Lost Treasure
THE autumn day steals, pallid as a ghost,
Along these fields and man-forsaken ways;
And o'er the hedgerows bramble-knotted maze
The whitening locks of Old Man's Beard are tost.
Here, shrunk by centuries of fire and frost,
A crab tree stands where--lingering gossip says--
In ocean-moated England's golden days,
Great treasure, in a frolic, once was lost.
Here--fresh from fumes of some Falstaffian bout,
When famous champions, fired by many a bet,
Had drained huge bumpers while the stars would set--
Beneath its reeling branches by the way,
Till twice twelve hours of April bloom were out--
Locked in oblivion--Shakespeare lost a day.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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Before Execution.
The sun is set, and all the stars are come,
Stars I shall no more see; the air is still,
And my life waits the ruin so near now.
A little space, and I shall have done here.
Ah, God! twelve hours, twelve little hours, and, lo!
The air and these lips part, day becomes night,
Earth nothing, time a skeleton, and I
An angry ghost, or a tired phantom laid
With many others in oblivion.
Twelve hours, twelve little hours, and I shall have
A wondrous change — feel one fierce pang, and then
Fade off I know not where, or like a star
Shot fearfully from the zenith singe my way
Through chaos haply for some aeons till
I reach another air, a lower sky,
And maybe with a baleful influence
Burn in Pluto's reign.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Tree of No Light Life
Tree of night.
Tree of fright.
See as this tree has, lost the need to fight.
Tree of no light.
Tree of no sight.
See this tree as it, lost will of life.
Abanded tree drained of like,
drained of strength, drained of life.
Soulless tree lost of love,
lost of weather, lost from above.
poem by Daryl Widder
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Home Thoughts from Abroad
April in England–daffodils are growing
By every wayside, golden, tall and fair;
April–and all the little winds are blowing
The scents of springtime through the sunny air.
April in England–God, that we were there!
April in England–and her sons are lying
On these red fields, and dreaming of her shore;
April–we hear the thrushes' songs replying
Each unto each, above the cannons' roar;
April in England–shall we see it more?
April in England–there's the cuckoo calling
Down in her meadows where the cowslip gleams;
April–and little showers are softly falling,
Dimpling the surface of her babbling streams;
April in England–how the shrapnel screams!
April in England–blood and dust and smother,
Screaming of horses, men in agony.
April–full many of thy sons, O Mother,
Never again those dewy dawns shall see.
April in England–God, keep England free!
poem by Norah M. Holland
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An English Spring Ramble
Spring is here in every new budding leaf
that flourishes beneath
this vast expansive sky of baby blue.
Wild pink cherry in blossom by the road
covers soft yellow daffodils on show,
fav'rite colours in a nursery hue.
Push'd into this expectant painted world
first lambs, tails unfurled
wobble under udders in fields of green.
Along hedgerows where I slowly amble,
deep within the ancient knotted bramble
Tree Sparrows flitter and twitter unseen.
Walking with my eyes and heart wide open
silent words unspoken,
the wayside has its own story to tell.
The wild birds' spring symphony holds me
standing here beneath the sunlit cherry
looking through branches at a clear blue sky.
poem by Diana Rosser
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Battle Of New Orleans
In 1814 we took a little trip,
Along with colonel jackson down the mighty mississip.
We took a little bacon and we took a little beans,
And we fought the bloody british in the town of new orleans.
We fired our guns and the british kept a comin,
There wasnt bout as many as there was awhile ago.
We fired once more and they began to runnin
On down the mississippi to the gulf of mexico.
Oh we looked down the river and we seen the british come.
There must have been a hundred of em beatin on a drum.
They stepped so high and they made their bugles ring.
We stood behind our cotton bales and didnt say a thing.
Old hickory said we could take em by surprise,
If we didn¹t fire our muskets till we looked em in the eyes.
We held our fire till we seen their faces well,
Then we opened up our squirrel guns and gave em a little...well....we...
....fired our guns and the british kept a comin,
There wasnt bout as many as there was awhile ago.
We fired once more and they began to runnin
On down the mississippi to the gulf of mexico.
We fired our cannons till the barrels melted down,
Then we grabbed an alligator and we fired another round.
We filled his head with cannonballs and powdered his behind,
And when we touched the powder off, the gator lost his mind.
We fired our guns and the british kept a comin,
There wasnt bout as many as there was awhile ago.
We fired once more and they began to runnin
On down the mississippi to the gulf of mexico.
We fired our guns and the british kept a comin,
There wasnt bout as many as there was awhile ago.
We fired once more and they began to runnin
On down the mississippi to the gulf of mexico.
song performed by by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Days of April
O, my days of April, I've pined for you so long
And waited to see your gardens return where they belong
O, my days of April, which find me with a fellow
Do you see my new smile outglowing daffodills yellow?
