im a dressmaker in louisiana
Stick my finger aint that a shame
People come to haggle and paw on my artwork
But no two of my dresses are ever the same
How strange it seems to be me
If tomorrow I opened my eyes
And found myself somewhere else
I wonder who Id be
Im the house man at a place called the exit
The last band I heard bored me to tears
But every so often I hear one that moves me
Love for the music is what keeps me here
How strange it seems to be me
I f tomorrow I opened my eyes
And found myself somewhere else
I wonder who Id be
Im a rich man
I aint talking bout money
Im blues singer at the eight by ten
You go out searching for some grand tomorrow
Dont worry bout me just drop by now and then
How strange it seems to be me
I f tomorrow I opened my eyes
And found myself somewhere else
I wonder who Id be
song performed by by Edwin McCain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bedlam
It was bedlam, sheer chaos and collapse,
Of the city, the inner lot of buildings
Found in the country.
It composed of musical houses, golden shrines
And stationary and moving vehicles.
The bombs scolded me as well, lifted the lot,
Scalded me nearly, and wore my gait.
The running men were innocent, walking men
Were criminal.
Your city burned up till midnight,
Until fires were extinguished by the men of fire.
The city burnt again as the people recovered afterwards,
For they needed bandages and badges, fire was grotesque,
Fire made no sense, just not one sense, for it died
And everything died, when all was well, and afterwards,
All was well yet dead were some, and their families were somewhat dead.
The anarchy of this unique city fed as something else -
Hell on this world, hell to worsen the tracts of time.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Congress Woman Gabrielle Gifford
1/15/11
Congress woman Gifford shot in the head
By all rights she should have been dead.
But apparently god has plans for her to do
So he laid his hand on her and pulled her through.
With her husband by her side, and in her
sub conscience she heard him cry.
She heard the prayers of a nation when
They heard of this devastation.
She moved a finger, then a hand
Gave a peace sign, and a thumbs up too
It seems she knew exactly what to do.
Now wouldn’t you say this is the work of god
Who is giving her a brand new start?
A lone gunmen with a gun
Shot her And most everyone.
Then a retired military man
Jumped up and grabbed his hand.
Another man grabbed him too.
At that moment he was subdued.
A little girl who was born on that
Fretful day(9/11) took a bullet and passed away.
Christina Taylor green was her name
She died so young, which is a crying shame.
So many lives have been affected that day
And through out the world, people still pray.
They pray for all the survivors and for
The ones who passed away
And there’s not much more that anyone can say.
They say that guns don’t kill
That it is man.
Then it’s time that we take a stand.
Guns can be bought in every city or town
Any where you go, it can be found.
Stop the gun dealers on the streets
And put more cops on the beat.
Teen age gangs are on the rise
We’ve got to do something
We’ve got to try.
poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Vampire
A fool there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you and I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair
(We called her the woman who did not care),
But the fool he called her his lady fair
(Even as you and I!)
Oh the years we waste and the tears we waste
And the work of our head and hand,
Belong to the woman who did not know
(And now we know that she never could know)
And did not understand.
A fool there was and his goods he spent
(Even as you and I!)
Honor and faith and a sure intent
But a fool must follow his natural bent
(And it wasn't the least what the lady meant),
(Even as you and I!)
Oh the toil we lost and the spoil we lost
And the excellent things we planned,
Belong to the woman who didn't know why
(And now we know she never knew why)
And did not understand.
The fool we stripped to his foolish hide
(Even as you and I!)
Which she might have seen when she threw him aside --
(But it isn't on record the lady tried)
So some of him lived but the most of him died --
(Even as you and I!)
And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame
That stings like a white hot brand.
It's coming to know that she never knew why
(Seeing at last she could never know why)
And never could understand.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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When Old Jack Died
I.
When old Jack died, we staid from school (they said,
At home, we needn't go that day), and none
Of us ate any breakfast--only one,
And that was Papa--and his eyes were red
When he came round where we were, by the shed
Where Jack was lying, half way in the sun
And half way in the shade. When we begun
To cry out loud, Pa turned and dropped his head
And went away; and Mamma, she went back
Into the kitchen. Then, for a long while,
All to ourselves, like, we stood there and cried.
We thought so many good things of Old Jack,
And funny things--although we didn't smile--We
couldn't only cry when Old Jack died.
II.
