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The Captain’s Well

From pain and peril, by land and main,
The shipwrecked sailor came back again;

And like one from the dead, the threshold cross'd
Of his wondering home, that had mourned him lost.

Where he sat once more with his kith and kin,
And welcomed his neighbors thronging in.

But when morning came he called for his spade.
'I must pay my debt to the Lord,' he said.

'Why dig you here?' asked the passer-by;
'Is there gold or silver the road so nigh?'

'No, friend,' he answered: 'but under this sod
Is the blessed water, the wine of God.'

'Water! the Powow is at your back,
And right before you the Merrimac,

'And look you up, or look you down,
There 's a well-sweep at every door in town.'

'True,' he said, 'we have wells of our own;
But this I dig for the Lord alone.'

Said the other: 'This soil is dry, you know.
I doubt if a spring can be found below;

'You had better consult, before you dig,
Some water-witch, with a hazel twig.'

'No, wet or dry, I will dig it here,
Shallow or deep, if it takes a year.

'In the Arab desert, where shade is none,
The waterless land of sand and sun,

'Under the pitiless, brazen sky
My burning throat as the sand was dry;

'My crazed brain listened in fever dreams
For plash of buckets and ripple of streams;

'And opening my eyes to the blinding glare,
And my lips to the breath of the blistering air,

'Tortured alike by the heavens and earth,
I cursed, like Job, the day of my birth.

'Then something tender, and sad, and mild
As a mother's voice to her wandering child,

'Rebuked my frenzy; and bowing my head,
I prayed as I never before had prayed:

'Pity me, God! for I die of thirst;
Take me out of this land accurst;

'And if ever I reach my home again,
Where earth has springs, and the sky has rain,

'I will dig a well for the passers-by,
And none shall suffer from thirst as I.

'I saw, as I prayed, my home once more,
The house, the barn, the elms by the door,

'The grass-lined road, that riverward wound,
The tall slate stones of the burying-ground,

'The belfry and steeple on meeting-house hill,
The brook with its dam, and gray grist mill,

'And I knew in that vision beyond the sea,
The very place where my well must be.

'God heard my prayer in that evil day;
He led my feet in their homeward way,

'From false mirage and dried-up well,
And the hot sand storms of a land of hell,

'Till I saw at last through the coast-hill's gap,
A city held in its stony lap,

'The mosques and the domes of scorched Muscat,
And my heart leaped up with joy thereat;

'For there was a ship at anchor lying,
A Christian flag at its mast-head flying,

'And sweetest of sounds to my homesick ear
Was my native tongue in the sailor's cheer.

'Now the Lord be thanked, I am back again,
Where earth has springs, and the skies have rain,

'And the well I promised by Oman's Sea,
I am digging for him in Amesbury.'

His kindred wept, and his neighbors said
'The poor old captain is out of his head.'

But from morn to noon, and from noon to night,
He toiled at his task with main and might;

And when at last, from the loosened earth,
Under his spade the stream gushed forth,

And fast as he climbed to his deep well's brim,
The water he dug for followed him,

He shouted for joy: 'I have kept my word,
And here is the well I promised the Lord!'

The long years came and the long years went,
And he sat by his roadside well content;

He watched the travellers, heat-oppressed,
Pause by the way to drink and rest,

And the sweltering horses dip, as they drank,
Their nostrils deep in the cool, sweet tank,

And grateful at heart, his memory went
Back to that waterless Orient,

And the blessed answer of prayer, which came
To the earth of iron and sky of flame.

And when a wayfarer weary and hot,
Kept to the mid road, pausing not

For the well's refreshing, he shook his head;
'He don't know the value of water,' he said;

'Had he prayed for a drop, as I have done,
In the desert circle of sand and sun,

'He would drink and rest, and go home to tell
That God's best gift is the wayside well!'

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Bushman’s Lullaby

Lift me down to the creek bank, Jack,
It must be fresher outside;
The long hot day is well nigh done;
It’s a chance if I see another one;
I should like to look on the setting sun,
And the water, cool and wide.

We didn’t think it would be like this
Last week, as we rode together;
True mates we’ve been in this far land
For many a year, since Devon’s strand
We left for these wastes of sun-scorched sand
In the blessed English weather.

We left, when the leafy lanes were green
And the trees met overhead,
The rippling brooks ran clear and gay,
The air was sweet with the scent of hay,
How well I remember the very day
And the words my mother said!

