Anzac Cove
There’s a lonely stretch of hillocks:
There’s a beach asleep and drear:
There’s a battered broken fort beside the sea.
There are sunken trampled graves:
And a little rotting pier:
And winding paths that wind unceasingly.
There’s a torn and silent valley:
There’s a tiny rivulet
With some blood upon the stones beside its mouth.
There are lines of buried bones:
There’s an unpaid waiting debt :
There’s a sound of gentle sobbing in the South.
poem by Leon Gellert
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Under The Round Tower
'ALTHOUGH I'd lie lapped up in linen
A deal I'd sweat and little earn
If I should live as live the neighbours,'
Cried the beggar, Billy Byrne;
'Stretch bones till the daylight come
On great-grandfather's battered tomb.'
Upon a grey old battered tombstone
In Glendalough beside the stream
Where the O'Byrnes and Byrnes are buried,
He stretched his bones and fell in a dream
Of sun and moon that a good hour
Bellowed and pranced in the round tower;
Of golden king and Silver lady,
Bellowing up and bellowing round,
Till toes mastered a sweet measure,
Mouth mastered a sweet sound,
Prancing round and prancing up
Until they pranced upon the top.
That golden king and that wild lady
Sang till stars began to fade,
Hands gripped in hands, toes close together,
Hair spread on the wind they made;
That lady and that golden king
Could like a brace of blackbirds sing.
'It's certain that my luck is broken,'
That rambling jailbird Billy said;
'Before nightfall I'll pick a pocket
And snug it in a feather bed.
I cannot find the peace of home
On great-grandfather's battered tomb.'
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Thèlus Wood
I came by night to Thèlus wood,
And though in dark and desperate places
Stubborned with wire and brown with blood
Undaunted April crept and sewed
Her violets in dead men's faces,
And in a soft and snowy shroud
Drew the scarred fields with gentle stitch;
Though in the valley where the ditch
Was hoarse with nettles, blind with mud,
She stroked the golden-headed bud,
And loosed the fern, she dared not here
To touch nor tend this murdered thing;
The wind went wide of it, the year
Upon this breast stopped short of Spring:
Beauty turned back from Thèlus Wood.
From broken brows the dim eyes stared,
Blistered and maimed the wide stumps grinned
From the black mouth of Thèlus bared
In laughter at some monstrous jest.
No creature moved there, weed nor wind.
Huge arms, half-torn from savage breast,
Hung wide, and tangled limbs and faces
Lay, as if giants blind and stark
With violent, with perverse embraces
Groped for each other in the dark.
A moaning rose — not of the wind,
— There was no wind, but hollowly
From its dim bed of mud each tree
Gave forth a sound, till trees and mud
Seemed but a single, sighing mouth,
A wound that spoke with lips uncouth,
And cried to me from Thèlus Wood.
I heard one tree say: 'This was I
Who drew great clouds across the sky
To weep against me.' This one said:
'I made a gloom where love might lie
All day and dream it night, a bed
Secret and soft, the birds' song had
A twilight sound the whole day there.'
One said: 'Last night I shook my hair
Before the mirror of the moon.'
'I saw a corpse to-day,' said one
'That was but buried yester-year.'
And one, the smallest, sweetest thing —
A fair child-tree made never stir,
Dead before God had tended her
In the green nurseries of Spring.
She lay, the loveliest, loneliest,
Among the old and ruined trees,
And at each small and broken wrist
The white flowers grew like bandages.
Then from the ruined churchyard where
Old vaults and graves lay turned and tossed
And earth from earth was shaken bare,
Came murmurings of a tongueless host
That to each ghastly brother said:
'Who raised us from our sleep? Is this
The resurrection of the dead?
Upon our bodies no flesh grows,
No bright blood through our temples springs,
No glory spreads, no trumpet blows,
The air is not white and blind with wings.
And yet dragged up before us lie
The woods of Thèlus at our feet,
And strange hills sentinel the sky,
And where the road went yawns a pit.
The world is finished: let us sleep.
God has forgotten: we shall keep
Here a sweet, safe Eternity.
There is no other end than this,
And this is death, and that is peace.'
