An Invitation To Edward Walpole, Esq.
When I heard you were landed, I flew to the Nine,
Intreating their Aid to invite you to dine.
They told me, I came on that Errand too late;
For you were engag'd by the Rich, and the Great.
Already! said I; they were speedy indeed:
However I'll try, and I hope to succeed.
Those Creatures of Power, who your Levee attend,
If your Father were out, their Conge's would end:
Tho' your personal Merit is great, 'tis allow'd;
'Tis the Son of the Statesman, that weighs with the Croud.
I expect not a Place, nor hope for a Pension,
The Love of the Muse is my only Pretension.
I hate to abuse--and I never can flatter:
I write for no Party, nor either bespatter.
From the Lands of Parnassus the Rents are ill--paid,
And England has cruelly cramp'd us in Trade:
So look not for China, or Service of Plate,
Or ought that is costly, to tempt you to eat.
Yet a Way to engage you I think I have hit on:
I mean, to remember our Friends in Great--Britain.
Two Bottles of Wine, and two Dishes I'll give:
Then fly from the Crouds that oppress you--and live.
The first Glass shall welcome you, Sir, to our Coast;
And dear Lady Conway shall be my next Toast.
With Mirth, and good Humour, I'll make up the Treat;
I know you're too wise, to love dining in State.
poem by Mary Barber
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Hands All Round
First pledge our Queen this solemn night,
Then drink to England, every guest;
That man’s the best Cosmopolite
Who loves his native country best.
May freedom’s oak for ever live
With stronger life from day to day;
That man’s the true Conservative
Who lops the moulder’d branch away.
Hands all round!
God the traitor’s hope confound!
To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round.
To all the loyal hearts who long
To keep our English Empire whole!
To all our noble sons, the strong
New England of the Southern Pole!
To England under Indian skies,
To those dark millions of her realm!
To Canada whom we love and prize,
Whatever statesman hold the helm.
Hands all round!
God the traitor’s hope confound!
To this great name of England drink, my friends,
And all her glorious empire, round and round.
To all our statesmen so they be
True leaders of the land’s desire!
To both our Houses, may they see
Beyond the borough and the shire!
We sail’d wherever ship could sail,
We founded many a mighty state;
Pray God our greatness may not fail
Thro’ craven fears of being great.
Hands all round!
God the traitor’s hope confound!
To this great cause of Freedom drink my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Father Joe Murphy
When i was a Schoolboy Father Joe Murphy was a young man
I recall him and his Brothers Doney and the late Johnny Dan
And though of my existence he hardly would know
One cannot help but remember the great Father Joe.
Fifty five years as a priest something to celebrate
The man has been blessed in his great gift of faith
To his own higher self and to his god true
We must give him credit since credit he is due.
Devoted to his god by good example he lead
At living a good life one who does succeed
A credit to Millstreet and the pride of his clan
The great Father Joe is a wonderful man.
In this age of the cheapening values in life
With warring and famines and poverty rife
A story like Father Joe's a great story to hear
There's still hope for humanity it does appear.
Fifty five years a priest is something well worth a boast
To Father Joe Murphy we will drink a toast
He was in his prime years when i was quite young
And surely his praises deserve to be sung.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Watching You, Watching Me, Watching You, Watching Everyone
So this is Great Britain
A green and pleasant land?
The home of CCTV Camera’s
To get speeding drivers banned
So this is Great Britain
The welfare state, & NHS
Great British Institutions?
Some think they’re in a mess
So this Is Great Britain
That once ruled the waves
An Empire and a Commonwealth?
Now issues ASBO’s if one misbehaves
So this is Great Britain
The Mother of Democracy?
The House of Commons and Lords
Ensuring justice & liberty?
So this is Great Britain
Where God saves the Queen
A land of hope & glory?
You can vote at age eighteen
So this is Great Britain
Are the pensioners in poverty?
They’ve never had it so good?
They’re all having a nice cup of tea
So this is Great Britain
A class system breeding inequality
Education, Education, Education?
Needing a dose of political honesty
So this is Great Britain
Still the mother of the free?