We have toiled and striven, and fought it out
Under the hard blue sky,
Where the plains glowed red in tremulous light,
Where the haunting mirage mocked the sight
Of desperate men from morn till night,
And the streams had long been dry.

Where we dug for gold on the mountain side,
Where the ice-fed river ran;
In frost and blast, through fire and snow,
Where an Englishman could live and go,
We’ve followed our luck for weal or woe,
And never asked help from man.
And now it’s over, it’s hard to die
Ere the summer of life is o’er,
When the pulse is high and the limbs are stark,
Ere time has printed one warning mark,
To quit the light for the unknown dark,
And, home! to see home no more.

No more! no more! I that always vowed
That, whether or rich or poor,
Whatever the years might bring or change,
I would one day stand by the grey old grange,
And the children would gather, all shy and strange,
As I entered the well-known door.

You will go home to the old place, Jack;
Then tell my mother, for me,
That I thought of the words she used to say,
Her looks, her tones, as I dying lay,
That I prayed to God, as I used to pray
When I knelt beside her knee.

* * * * * *

By the lonely water they made their couch
And the southern night fast fled,
They heard the wildfowl splash and cry,
They heard the mourning reeds’ low sigh.
Such was the Bushman’s lullaby,—
With the dawn his soul was sped.

poem by Rolf Boldrewood
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The Creation of the Moon

The man cut his throat and left his head there.
The others went to get it.
When they got there they put the head in a sack.
Farther on the head fell out onto the ground.
They put the head back in the sack.
Farther on the head fell out again.
Around the first sack they put a second one that
was thicker.
But the head fell out just the same.
It should be explained that they were taking the head
to show to the others.
They did not put the head back in the sack.
They left it in the middle of the road.
They went away.

They crossed the river.
But the head followed them.
They climbed up a tree full of fruit
to see whether it would go past.

The head stopped at the foot of the tree
and asked them for some fruit.
So the men shook the tree.
The head went to get the fruit.
Then it asked for some more.

So the men shook the tree
so that the fruit fell into the water.
The head said it couldn't get the fruit from there.
So the men threw the fruit a long way
to make the head go a long way to get it so they could go.
While the head was getting the fruit
the men got down from the tree and went on.

The head came back and looked at the tree
and didn't see anybody
so went on rolling down the road.

The men had stopped to wait
to see whether the head would follow them.
They saw the head come rolling.

They ran.
They got to their hut they told the others that the head
was rolling after them and to shut the door.

All the huts were closed tight.
When it got there the head commanded them to open the doors.
The owners would not open them because they were afraid.

So the head started to think what it would turn into.
If it turned into water they would drink it.
If it turned into earth they would walk on it.
If it turned into a house they would live in it.
If it turned into a steer they would kill it and eat it.
If it turned into a cow they would milk it.
If it turned into a bean they would cook it.
If it turned into the sun
When men were cold it would heat them.
If it turned into rain the grass would grow and the
animals would crop it.

So it thought, and it said, "I will turn into the moon."
It called, "Open the doors, I want to get my things."
They would not open them.

The head cried. It called out, "At least give me
my two balls of twine."
They threw out the two balls of twine through a hole.
It took them and threw them into the sky.

It asked them to throw it a little stick too
to roll the thread around so it could climb up.

Then it said, "I can climb, I am going to the sky."
It started to climb.

The men opened the doors right away.
The head went on climbing.
The men shouted, "You going to the sky, head?"
It didn't answer.

As soon as it got to the Sun
it turned into the Moon.
Toward evening the Moon was white, it was beautiful.
And the men were surprised
to see that the head had turned into the Moon.

poem by Anonymous
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Today... 'Greater than Jacob

Jacob with the Lord could not remotely compare
and none like my Lord Jesus can be found anywhere.
For the water that flows from our Emmanuel
is far better than the water from Jacobs well.

'Come and drink of me, ' Jesus said so clear and plain
'And you'll never ever experience thirst again.'
For it is Living Water that in Jesus dwells
which you cannot get from any of Jacobs wells.

This sinner came to drink from that life giving well
drank the Living Water from Emmanuel
and as he drank in deep from the sin cleansing flow
forgiveness and everlasting life he began know.

Jesus my Lord and God is far beyond compare
and His glory with another He will not share.
That is why the people on earth heard Him declare
that One much greater than Jacob was standing there.