But even as they ceased the stones
Were loosed, the earth shook where I stood,
And from far off the crouching guns
Swung slowly round on Thèlus Wood.
poem by Muriel Stuart
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Home to Me
The tired houses leaning side by side
The rusty bicycle you always ride
The fisherman whose ship is work and pride
They all are home to me
The sand that’s blowing on the lonely beach
The waves that bring the shore a treasure each
The wrinkled hand that’s always there to reach
How that is home to me
The mother waiting on the windy pier
The cry of seagulls that are always here
The far away sons and the one who’s near
So much is home to me
The grandchild who’ll be born in fall
The silent men who’ve seen it all
The drunk man waiting for the final call
That all is home to me
poem by Ina SchrodersZeeders
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On that Beach
On that Beach,
A nature's dream,
All I have ever went out to seek,
I had realized,
Opened up my eyes,
And I had seen,
Right there,
On that Beach.
My brother's girlfriend,
Grinning as she shoved her hand,
Inside his chest,
And stole his heart,
Only so that she could,
Soon enough,
On that beach,
Smirk,
And throw it into the sea.
On that beach,
I can still smell the summer blooms,
Even though I am miles away,
This memory will never go,
In the middle of that lonely beach,
My first experience of tasting my last lust’s desire,
To be free,
As I wished,
But held down,
Tight and cruel,
For it to be so good,
That it hurt.
In the middle of that lonely beach,
A meadow.
There he took my hand,
There I met him,
There I gave myself to him,
There he embraced me,
There he left me,
'Goodbye, get over yourself, ' he said, 'wake up! What are you scared of! Ha? If you don’t start living right now, then you never will. I don’t need you anymore, because your so weak and insecure. Goodbye.'
With a single rotation of passion and the end to what we never were.
Us.
On that beach,
The sea so cold,
I saw a bird singing on and on,
About the things it’s seen before it came to live.
On that beach,
There was a tree,
Halfway falling to the ground,
With a struggle it came down.
On that beach,
Everything was being torn apart,
In the sandstorm it all died,
Drop by drop,
My life had trickled down,
On the floor.
On that beach I bit my lip,
I tasted blood,
Didn’t wish to see the chaos,
I screamed out loud,
A smile on my face had spread,
And finally,
The sea buried me.
I was born here,
I belong,
And I will die here,
It’s the only right thing that I will ever do,
In the right time,
In the right place.
poem by Lili Freebird
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Lonely, ,
Lonely and alone I am
my soul's always lonesome
in a crowd of loneliness
it sounds sad and lonely
hiding loneliness alone
the lonely lone alone
Lonely is a single traveller
on a dark and winding road.
Lonely is the burden
of carrying a heavy load.
Lonely is a beautiful song
that no one's ever heard,
and lonely is the wait for death
by a broken winged bird.
Lonely is the emptiness
inside my hollow soul,
and lonely is the sound of the wind
blowing through its gaping hole.
Loneliness is second only
to the darkened void of death
and loneliness is taking
that 'Right' to Hell
when I should have made a 'Left'.
Lonely is the sound
of an infant
who sadly cries in vain,
and lonely is his addict mother
shooting poison in her veins.
Lonely is the boy
who will never become a man
and lonely is the brink of disaster
upon which I know I stand.
Lonely is the poem
which has gone on long enough
and lonely is the sympathizers
who say I've, 'had it rough'.
Lonely is my life
lived without family or friend
and lonely is the last word of this poem
because it's always at the...
End.
poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
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So Lonely Alone
So lonely alone am I
My soul's lonesome in the crowd of loneliness
It sounds sad and lonely
Hiding loneliness alone
The lonely lone alone
Lonely is a single traveller
On a dark and winding road.
Lonely is the burden
Of carrying a heavy load.
Lonely is a beautiful song
That no one's ever heard,
And lonely is the wait for death
For a broken winged bird.
Lonely is the emptiness
Inside my hollow soul,
And lonely is the sound of the wind
Blowing through its gaping hole.
Loneliness is second only
To the darkened void of death
And loneliness is taking
That 'Right' to Hell
When I should have made a 'Left'.
Lonely is the sound
Of a lonesome infant
Who sadly cries in vain,
And lonely is his addict mother
Shooting poison in her veins.
Lonely is the boy
Who will never become a man
And lonely is the brink of disaster
Upon which I know I stand.