The police, council, & MI5
Are watching you or watching me
poem by Gordon David
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Mother, O Mother
Mother O Mother, You Are Great
Mother O Mother you are great,
All the problems solve in any state,
Still we find there is no hate,
Each and everyone you make your mate,
Love is in your heart, your work is very smart,
All your whole life you carry the home-cart,
In your job there is no wait,
Mother, O Mother you are great.
Working all the time,
To make our things fine,
Guiding always to be far from crime,
In your work there is no late,
Mother O Mother you are great,
Caring for us, praying for us,
Struggling for us, standing for us,
With your efforts, make our bright fate,
Mother O Mother you are great,
You are my lord, you are my God,
In your service there is no fraud,
With your blessings, life is always set,
Mother O Mother you are great.
poem by Prakash Joshi
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Overtaken By Fear
Satan you demon,
get out of my mind,
your twisted, your evil,
you try to make me blind,
your making me insane,
your the only one to blame,
you should be put to shame,
your pure evil, with a name,
your pure hate,
the opposite of love,
you put christians in a state,
where they dont think about the lord above.
your the cause of all wars,
the only you give, is sickness and sores,
your the reason for violence,
and its the christians you silence.
you fear my God,
you useless sob,
you think your so great,
because your filled with hate.
get out of my life,
stop causing all this strife,
your so mean, so cruel,
you have no authority, you have no rule.
you bring sickness to my friends,
lies and false hope is all you send,
your like a pillow,
with absolute zero,
comfortability,
and 100%,
vaulnerability,
its to you that i send,
all the sickness and bad health,
recieve it, tensfold from which you sent,
expect no forgiveness, expect no help.
because you chose to decend,
from which was great, with amend,
poem by Jordan Moore
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A toast
There's wine in the cup, Vancouver,
And there's warmth in my heart for you,
While I drink to your health, your youth, and your wealth,
And the things that you yet will do.
In a vintage rare and olden,
With a flavour fine and keen,
Fill the glass to the edge, while I stand up to pledge
My faith to my western queen.
Then here's a Ho! Vancouver, in wine of the bonniest hue,
With a hand on my hip and the cup at my lip,
And a love in my life for you.
For you are a jolly good fellow, with a great, big heart, I know;
So I drink this toast
To the "Queen of the Coast."
Vancouver, here's a Ho!
And here's to the days that are coming,
And here's to the days that are gone,
And here's to your gold and your spirit bold,
And your luck that has held its own;
And here's to your hands so sturdy,
And here's to your hearts so true,
And here's to the speed of the day decreed
That brings me again to you.
Then here's a Ho! Vancouver, in wine of the bonniest hue,
With a hand on my hip and the cup at my lip,
And a love in my life for you.
For you are a jolly good fellow, with a great, big heart, I know;
So I drink this toast
To the "Queen of the Coast."
Vancouver, here's a Ho!
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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What'll We Do For Christmas?
What'll we do for Christmas? A child said to her Mother,
Shall we have a christmas party, cake and ice cream too;
With lots of balloons and streamers, and a star as well,
But; the mother said, give to an orphan, a Christmas bell,
Then tell them to come for tea, tell them the Christmas story;
This is what God wants us to do, to share with our family
What'll we do for Christmas, said a boy to His father,
Can we have a holiday, and take our things I'd rather;
Buy some good things to eat, and help my grandmother,
But the father said lets invite, a poor man or lady to tea,
Shower them with kindness, as we have plenty;
This is what God wants us to do, show love from you and me.
What'll we do for Christmas said children to their teacher,
Shall we have a Christmas concert, and ask the preacher;
And invite our family, and all our friends as well too,
The teacher said 'twas a great idea, the Christmas story true;
About Mary and Joseph, and Jesus born in a stable,
But remember the story is so true, it isn't just a fable.
poem by Margaret Haig
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Our Friendship Ain't Fateful
Late out of state without absolute hate,
I decline to incline my fate into failure’s plate
I perceive not me able to be for you that great
Yet you make perfect of me, even in my state
Looking down upon me not, yet looking upon me without hate
Of how it came to being is a mystery that revives history in slate
Oh how I hate the thought I could lose my current state
In hate I’d sulk to ever cross a path that seals this fate
Can destiny and fate really drag me away? I doubt; they’re late
poem by David Munene wa Kimberly
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Were There Hope
I was never in a league of noble gentlemen
To whom she'd cast polite and flitting smiles,
Only distant hope and dying dreams for me!