(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box)

poem by Roy Allen
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A water jug

Man is a water jug
full of sacred water
and deep secret

Made of blessed earth
and wandering water
through the magic of love
a wonderful holy hand
mysterious, providential
softly kneads and molds
according to Lord's will

Man is a fragile jug
which is easily broken
on the frail and fateful road to water
and suddenly falls down once again
upon the earth where it eternally belongs
toward Glorious God's Gracious Hug

poem by Nizamettin Esen Haymanali
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High Water

Words by neil peart, music by geddy lee and alex lifeson
When the waters rose
In the darkness
In the wake of the endless flood
It flowed into our memory --
It flowed into our blood
When something broke the surface
Just to see the starry dome --
We still feel that relation
When the water takes us home
In the flying spray of the ocean
The water takes you home --
Springing from the weight
Of the mountains
Like the heart of the earth
Would burst
Flowing out from marble fountains
In the dreams of a desert thirst
Something swam through
The jungles
Where the mighty rivers roam --
Something breaks the silence
When the water takes you home
I hear the wordless voices
When the water takes me home --
Waves that crash on the shoreline
Torrents of tropical rain
Streaming down
Beyond our memory
Streaming down inside our veins
When something left the ocean
To crawl high above the foam --
We still feel that elation
When the water takes us home
In a driving rain of redemption
The water takes me home...

song performed by by Rush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The fire and the water

The fire belongs to heaven

It was stolen by Prometheus

and was brought to the earth

The fire however always wants to

go back home in the skies

The flames always clamour for that

looking up with hissing tongue

The fire seeks to burn the earth into ethereal heaven

The water belongs to the earth

The demon Vritra robbed the earth of its water

and hid it in the caverns of heaven

But the water longs for its home and groans

through the thundering cloud

till it comes back home in earth

in rains

When do the fire of the skies

and the water of the mingle?

Do they ever mingle?

poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
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Earth with Water

Earth is Sea and Land,
We are going for the sand
And all the water be at hand
To think of Earth as round,
With the water.

Earth is not that kind,
Too honest and deep
With busy business and leather
As the sole provider of comfort
That is my armchair.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Waiting For The Rain

dead grass
cracking face of the earth
cinder stones
parched paths
thatched roof of the house
at the foot of
the tired body of the hills
dried creeks
rivers that run dry
wells without
drops of water left
hands in prayed
angel without wings
all these chant in prayer
waiting for
the first rain after a long drought
of summer

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Blue-Flag In The Bog

God had called us, and we came;
Our loved Earth to ashes left;
Heaven was a neighbor's house,
Open to us, bereft.

Gay the lights of Heaven showed,
And 'twas God who walked ahead;
Yet I wept along the road,
Wanting my own house instead.

Wept unseen, unheeded cried,
"All you things my eyes have kissed,
Fare you well! We meet no more,
Lovely, lovely tattered mist!

Weary wings that rise and fall
All day long above the fire!"—
Red with heat was every wall,
Rough with heat was every wire—

"Fare you well, you little winds
That the flying embers chase!
Fare you well, you shuddering day,
With your hands before your face!

And, ah, blackened by strange blight,
Or to a false sun unfurled,
Now forevermore goodbye,
All the gardens in the world!

On the windless hills of Heaven,
That I have no wish to see,
White, eternal lilies stand,
By a lake of ebony.

But the Earth forevermore
Is a place where nothing grows,—
Dawn will come, and no bud break;
Evening, and no blossom close.

Spring will come, and wander slow
Over an indifferent land,
Stand beside an empty creek,
Hold a dead seed in her hand."

God had called us, and we came,
But the blessed road I trod
Was a bitter road to me,
And at heart I questioned God.

"Though in Heaven," I said, "be all
That the heart would most desire,
Held Earth naught save souls of sinners
Worth the saving from a fire?

Withered grass,—the wasted growing!
Aimless ache of laden boughs!"
Little things God had forgotten
Called me, from my burning house.

"Though in Heaven," I said, "be all
That the eye could ask to see,
All the things I ever knew
Are this blaze in back of me."

"Though in Heaven," I said, "be all
That the ear could think to lack,
All the things I ever knew
Are this roaring at my back."

It was God who walked ahead,
Like a shepherd to the fold;
In his footsteps fared the weak,
And the weary and the old,

Glad enough of gladness over,
Ready for the peace to be,—
But a thing God had forgotten
Was the growing bones of me.