Lonely is the poem
Which has gone on long enough
And lonely is the sympathisers
Who say I've, 'had it rough'.
Lonely is my life
Lived without family or friend
And lonely is the last word of this poem
Because it's always at the...
…End.
poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
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Sticks And Stones
Sticks and stones, might break my bones
And words, shall never harm me,
I was told that story, when I was a Boy
Along with the birds and bees, I believe
So I lived my life, through that advice
That was given to me in my youth,
That sticks and stones would break my bones
And words could do no harm was true.
So I stayed away from sticks and stones
And tried never calling anyone names
But the sticks still arrived, in my life
And also the words of hate and pain.
But then I had healed from broken bones
And bruises and all the nasty cuts,
It made me stronger, then I thought longer
About the words of hate and such.
Because the words of hate, I couldn't escape
As I noticed them around everyday
Destroying ones soul, until life they'd let go
Or asking GOD for vengeance as they'd pray.
Sticks and stones had broke my bones
And words of hate had really harmed me,
As I look around, I can still hear the sound
Of hate, and belittlement, and bigotry.
There are still broken bones and nasty cuts,
As I see as I enter every day with a walk,
But doctors heal then, as they are new again
But the words of hatred never balks.
In my life I have made many choices,
And I hope with one I don't stand alone
Never to ever use any word of hate
As I don't mind getting hit with sticks or stones.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Day Dreaming
I was tired of reshuffling the stars
in silent night.
Will you come and stay with me
for a while? I will give you
my light years to reach the hurting valley.
Sit down beside me
and rest your head on my drooping shoulders.
Together we will cross the dark river
of doubts conversing with fireflies.
You are carrying my unborn children
in your deep thoughts.
Flesh, blood and bones
pain between the ribs
and arrhythmic throbs.
Small pebbles on the beach
we are dreaming an ocean in our eyes.
Waves are high and wind is strong.
We are ready to drink the blue sky.
poem by Satish Verma
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The Two Graves
'Tis a bleak wild hill,--but green and bright
In the summer warmth and the mid-day light;
There's the hum of the bee and the chirp of the wren,
And the dash of the brook from the alder glen;
There's the sound of a bell from the scattered flock,
And the shade of the beech lies cool on the rock,
And fresh from the west is the free wind's breath,--
There is nothing here that speaks of death.
Far yonder, where orchards and gardens lie,
And dwellings cluster, 'tis there men die.
They are born, they die, and are buried near,
Where the populous grave-yard lightens the bier;
For strict and close are the ties that bind
In death the children of human-kind;
Yea, stricter and closer than those of life,--
'Tis a neighbourhood that knows no strife.
They are noiselessly gathered--friend and foe--
To the still and dark assemblies below:
Without a frown or a smile they meet,
Each pale and calm in his winding-sheet;
In that sullen home of peace and gloom,
Crowded, like guests in a banquet-room.
Yet there are graves in this lonely spot,
Two humble graves,--but I meet them not.
I have seen them,--eighteen years are past,
Since I found their place in the brambles last,--
The place where, fifty winters ago,
An aged man in his locks of snow,
And an aged matron, withered with years,
Were solemnly laid!--but not with tears.
For none, who sat by the light of their hearth,
Beheld their coffins covered with earth;
Their kindred were far, and their children dead,
When the funeral prayer was coldly said.
Two low green hillocks, two small gray stones,
Rose over the place that held their bones;
But the grassy hillocks are levelled again,
And the keenest eye might search in vain,
'Mong briers, and ferns, and paths of sheep,
For the spot where the aged couple sleep.
Yet well might they lay, beneath the soil
Of this lonely spot, that man of toil,
And trench the strong hard mould with the spade,
Where never before a grave was made;
For he hewed the dark old woods away,
And gave the virgin fields to the day;
And the gourd and the bean, beside his door,
Bloomed where their flowers ne'er opened before;
And the maize stood up; and the bearded rye
Bent low in the breath of an unknown sky.
'Tis said that when life is ended here,
The spirit is borne to a distant sphere;
That it visits its earthly home no more,
Nor looks on the haunts it loved before.
But why should the bodiless soul be sent
Far off, to a long, long banishment?
Talk not of the light and the living green!