Or perhaps descent into a game of wiles
To give a chance of sipping wine on heady nights
With her angelic presence to declare;
Above, an aura playing out hypnotic hues,
And I in awe of blonde cascades of hair.
But no! my tiring soul is sinking in a mire
To haunt me for an age and evermore, for
How could I expect to hold her silken hand
When I am but a soulless ghost of yore?
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope, hope?
Hope?
Never
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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I Love The Word Hope
I love the word hope 'tis a great word it keeps reminding you when you are down
That in many ways you are lucky you are not the worst off in the town
Compared to some you are quite lucky and though you may not be one of the privileged few
There's hope and comfort in the thought that many are worse off than you.
I love the word hope it seems positive to hope for the good days ahead
For life for you is scarce worth living if the hope in your heart it is dead
To hope for a better tomorrow is the thing that keeps us keeping on
For you do not have much to live for if hope out of your life is gone.
I love the word hope it's uplifting for those who are feeling quite low
For as they say hope springs eternal and out of hope success can grow
And one can only see a dark future for one who is struggling to cope
If that person has lost the great gift the gift that we all know as hope.
I love the word hope it's a great gift those who have it in them have fight
They keep on going through the dark tunnel till finally they reach the light
And when you retain hope through your hard days you are telling the World I'm alive
For without it life on you much harder and you find it so hard to survive.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I In My Forever Going On
I IN MY FOREVER GOING ON
I in my forever going on hear my own voice again and again
Repeating and repeating theme after theme:
“We will all die and all our loved ones be gone”
“To love here now those we love is all that we can best do”
“This little Israel surviving is still the best hope to somehow keep alive the hope of those lost in suffering in our long history”
“We may not be the last signal of the Universe but on Earth we humans are the jest and riddle the glory and the greatness of God’s universe”
The same themes,
Round and round over and over again-
As if to live were to be always returning to what we most are
And where we want to go is what we long ago knew inside as us.
I am not the man I wanted to be,
Or the writer, or the poet,
Or the great great great redeemer
Of my own father’s suffering
I did not heal the most hurt and still cannot
I did not make my way beyond what all others have written
In my own small words
After all the years
Still here
Thank G-d
I write one more poem
As if it were the first
And always
Not the last.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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There Was A Poem I Waited To Be Inspired By
THERE WAS A POEM I WAITED TO BE INSPIRED BY
There was a poem I waited to be inspired by -
I heard it once and then again and again
And each time it reminded me
That elsewhere there were others who knew how to believe in life-
And so I told myself
I would try to write down one day
A poem of my own
Which would give others hope also.
Now writing this I think of myself as a kind of fiction-
But what great poems of hope and faith there have been
And what great voices mankind has known-
It almost makes one believe
That such a voice can come again
Even if it is not necessarily my own-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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To Mother, Sweet Mother (on Mother's Day,2012)
Sweet mother,
We remember
Our stay together,
With dear father!
Can we ever
Forget your love and care?
We can never
Return your gifts, precious and rare!
Mother, you were a lady great;
Someone, no one on earth could hate;
A teacher, home-maker, top-rate;
You changed for better, our fate!
Your good nature, we can't equate;
Your roles in life, we can't under-state;
Your sacrifices, we can't enumerate;
Your example, we want to emulate.
We cannot thank you mother dear,
With words, gifts, savories, flower!
You put us on the road to God;
We pray you get the Lord's reward!
Today, you aren't alive
But, you were the queen-bee
Of our pleasant hive!
"Happy Mother's Day,2012! " dear mom,
(Late) Mrs. Stella Antoniswami, Old Chungam, Coimbatore
By loving dad (Late) and all children
Copyright by Dr John Celes 7-5-'12
poem by John Celes
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To A Lady Who Commanded Me To Send Her An Account In Verse
How I succeed, you kindly ask;
Yet set me on a grievous Task,
When you oblige me to rehearse,
The Censures past upon my Verse.