And I drew a bit apart,
And I lagged a bit behind,
And I thought on Peace Eternal,
Lest He look into my mind:

And I gazed upon the sky,
And I thought of Heavenly Rest,—
And I slipped away like water
Through the fingers of the blest!

All their eyes were fixed on Glory,
Not a glance brushed over me;
"Alleluia! Alleluia!"
Up the road,—and I was free.

And my heart rose like a freshet,
And it swept me on before,
Giddy as a whirling stick,
Till I felt the earth once more.

All the earth was charred and black,
Fire had swept from pole to pole;
And the bottom of the sea
Was as brittle as a bowl;

And the timbered mountain-top
Was as naked as a skull,—
Nothing left, nothing left,
Of the Earth so beautiful!

"Earth," I said, "how can I leave you?"
"You are all I have," I said;
"What is left to take my mind up,
Living always, and you dead?"

"Speak!" I said, "Oh, tell me something!
Make a sign that I can see!
For a keepsake! To keep always!
Quick!—before God misses me!"

And I listened for a voice;—
But my heart was all I heard;
Not a screech-owl, not a loon,
Not a tree-toad said a word.

And I waited for a sign;—
Coals and cinders, nothing more;
And a little cloud of smoke
Floating on a valley floor.

And I peered into the smoke
Till it rotted, like a fog:—
There, encompassed round by fire,
Stood a blue-flag in a bog!

Little flames came wading out,
Straining, straining towards its stem,
But it was so blue and tall
That it scorned to think of them!

Red and thirsty were their tongues,
As the tongues of wolves must be,
But it was so blue and tall—
Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see!

All my heart became a tear,
All my soul became a tower,
Never loved I anything
As I loved that tall blue flower!

It was all the little boats
That had ever sailed the sea,
It was all the little books
That had gone to school with me;

On its roots like iron claws
Rearing up so blue and tall,—
It was all the gallant Earth
With its back against a wall!

In a breath, ere I had breathed,—
Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see!—
I was kneeling at its side,
And it leaned its head on me!

Crumbling stones and sliding sand
Is the road to Heaven now;
Icy at my straining knees
Drags the awful under-tow;

Soon but stepping-stones of dust
Will the road to Heaven be,—
Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
Reach a hand and rescue me!

"There—there, my blue-flag flower;
Hush—hush—go to sleep;
That is only God you hear,
Counting up His folded sheep!

Lullabye—lullabye—
T hat is only God that calls,
Missing me, seeking me,
Ere the road to nothing falls!

He will set His mighty feet
Firmly on the sliding sand;
Like a little frightened bird
I will creep into His hand;

I will tell Him all my grief,
I will tell Him all my sin;
He will give me half His robe
For a cloak to wrap you in.

Lullabye—lullabye—"Rocks the burnt-out planet free!—
Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
Reach a hand and rescue me!

Ah, the voice of love at last!
Lo, at last the face of light!
And the whole of His white robe
For a cloak against the night!

And upon my heart asleep
All the things I ever knew!—
"Holds Heaven not some cranny, Lord,
For a flower so tall and blue?"

All's well and all's well!
Gay the lights of Heaven show!
In some moist and Heavenly place
We will set it out to grow.

poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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When the rain drops fall on my head...

When the rain drops fall on my head
Then I feel the greatness of the nature
When the heat on earth vaporized
Then the clouds above makes the rain

When the rain drops fall on my head
Then I see the farmers are full of cheers
When the rain water roll on the ground
Then all the barren lands turns to green

When the rain drops fall on my head
Then I see the rain water runs down the mountains
When the rain water preserved in the built dam
Then there is no poverty on the land

When the rain drops fall on my head
Then I know the God sends it for us
When we do not go against the nature
Then the rain drops fall on the earth for ever

poem by Ravi Sathasivam
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Blessed Be Your Name - Hillsong

Blessed be Your name,
In the land that is plentiful.
Where Your streams of abundance flow,
Blessed be Your name.
Blessed be Your name,
When I'm found in the desert place.
When I walk through the wilderness,
Blessed be Your name.
Every blessing You pour out,
I'll turn back to praise.
When the darkness closes in,
Lord, still, I will say:
(Chorus)
Blessed be the name of the Lord,
Blessed be Your name.
Blessed be the name of the Lord,
Blessed be Your glorious name.