When Old Jack died, it seemed a human friend
Had suddenly gone from us; that some face
That we had loved to fondle and embrace
From babyhood, no more would condescend
To smile on us forever. We might bend
With tearful eyes above him, interlace
Our chubby fingers o'er him, romp and race,
Plead with him, call and coax--aye, we might send
The old halloo up for him, whistle, hist,
(If sobs had let us) or, as wildly vain,
Snapped thumbs, called 'speak,' and he had not replied;
We might have gone down on our knees and kissed
The tousled ears, and yet they must remain
Deaf, motionless, we knew--when Old Jack died.
III.
When Old Jack died, it seemed to us, some way,
That all the other dogs in town were pained
With our bereavement, and some that were chained,
Even, unslipped their collars on that day
To visit Jack in state, as though to pay
A last, sad tribute there, while neighbors craned
Their heads above the high board fence, and deigned
To sigh 'Poor dog!' remembering how they
Had cuffed him, when alive, perchance, because,
For love of them he leaped to lick their hands--
Now, that he could not, were they satisfied?
We children thought that, as we crossed his paws,
And o'er his grave, 'way down the bottom-lands,
Wrote 'Our First Love Lies Here,' when Old Jack died.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Another Young Soldier
Another young soldier has died far away
An army representative will call on his mother today
For to tell her your son on the course of his duty has died
He served and died for his Country with his mates at his side.
Another war mother will grieve for her son
It will not matter to her if the battle was won
And it will not matter to her if her boy died brave
She will weep every time she will visit his grave.
Another young soldier to join the war dead
A bullet from a sniper hit him in the head
On his next birthday in June he would be twenty three
His loss a heavy cross to bear for his parents and members of his family.
Another young soldier may he rest in peace
At least from further suffering he has found release
Just one more to die in another man's war
On a bombed out back street in a city afar.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Bad day
I saw a black cat but then it died,
I saw a magpie and thus I cried,
I found a penny but passed it by,
I found a dead bird and gave a sigh,
I wore my shirt the wrong way around,
But fixed it once the mistake was found,
I wore my opal ring on this day,
But then recalled I was born in May,
I dropped a teaspoon but had no guest,
I dropped a dishcloth and feared unrest,
I heard a cuckoo but was cashless,
I heard a bark and started to stress,
I took home an old iron horse shoe,
But didn't find it like you're meant to,
I took home a white rose in full bloom,
But then remembered it'll bring forth doom.
poem by Christian Lacdael
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For
I have climbed the highest mountains
I have run through the fields
Only to be with you
Only to be with you
I have run I have crawled
I have scaled these city walls
Only to be with you
But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for
But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for
I have kissed honey lips
Felt the healing in her fingertips
It burned like fire
This burning desire
I have spoke with the tongue of angels
I have held the hand of a devil
It was warm in the night
I was cold as a stone
But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for
But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for
I believe in the Kingdom Come
Then all the colors will bleed into one
But yes I'm still running
You broke the bonds
You loosened the chains
You carried the cross
And my shame
And my shame
You know I believed it
But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for
But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for
song performed by by Cher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ben Duggan
Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began,
And there was sorrow round the place, for Denver was a man;
Jack Denver's wife bowed down her head -- her daughter's grief was wild,
And big Ben Duggan by the bed stood sobbing like a child.
But big Ben Duggan saddled up, and galloped fast and far,
To raise the longest funeral ever seen on Talbragar.
By station home
And shearing shed
Ben Duggan cried, `Jack Denver's dead!
Roll up at Talbragar!'
He borrowed horses here and there, and rode all Christmas Eve,
And scarcely paused a moment's time the mournful news to leave;
He rode by lonely huts and farms, and when the day was done
He turned his panting horse's head and rode to Ross's Run.
No bushman in a single day had ridden half so far
Since Johnson brought the doctor to his wife at Talbragar.
By diggers' camps
Ben Duggan sped --
At each he cried, `Jack Denver's dead!
Roll up at Talbragar!'
That night he passed the humpies of the splitters on the ridge,
And roused the bullock-drivers camped at Belinfante's Bridge;
And as he climbed the ridge again the moon shone on the rise;
The soft white moonbeams glistened in the tears that filled his eyes;
He dashed the rebel drops away -- for blinding things they are --
But 'twas his best and truest friend who died on Talbragar.
At Blackman's Run
Before the dawn,
Ben Duggan cried, `Poor Denver's gone!
Roll up at Talbragar!'