Tho' I with Pleasure may relate,
That many, truly good, and great,
With candid Eye my Lines survey,
And smile upon the artless Lay;
To those with grateful Heart I bend --
But your Commands I must attend.
SERVILLA cries, I hate a Wit;
Women should to their Fate submit,
Should in the Needle take Delight;
'Tis out of Character to write:
She may succeed among the Men;
They tell me, Swift subscribes for Ten;
And some say, Dorset does the same;
But she shall never have my Name:
Her Poetry has cost me dear;
When Lady Carteret was here,
The Widow Gordon got my Guinea;
For which I own myself a Ninny.
OLIVIA loses oft at Play;
So will not throw her Gold away.
Thus Silvia, of the haughty Tribe:
She never ask'd me to subscribe,
Nor ever wrote a Line on me,
I was no Theme for Poetry!
She rightly judg'd; I have no Taste --
For Womens Poetry, at least.
Then Fulvia made this sage Reply;
(And look'd with self--sufficient Eye
I oft have said, and say again,
Verses are only writ by Men;
I know a Woman cannot write;
I do not say this out of Spite;
Nor shall be thought, by those who know me,
To envy one so much below me.
SABINA, fam'd in Wisdom's School,
Allows I write--but am a Fool:
``What!--must our Sons be form'd by Rhyme?
``A fine Way to employ one's Time!''
ALBINO has no gold to waste,
Far gone in the Italian Taste:
He vows he must subscribe this Year,
To keep dear Carestini here;
Not from a narrow Party View;
He doats on Senesino too;
By Turns their Int'rest he'll espouse;
He's for the public Good, he vows;
A gen'rous Ardor fires his Breast.
Hail, Britain, in such Patriots blest!
Says Belvidera, Since a Wit
Or Friend or Foe alike will hit,
Deliver me from Wits, I say;
Grant Heav'n, they ne'er may cross my Way!
Besides, I oft have heard it hinted,
Her Poems never will be printed:
Her Sickness is a Feint, no doubt,
To keep her Book from coming out.
Of Wit, says Celia, I'll acquit her;
Then archly fell into a Titter.
A Female Bard! Pulvillio cries;
'Tis possible she may be wise;
But I could never find it yet,
Tho' oft in Company we met:
She talks just in the common Way:
Sure Wits their Talents should display;
Their Language surely should be bright,
Before they should pretend to write:
I'll ne'er subscribe for Books, says he;
'Fore Gad, it looks like Pedantry.
High--born Belinda loves to blame;
On Criticism founds her Fame:
When--e'er she thinks a Fault she spies
How Pleasure sparkles in her Eyes!
Call it not Poetry, she says;
No -- Call it Rhyming, if you please:
Her Numbers might adorn a Ring,
Or serve along the Streets to sing:
Stella and Flavia's well enough;
What else I saw, was stupid Stuff;
Nor Love nor Satire in her Lays,
Insipid! neither pain nor please:
I promis'd once to patronize her;
But on Reflection, I was wiser:
Yet I subscrib'd among the rest;
I love to carry on a Jest.
BELINDA thus her Anger shows,
Nor tells the World, from whence it flows:
With more Success to wound my Lays,
She gilds the Dart with other Praise:
To her own Breast I leave the Fair
Convinc'd I stand acquitted there.
AMANDA, your Commands, you see,
Tho' grievous, are obey'd by me.
What my Friends told me had been said,
Just as it came into my Head,
No matter for the Place or Time,
To shew your Pow'r, I tag with Rhyme.
Now let some News salute your Ear,
Tho' I have weary'd you, I fear:
Know, --- has Vengeance vow'd,
And in the Furies Temple bow'd:
He but suspends his Wrath, he says,
Till he can criticise my Lays.
Malice, thy Rancour I expect,
And shall return it--with Neglect:
Go on, display your treasur'd Rage;
Invectives shall not blot my Page:
What real Faults you note, I'll mend:
Proceed, your Efforts I attend;
Taught early, Dryden, by thy Song,
They ne'er forgive, who do the Wrong.