Blessed be Your name,
When the sun's shining down on me.
When the world's all as it should be,
Blessed be Your name.
Blessed be Your name,
On the road marked with suffering.
When there's pain in the offering,
Blessed be Your name.
Every blessing You pour out,
I'll turn back to praise.
When the darkness closes in,
Lord, still, I will say:
(Chorus) x 2

You give and take away,
You give and take away.
My heart will choose to say,
Lord, blessed be Your name. x 2
(Chorus) x 2

poem by Rebecca Ryan
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My Water Fountain

I drank glasses of water,
I drank water from office coolers.
Many people drank from water fountains.

I thought my thirst I could slake,
If I drank water from a cool lake.
Then I would would drink cold water,
From gushing waterfalls.

But much to my surprise,
I thirsted for all of Earth's water.

I couldn't fathom my inner self,
About slaking my thirst insatiable.
I couldn't come to grips about,
The deep waters of my life.

Was it my body? Or was it my soul?
Then I very quickly learned,
That this thirst for water that was burning in me,
Was my unending thirst for love

That everybody yearns for.
And everybody needs.
In quantities of glasses, coolers, waterfalls,
Lakes, oceans and seas.

poem by Vera Sidhwa
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The Good Earth

When I was a child and the road was dark and the way was long and alone,
My heart would lift as I turned the bend and saw the lights of home.
Now high above in a silent sky,
In a still and starry space,
A man looks down on the earth below,
And that blue and green and shining glow,
To him is the lights of home.
Its the good earth, yes the good earth.
Its a land of sun and rain and snow,
And mulberry trees and mistletoe,
And burning plains and raging seas,
And sunday morning taking your ease,
Watching your children grow.
Its the good earth, yes the good earth,
Where we fought and loved and killed and died,
And ruined and ravished the countryside,
But now, from a million miles away,
From another world thats cold and gray,
Someone is able to look and say,
Thats the good earth.
So isnt it time we stopped the tears?
Weve lived together for thousands of years,
And whether Im wrong, and whether youre right,
Whether youre black, and whether Im white,
One day well stand on the edge of the world,
And someone will ask us the land of our birth,
And well look into his eyes and quietly say:
Its the good earth, yes the good earth.
Why cant we be good on the good earth?

song performed by by Monkees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song Of Slaves In The Desert

WHERE are we going? where are we going,
Where are we going, Rubee?
Lord of peoples, lord of lands,
Look across these shining sands,
Through the furnace of the noon,
Through the white light of the moon.
Strong the Ghiblee wind is blowing,
Strange and large the world is growing!
Speak and tell us where we are going,
Where are we going, Rubee?
Bornou land was rich and good,
Wells of water, fields of food,
Dourra fields, and bloom of bean,
And the palm-tree cool and green:
Bornou land we see no longer,
Here we thirst and here we hunger,
Here the Moor-man smites in anger:
Where are we going, Rubee?
When we went from Bornou land,
We were like the leaves and sand,
We were many, we are few;
Life has one, and death has two:
Whitened bones our path are showing,
Thou All-seeing, thou All-knowing!
Hear us, tell us, where are we going,
Where are we going, Rubee?
Moons of marches from our eyes
Bornou land behind us lies;
Stranger round us day by day
Bends the desert circle gray;
Wild the waves of sand are flowing,
Hot the winds above them blowing, —
Lord of all things! where are we going?
Where are we going, Rubee?
We are weak, but Thou art strong.;
Short our lives, but Thine is long;
We are blind, but Thou hast eyes;
We are fools, but Thou art wise!
Thou, our morrow's pathway knowing
Through the strange world round us growing,
Hear us, tell us where are we going,
Where are we going, Rubee?

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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A Ballad Of Pikeville

Down in Southern Arizona where the Gila monster thrives,
And the 'Mescalero,' gifted with a hundred thousand lives,
Every hour renounces one of them by drinking liquid flame
The assassinating wassail that has given him his name;
Where the enterprising dealer in Caucasian hair is seen
To hold his harvest festival upon his village-green,
While the late lamented tenderfoot upon the plain is spread
With a sanguinary circle on the summit of his head;
Where the cactuses (or cacti) lift their lances in the sun,
And incautious jackass-rabbits come to sorrow as they run,
Lived a colony of settlers-old Missouri was the State
Where they formerly resided at a prehistoric date.

Now, the spot that had been chosen for this colonizing scheme
Was as waterless, believe me, as an Arizona stream.