It will pine for the dear familiar scene;
It will yearn, in that strange bright world, to behold
The rock and the stream it knew of old.
'Tis a cruel creed, believe it not!
Death to the good is a milder lot.
They are here,--they are here,--that harmless pair,
In the yellow sunshine and flowing air,
In the light cloud-shadows that slowly pass,
In the sounds that rise from the murmuring grass.
They sit where their humble cottage stood,
They walk by the waving edge of the wood,
And list to the long-accustomed flow
Of the brook that wets the rocks below.
Patient, and peaceful, and passionless,
As seasons on seasons swiftly press,
They watch, and wait, and linger around,
Till the day when their bodies shall leave the ground.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Visit Malaysia Year: Fort A Famosa old graves (State of Malacca)
fort a famosa little jittery
just across the fence
a child's marble grave
the only things that warm
the old, broken graves
sunlight and their love messages
Around the A Famosa are many old graves some several hundred years old. They are of marble and broken in many parts. However, what keep them warm when visiting these graves are the sunlight and the love messages on these graves from love ones.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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My Winding Wheel
Well nighttime let her through
Yeah Im talking to you
I wanna see her
Precious little thing
With eyes that dance around without their clothes
So buy a pretty dress
Wear it out tonight
For anyone you think could out do me
Or better still be my winding wheel
Cause I feel just like a map
Without a single place to go of interest
And Im further north than south
If I could shut my mouth shed probably like this
So buy a pretty dress
And wear it out tonight
For all the boys you think could out do me
Or better still be my winding wheel
Be my winding wheel
Well the children laugh and sing a song that ushers in her driving rain
And Im standing in the station like some old record waiting on a train
So buy a pretty dress
Wear it out tonight
For anyone you think could out do me
Or better still be my winding wheel
Be my winding wheel
song performed by by Ryan Adams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love Lost Broken Hearts
Love Lost Broken Hearts
Within the time love is lost
Thrown asunder into the
Wind
Left
Many broken hearts to live
In loneliness
Broken down piece by piece
Weaken just to mourn a love
That was once beautiful
But Now
Just tossed into the wind
Like the petals from the rose
Destined to ride upon the
Wind
Now used and broken
Just
Tears fills the wind
Sobbing echo's into the night
From the broken hearts
Tossed away like broken
Glass
Ancient and old as the lost
Love is trapped
Within time
Within the mind
Love that is lost from time
Back than
Weaken from the fight trying
To hold their lover heart
But
Cannot be regained
Cannot be mended
Spoiled without even a
'Sigh'
From her lover's heart
Just echo's of hurt and tears
From
The painful ruins of love tied
So strong
Being tossed to the wind as
Unwanted paper
Lonely eyes
Lonely hearts
Lonely tears
Just rides and echo's in the
Wind
Crying out for their love
That cannot be found
So desperately in need
To find their place in
The heart of the wind
That holds all their tears
Their fears
Their Pain
That bleeds into the heart
Of the wind
From The Love That Is Lost
And The Broken hearts..
poem by Carolyn Sears
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Solace
I have carried this broken heart,
From one sunrise to another sunset,
With a thousand years of pain,
Your parting words still echoed in my dry veins.
In this silent night in a silent valley,
I cried alone,
Unstoppable stream of salty tears flowed my sunken cheeks,
A million stars watching,
Here, I hope to find solace.
poem by Desert Life
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Pet Cemetery
Under the arc of a weather stain boards,
Ancient goblins, and warlords,
Come out of the ground, not making a sound,
The smell of death is all around,
And the night when the cold wind blows, No one cares, nobody knows.
I don't want to be buried in a Pet Sematary,
I don't want to live my life again.
I don't want to be buried in a Pet Sematary,
I don't want to live my life again.
Follow Victor to the sacred place,
This ain't a dream, I can't escape,
Molars and fangs, the clicking of bones,
Spirits moaning among the tombstones,
And the night, when the moon is bright,
Someone cries, something ain't right.
CHORUS
The moon is full, the air is still,
All of a sudden I feel a chill,
Victor is grinning, flesh rotting away,
Skeletons dancee, I curse this day,
And the night when the wolves cry out,
Listen close and you can hear me shout.
I don't want to be buried in a Pet Sematary,
I don't want to live my life again.