Now to the Muse I bid Adieu;
Nor rail at her, as Poets do:
Protected by the Good and Great,
I'll not repine, but bless my Fate.
You, Madam, who your Sex adorn,
Who Malice and Detraction scorn,
Who with superior Sense are bless'd,
Of ev'ry real Worth possess'd;
With Eye indulgent view my Lays:
You know to blame, but love to praise:
You know my Faults, and know beside,
I want not to be mortify'd.
One Merit I presume to boast,
And dare to plead but one at most:
The Muse I never have debas'd;
My Lays are innocent at least;
Were ever ardently design'd
To mend and to enlarge the Mind.
This must be own'd a virtuous Aim.
The Praise of Wit--let others claim.
poem by Mary Barber
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I Did It For You
The rain fell so hard on the roof,
It was sad night my heart anticipated,
In the great loneliness of mine,
When the wind was vivid and terrible,
You said come and I came
The river so wide and powerfull,
The crocodiles and all the horrible creatures,
Remember the depth my love,
When it was me or no one else,
Yet I crossed for you my love
Remember the shipwreck my dear,
They said it was never possible,
To see the floods take you away?
The tears in your eyes my love,
Remember the almost departure,
Yet I followed to your rescue,
I have found you my love
To die in the place of someone you love,
And to live with those moments,
To die in the arms of the beloved,
Hoping why life couldnt give more,
Remember the darkest hours,
Yet I faced them for you my love,
It was always a choice, not a sacrifice
poem by Gaylord Munemo
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Writing About - Hope
Every human being living on this earth hope for something
Poor people hope that one day money will come their way
The rich folks hope to multiply their assets before long
Several men hope for a wife who is as caring as their mother
Many women hope for husbands who is as loving as their father
Children always hope for parents who will give them everything
Bankers hope that everybody will pay their mortgages in time
Thieves and robbers hope the police should stop harassing them
While the police hope that every person will be law-abiding
Priests and clerics hope that everyone will live a sacred life
Experienced nurses hope the doctors will treat them with respect
Medical doctors hope their patients will recuperate faster
Careful drivers hope that other drivers will drive like them
Teachers hope all students will do their home-work regularly
While the students hope the teachers will give them easy exams
The colleges hope that all students will pay their tuition promptly
Farmers always hope for good and abundant harvest
Lawyers hope more and more people will need their services
Fishermen hope that more and more fishes run into their nets
School-girls always hope for rich and generous boy-friends
All politicians hope to get elected and re-elected
Employers hope their workers will volunteer for overtime
Every architect always hope to design the best building in town
Builders hope to showcase the tallest building as their own work
The mechanics always hope more people will buy used-vehicles
What are your personal hopes on this earth?
What are your hopes for your family?
What are your hopes for your country?
The day we humans stop hoping on this earth
Will be the day we cease to be members of this beautiful planet
Please remember to stay happy and cheerful
poem by Julius Babarinsa
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Great White Hope
Written by james young
Lead vocals by james young
When I was a young man, I had to kick and scratch and claw
Now its like top gun in the old west, everybody wants me to draw
If I had known it would be like this I might have given it a second thought
But if someone had told me to give it up, its a line that I wouldnt have bought
Look at me
Im the great white hope
Cant you see
Im up against the ropes
Dont you know
Its so hard to cope
When you feel
Like the great white hope
Now youve paid your money youre sitting in your ringside seat
And I know that some of you out there, might wanna see the champ get beat
If I had known it would be like this I might have given it a second thought
But real life sure isnt like school, theres some lessons that just cant be taught
Look at me
Im the great white hope
Cant you see
Im up against the ropes
Dont you know
Its so hard to cope
When you feel
Like the great white hope
song performed by by Styx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Unanswerable Apology For The Rich.
All--bounteous Heav'n, Castalio cries,
With bended Knees, and lifted Eyes,
When shall I have the Pow'r to bless,
And raise up Merit in Distress?
How do our Hearts deceive us here!
He gets ten thousand Pounds a Year.