The soil was naught but ashes, by the breezes driven free,
And an acre and a quarter were required to sprout a pea.
So agriculture languished, for the land would not produce,
And for lack of water, whisky was the beverage in use-
Costly whisky, hauled in wagons many a weary, weary day,
Mostly needed by the drivers to sustain them on their way.
Wicked whisky! King of Evils! Why, O, why did God create
Such a curse and thrust it on us in our inoffensive state?

Once a parson came among them, and a holy man was he;
With his ailing stomach whisky wouldn't anywise agree;
So he knelt upon the _mesa_ and he prayed with all his chin
That the Lord would send them water or incline their hearts to gin.

Scarcely was the prayer concluded ere an earthquake shook the land,
And with copious effusion springs burst out on every hand!
Merrily the waters gurgled, and the shock which gave them birth
Fitly was by some declared a temperance movement of the earth.
Astounded by the miracle, the people met that night
To celebrate it properly by some religious rite;
And 'tis truthfully recorded that before the moon had sunk
Every man and every woman was devotionally drunk.
A half a standard gallon (says history) per head
Of the best Kentucky prime was at that ceremony shed.
O, the glory of that country! O, the happy, happy folk.
By the might of prayer delivered from Nature's broken yoke!
Lo! the plains to the horizon all are yellowing with rye,
And the corn upon the hill-top lifts its banners to the sky!
Gone the wagons, gone the drivers, and the road is grown to grass,
Over which the incalescent Bourbon did aforetime pass.
Pikeville (that's the name they've given, in their wild, romantic way,
To that irrigation district) now distills, statistics say,
Something like a hundred gallons, out of each recurrent crop,
To the head of population-and consumes it, every drop!

poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Rain

Waiting for the rain

At the rivers edge

Waiting for rain under a raging sun

Standing on cracked earth

The river pulls back from the mouth of the shore

Hungry for rain

Mouths drink their own tears

Feet dance to an unfashionable 'rain god'

Beating a drum limp wristed

In a distant land the casualties rise

Their carcasses loaded like dead cattle on the back of a cart

Two woman argue by a well with no water

An old man wanders across deserts calling out to his lost child

Rain rain, when will the rain fall?

An anthem of doomed lives cry out

Back home fat men with two cars cut back on sprinkling their lawn

'That's the first time in in three years'

Their mouths are full and greedy as they guzzle water from a bottle

But their hearts are full of drought

Families lounge in sprawling gardens admiring the view

Complaining about the lack of water

Until the rain god breaks suddenly breaks through

Not rain the idlers complain

While in the East far far away

The people make a joyful offerring to the skies

Dancing under the darkened night

Rejoicing in the god that spared their lives for one more day!

poem by Yvette Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Guardian Angels

A Ballad

Father John in the green lane went
And he drew his robe full tight,
'I would,' quoth he, 'I were home again
For there's evil in the night.
'I would,' quoth he, 'the gold I bear
Were safe with the poor and old,
For strange the fear that follows me
That my eyes cannot behold.'
He looked him left and there he saw
A white rose climb and cling,
He looked him right and in the brake
A wild bird shook his wing.
He looked him back and far there stood
The old church tall and dim,
Yet on the lonely path there came
A terror strange to him.

Without the shadow of the trees
That bent above his way,
Where lost the moon her silver light,
He stood at last at bay.
And on his gown, from his pale brow
Fell great tears of his fright;
His shaking hands held close the gold
Wrapped in its cloth so white.
He knelt him down upon his knee
And prayed the Lord to hear,
'Christ, loosen Thou these laggard feet
That hold me slow in fear.
'Oh, strengthen Thou this childish heart
That trembles all afraid,
In pity for the calling sick
Who die without my aid.
'And let me bring all safely through
The shadows of the night,
The gold I bear for old and poor,
Still Thou this strange affright.'

And as he prayed from off his heart
Fear's clutching fingers fell,
A holy joy grew in his heart
He knew that all was well.
He turned him left and stayed to take
A white rose from her tree,
He turned him right and lilted low
A wild bird melody.
He looked him back and smiling saw
The tall church guarding him,
And then all fearless laughing sped
Through shadows strange and dim.

When but a year had passed away
There came before his gate,
A dying man who 'Succour,' cried
'Before it be too late.'
'Oh, shrive me, Father, ere I die,'
The moaning stranger said;
He took him to his own hearth side
And laid him on his bed.