I don't want to be buried in a Pet Sematary,
I don't want to live my life again, oh no, oh no
I don't want to live my life again, oh no, oh oh,
I don't want to live my life again, oh no no no
I don't want to live my life again, oh oh
song performed by by Ramones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pet Sematary
Under the arc of a weather stain boards
Ancient goblins, and warlords
Come out of the ground, not making a sound.
The smell of death is all around,
And the night when the cold wind blows,
No one cares, nobody knows
I don't want to be buried in a Pet Sematary!
I don't want to live my life again!
I don't want to be buried in a Pet Sematary!
I don't want to live my life again!
Follow Victor to the sacred place,
This ain't a dream, I can't escape.
Molars and fangs, the clicking of bones,
Spirits moaning among the tombstones
And the night, when the moon is bright,
Someone cries, something ain't right.
CHORUS
The moon is full, the air is still,
All of a sudden I feel a chill,
Victor is grinning, flesh rotting away,
Skeletons dance, I curse this day
And the night when the wolves cry out,
Listen close and you can hear me shout.
I don't want to be buried in a Pet Sematary!
I don't want to live my life again!
I don't want to be buried in a Pet Sematary!
I don't want to live my life again, oh no, oh no!
I don't want to live my life again, oh no, oh oh!
I don't want to live my life again, oh no no no!
I don't want to live my life again, oh oh!!!!
song performed by by Rammstein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Winding Wheel
(Original by Ryan Adams )
Well night time let her through
Yeah I am talking to you
I wanna see her
Precious little thing
with eyes that dance around without their clothes
So buy a pretty dress
Wear it out tonight
For anyone you think could out do me
Or better still, be my winding wheel
Cause I feel just like a map
Without a single place to go of interest
And I am further north than south
If I could shut my mouth she'd probably like this
So buy a pretty dress
And wear it out tonight
For all the boys you think could out do me
Or better still, be my winding wheel
Be my winding wheel
Well the children laugh and sing a song that ushers in her driving rain
And I am standing in the station like some old record waiting on a train
So buy a pretty dress
Wear it out tonight
For anyone you think could out do me
Or better still be my winding wheel
Be my winding wheel
song performed by by Counting Crows
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Valentine's Day
Oh! I wish I were a tiny browny bird from out the south,
Settled among the alder-holts, and twittering by the stream;
I would put my tiny tail down, and put up my tiny mouth,
And sing my tiny life away in one melodious dream.
I would sing about the blossoms, and the sunshine and the sky,
And the tiny wife I mean to have in such a cosy nest;
And if some one came and shot me dead, why then I could but die,
With my tiny life and tiny song just ended at their best.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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An Illusion
A day will come
A dream will come true
And I shall traverse upon the hillocks
Searching for you.
I am waiting to see you
I am yearning to feel you
And we shall live in the valley
Knowing each other.
These hillocks are hard and high
My feet are fatigued and worn out
And someone is calling me back
Fearing lest I should collapse.
A year passes off
An army of nightmares chases me
And I know the perils of a search futile
Living a life flattened.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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Chasin' the wind
A promise is….
Something fated to be broken
A wave upon the shore
Silence broken by burst balloon
Reverie rent by rap upon the door
A promise …so very hard to keep
A pledge… so wafer thin
A promise is…a due. but unpaid debt
While still kept…A yet uncommitted sin
And no matter how hard it tis to keep
Resolve slips thru’ cracks e’er so thin
As well as you might try
To keep from breaking a promise (for most)
You might just as well be…
chasing the wind
poem by David Whalen
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The Winding Ways Of Gried And Insecurities....
....that grief is, 'like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape.' (c.s. lewis)
...we have walked for quite a time
in this winding path,
we settled on plateaus
and then started again on those winding
paths of
mountains high
crossed rivers for the nth time
and rested on
grasses with our back
dirties sometimes
...the rains are heavy sometimes
and we feel the cold and some of us
get sick,
hard coughs that seem to take away all
inside our lungs,
pains that stay on our legs for days
the anxieties in our heads
as to where is this journey taking
all of us, , , ,
no one really knows,
but the hope is there,
somewhere is a rainbow
somewhere is a totally new landscape
we imagine what kind of happiness
awaits us there
they are not telling us.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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