At all the shanties round the place they'd heard his horse's tramp,
He took the track to Wilson's Luck, and told the diggers' camp;
But in the gorge by Deadman's Gap the mountain shades were black,
And there a newly-fallen tree was lying on the track --
He saw too late, and then he heard the swift hoof's sudden jar,
And big Ben Duggan ne'er again rode home to Talbragar.
`The wretch is drunk,
And Denver's dead --
A burning shame!' the people said
Next day at Talbragar.
For thirty miles round Talbragar the boys rolled up in strength,
And Denver had a funeral a good long mile in length;
Round Denver's grave that Christmas day rough bushmen's eyes were dim --
The western bushmen knew the way to bury dead like him;
But some returning homeward found, by light of moon and star,
Ben Duggan dying in the rocks, five miles from Talbragar.
They knelt around,
He raised his head
And faintly gasped, `Jack Denver's dead,
Roll up at Talbragar!'
But one short hour before he died he woke to understand,
They told him, when he asked them, that the funeral was `grand';
And then there came into his eyes a strange victorious light,
He smiled on them in triumph, and his great soul took its flight.
And still the careless bushmen tell by tent and shanty bar
How Duggan raised a funeral years back on Talbragar.
And far and wide
When Duggan died,
The bushmen of the western side
Rode in to Talbragar.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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That Certain Man Named Belebel
when you call i am somewhere in
Pedro Gil
an hour ago i was in Taft
feeling the crowd of
Kabayan
i stop for a while thinking where
to go next
but then i find myself lurking in
a room
without nothing in mind
it is not strange to me
i am always on the move but i am not
looking for anything
they say that we were born with feet
so we have to use them
it is just this time that i realize
what mother told me once about
a certain Belebel
who is he? mother tells me that he was a
man of God
condemned to walk and never stop
because something in him is longing
for something that
he never once found
until he died and then
God smiled at him
because he walked and then
he lived and
then he died
with all his feet
connected
to earth.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Case Of The Demon Drink
How many times have we heard
alcohol called the demon drink,
many.many times I suppose,
but there is no such thing as the demon drink.
Now when Jesus turned water into wine,
I’m sure that he didn’t put any demons in it
just to spice it up.
The demon drink as it is called
originated with the Temperance Movement.
Astonishing enough the movement was not started
by a woman, but was formed by a man.
What I am about to tell you
is the untold story about its origins.
It all started in the early 1800’s
with Henry Whittle and his wife Gertrude.
Now Henry was a boozer
who could lay the drink down
with the best of them.
One night he got carried away
on a sea of alcohol.
He went so far that
he wasn’t sure just where he lived.
He left his friends at the bar
and off he staggered.
He found the street where he lived
and staggered down it.
What house did he live at he wasn’t really sure.
All he knew was his Gertrude
always left the door unlocked for him.
He began to try the doors one by one,
when one opened
he quickly stumbled in.
He climbed the stairs as quietly as he could,
shucking his clothes as he went.
Until finally all that he had on
was his red long johns and his boots.
He tiptoed along to the bedroom
where he could hear Gertrude snoring.
Moving inside he climbed into bed.
What Henry didn’t know
he was in the wrong house.
The house belonged to Pierre the lumberjack,
and when he climbed into bed,
he climbed in bed it was with Pierre.
As you don’t cut down trees in the winter,
Pierre had come home.
He was a big man
with a big red Santa Claus beard,
and Henry had crawled into bed with him.
Morning awoke and so did Henry
just as Pierre rolled over.
Henry stared wide-eyed,
confronting the bushy whiskers of Pierre.
Henry’s first thoughts were
Gertrude had grown a beard overnight.
He rolled his eyes around
staring at the bushy faced figure,
then realise it was not Gertrude, but Pierre.
You can imagine his horror
as he slipped out of bed,
gathered up his clothes and ran.
Getting outside he darted up the road
with the back of his red long johns flapping.
People in the street looked around
at Henry doing a moony
and shook their heads.
We can imagine what they were thinking.
Finally, Henry got home
and who was waiting for him,
Gertrude with a rolling pin in hand.
“What floozy were you with last night? ”
She asked. “Don’t you like to me.”
Before Henry could answer,
the rolling pin came down
and Henry saw stars.
As a consequence,
Henry never drank again.
He tried to encourage his friends
to do the same.
The Temperance Movement was born
and Henry’s alcoholic demons
died of dehydration.
After that, he walked around
with a sign saying
DOWN WITH THE DEMON DRINK.
1 April 2008
Happy April Fools Day.
Hoping no one fooled you today.
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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