'Oh, Father! Father! hear me now
And let me rest in peace.'
'Now speak, my son, and tell your sin
To give your soul release.'
'It was one night a year ago—
Sweet Mary, ease my pain—
I followed far your toiling feet
Within a lonely lane.
'The red gold for the old and poor
You had beneath your gown,
I hid within a darksome place
Where I could strike you down.'
Now Father John he smiled and leant
In pity by the bed,
'I did disarm you by my prayer,
I thank the Lord,' he said.
'I went in fear upon my path
I knew some danger lay,
And lone I knelt upon the road
A little while to pray.'

The dying man he raised his head
And laughed both long and loud,
'Oh, ne'er a prayer would hold my hand
Or keep you from your shroud.
'But by you went two mighty men
To guard you either side,
Else had my dagger reached your heart
And surely you had died.'
Then Father John upon his knees
Bent low his holy head,
'God's angels walked beside me there
Lest you my blood should shed
My guardian angels walked by me,
I thank Thee, Lord,' he said.

poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Act of God?

A coin when dropped will
In one second, fall sixteen feet
In two, sixty four
In three, one hundred and forty four.

They were driving back from Sydney
Mum and Dad and their two kids
The freeway was a nightmare
So they took the old road that they did.

The old road’s quite an old road
Been there for many years
The rain was slanting sideways
Being late home was their fear.

It was night and many lights were out
The road was dark and quite awash
Water running everywhere
The kids shrieked with every splash.

A short drive now back to the warmth
Of the house in which they lived
A short drive back now to that home
Where they brought up both their kids.

Just two and three I think they were
A precious time of life
The kids strapped in the back seat
In the front was man and wife.

A dip there in the road appeared
Just where there is a creek
But we’ll be home soon they both said
Both kids were now asleep.

‘Slow down now, that’s deep water’
Said the man unto his wife
Those were the very final words
He would utter in his life.

One hundred feet, one hundred feet
One hundred feet or more
Was the depth of that great puddle
Into which the rain had poured.

It was at a place called Somersby
When the rain had drained away
That they winched up that death carriage
On the following grey day.

Yes, the chasm it was very deep
A Grand Canyon not a puddle
So for everyone upon that road
And every time you loved ones cuddle
Just think of those four driving home
And think of their full fright
And hold each other closely
Each and every single night
We should live for every minute
We should relish every hour
For simple stupid circumstance
Can destroy life’s fragile flower.

A coin when dropped will
In one second fall sixteen feet
In two, sixty four
In three, one hundred and forty four.

It was that deep.

I met the family's best friend in a local pub yesterday. He had just got back from identifying the bodies.

poem by David Keig
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Slow Pacific Swell

Far out of sight forever stands the sea,
Bounding the land with pale tranquillity.
When a small child, I watched it from a hill
At thirty miles or more. The vision still
Lies in the eye, soft blue and far away:
The rain has washed the dust from April day;
Paint-brush and lupine lie against the ground;
The wind above the hill-top has the sound
Of distant water in unbroken sky;
Dark and precise the little steamers ply-
Firm in direction they seem not to stir.
That is illusion. The artificer
Of quiet, distance holds me in a vise
And holds the ocean steady to my eyes.

Once when I rounded Flattery, the sea
Hove its loose weight like sand to tangle me
Upon the washing deck, to crush the hull;
Subsiding, dragged flesh at the bone. The skull
Felt the retreating wash of dreaming hair.
Half drenched in dissolution, I lay bare.
I scarcely pulled myself erect; I came
Back slowly, slowly knew myself the same.
That was the ocean. From the ship we saw
Gray whales for miles: the long sweep of the jaw,
The blunt head plunging clean above the wave.
And one rose in a tent of sea and gave
A darkening shudder; water fell away;
The whale stood shining, and then sank in spray.

A landsman, I. The sea is but a sound.
I would be near it on a sandy mound,
And hear the steady rushing of the deep
While I lay stinging in the sand with sleep.
I have lived inland long. The land is numb.
It stands beneath the feet, and one may come
Walking securely, till the sea extends
Its limber margin, and precision ends.
By night a chaos of commingling power,
The whole Pacific hovers hour by hour.
The slow Pacific swell stirs on the sand,
Sleeping to sink away, withdrawing land,
Heaving and wrinkled in the moon, and blind;
Or gathers seaward, ebbing out of mind.

poem by Yvor Winters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When the rain drops fall on my head......