With this the pious Youth is able
To build, and plant, and keep a Table.
But then the Poor he must not treat:
Who asks the Wretch, that wants to eat?
Alas! to ease their Woes he wishes;
But cannot live without Ten Dishes:
Tho' Six would serve as well, 'tis true;
But one must live, as others do.
He now feels Wants unknown before,
Wants still increasing with his Store.
The good Castalio must provide
Brocade, and Jewels, for his Bride.
Her Toilet shines with Plate emboss'd;
What Sums her Lace and Linen cost!
The Cloaths that must his Person grace,
Shine with Embroidery, and Lace.
The costly Pride of Persian Looms,
And Guido's Paintings, grace his Rooms.
His Wealth Castalio will not waste;
But must have ev'ry thing in Taste.
He's an OEconomist confest;
But what he buys, must be the best:
For common Use a Set of Plate;
Old China, when he dines in State;
A Coach and Six, to take the Air;
Besides a Chariot, and a Chair.
All these important Calls supply'd,
Calls of Necessity, not Pride,
His Income's regularly spent;
He scarcely saves to pay his Rent.
No Man alive would do more Good,
Or give more freely, if he cou'd.
He grieves, whene'er the Wretched sue;
But what can poor Castalio do?
Would Heav'n but send ten thousand more,
He'd give--just as he did before.
poem by Mary Barber
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Psalm 63
Longing after God; or, The love of God better than life.
Great God, indulge my humble claim,
Thou art my hope, my joy, my rest;
The glories that compose thy name
Stand all engaged to make me blest.
Thou great and good, thou just and wise,
Thou art my Father and my God;
And I am thine by sacred ties;
Thy son, thy servant, bought with blood
With heart, and eyes, and lifted hands,
For thee I long, to thee I look,
As travellers in thirsty lands
Pant for the cooling water-brook.
With early feet I love t' appear
Among thy saints, and seek thy face;
Oft have I seen thy glory there,
And felt the power of sovereign grace.
Not fruits nor wines that tempt our taste,
Nor all the joys our senses know,
Could make me so divinely blest,
Or raise my cheerful passions so.
My life itself without thy love
No taste of pleasure could afford;
'Twould but a tiresome burden prove,
If I were banish'd from the Lord.
Amidst the wakeful hours of night,
When busy cares afflict my head,
One thought of thee gives new delight,
And adds refreshment to my bed.
I'll lift my hands, I'll raise my voice,
While I have breath to pray or praise;
This work shall make my heart rejoice,
And spend the remnant of my days.
poem by Isaac Watts
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The State Of My Life
Check the last time you took wine,
Blackman watch yourself in the land of your muse!
To the graves of the earth,
Whiteman you will always rule because of a little reason;
But, what are these medicines for?
Remember! The Creator created us all;
But, the great night is broken today,
And, the trumpets have sounded! !
There i saw people carrying weapons of war all along,
But the African cats have no chains on their necks.
The state of my life,
I do thank Father Yahweh for everything;
For, the European cats do have chains on their necks.
Fore consumes what it touches,
But a will or a testament can only go into effect once a person dies;
And like the secret of the Seventh Seal! !
But the army of horsemen are now ready for war!
The truth is already known around you,
Because, action speaks louder than words! !
And, a picture is worth a thousand words,
But, receive the truth always from the right people.
Deceived churches and assembles,
And like a woman clothed with the sun;
For the law of thought is around you,
And like a great wonder in heaven! !
The law od peace,
The 'Ishtar Egg' has nothing to do with the Messiah!
And like 'Isi and Iswara';
But today, a donkey's head is now sold for eighty shekels.
Of virginity and motherhood,
But fornication is sin;
And from the beginning to the end,
But like the muse of 'Ahoofe' in 'Gonja land'.
He knew he had done wrong,
She knew she had done worng,
But i am from 'Krachi' in the Northern Volta;
And, i knew nothing by myself,
Except being guided by the muse of love.
I planted and you watered,
But check the last time that you took wine;
For eye has not seen nor ear heard of it!
But the first light of dawn brings hope,
And like the state of my life in the land of your muse.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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