O, my days of April, you leave me sleepless in your splendor
You find me beneath the shaded trees in his arms tender
Marveling beneath the orange sunlight that covers the grassy hills
Feeling the blissful breeze travel where it wills
O, my days of April, his voice hums like your honey bees
It often sends my heart on happy little sprees
And as we swim through the land of lavender seas
I thank you for the days you bring such as these
O, my days of April, he smells like your fresh rain
That waters the mowed grass in the thirsty plains
His eyes shine like the diamonds you leave on the blades
I hold them to my memory to escape December days
O, my days of April, remember you'll live forevermore
Your cloudless days and golden rays always will knock at May's door
And your flowers will bloom so high they almost reach the gables
But remember us, remember us, my sweet days of April
poem by Whitney Albright
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Cockatoo Twelve Years On '1995
It's been more than twelve years so they tell me since the flames of death passed through
Since the fire that caused destruction burnt it's way through Cockatoo
Lives were lost and houses burnt down blackened miles of countryside
And people wept for lost possessions for their life time work destroyed.
Tears for houses burnt to ashes, tears for lives lost in fierce flame
Tears for trees and paddocks blackened some say 'fire bug '
was to blame
Cockatoo a place of mourning only blackness to be seen
Only smell of smoke and burn out not one sign of Nature's green.
Twelve years on things seem so different Cockatoo looks green today
And who'd believe if you had not known that huge fire had burnt this way
Some still talk of their great losses and the hardships they'd been through
But they recovered built new houses and still live in Cockatoo.
Nature is her own best healer, Nature the true friend of man
Blackness caused by fire and burn out only last for a brief span
Cockatoo is one example what a change twelve years can bring
On green gum tree by the rail track i can hear the shrike thrush sing.
Here in cockatoo this morning fresh and pure the mountain air
Green the trees and green the paddocks green as i've seen anywhere
Twelve years back a blackened wasteland see how green she looks today
Nature is her own best healer and nature always has her way.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Spring in New Hampshire
Too green the springing April grass,
Too blue the silver-speckled sky,
For me to linger here, alas,
While happy winds go laughing by,
Wasting the golden hours indoors,
Washing windows and scrubbing floors.
Too wonderful the April night,
Too faintly sweet the first May flowers,
The stars too gloriously bright,
For me to spend the evening hours,
When fields are fresh and streams are leaping,
Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping.
poem by Claude McKay
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April
April, pride of woodland ways,
Of glad days,
April, bringing hope of prime,
To the young flowers that beneath
Their bud sheath
Are guarded in their tender time;
April, pride of fields that be
Green and free,
That in fashion glad and gay,
Stud with flowers red and blue,
Every hue,
Their jewelled spring array;
April, pride of murmuring
Winds of spring,
That beneath the winnowed air,
Trap with subtle nets and sweet
Flora’s feet,
Flora’s feet, the fleet and fair;
April, by thy hand caressed,
From her breast
Nature scatters everywhere
Handfuls of all sweet perfumes,
Buds and blooms,
Making faint the earth and air.
April, joy of the green hours,
Clothes with flowers
Over all her locks of gold
My sweet Lady; and her breast
With the blest
Birds of summer manifold.
April, with thy gracious wiles,
Like the smiles,
Smiles of Venus; and thy breath
Like her breath, the Gods’ delight,
(From their height
They take the happy air beneath)
It is thou that, of thy grace,
From their place
In the far-oft isles dost bring
Swallows over earth and sea,
Glad to be
Messengers of thee, and Spring.
Daffodil and eglantine,
And woodbine,
Lily, violet, and rose
Plentiful in April fair,
To the air,
Their pretty petals do unclose.
Nightingales ye now may hear,
Piercing clear,
Singing in the deepest shade;
Many and many a babbled note
Chime and float,
Woodland music through the glade.
April, all to welcome thee,
Spring sets free
Ancient flames, and with low breath
Wakes the ashes grey and old
That the cold
Chilled within our hearts to death.
Thou beholdest in the warm
Hours, the swarm
Of the thievish bees, that flies
Evermore from bloom to bloom
For perfume,
Hid away in tiny thighs.
Her cool shadows May can boast,
Fruits almost
Ripe, and gifts of fertile dew,
Manna-sweet and honey-sweet,
That complete
Her flower garland fresh and new.
Nay, but I will give my praise,
To these days,
Named with the glad name of Her
That from out the foam o’ the sea
Came to be
Sudden light on earth and air.
poem by Remy Belleau
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Lost, Lost
Lost, lost in this frost
A warm fire, a dire dream
I am
Lost, lost in the deep
Sea, to see land only fantasy
My mind busy,
Lost, lost in a brainwave,
A thought, you inspire. Lost,
Am Lost,
Deep in a sea of thoughts;
Each salty dropp thought, feeds
A flame that melts the frost
And by you the flame becomes a fire.
Days in Red
Days days days in red
In days days days ahead
The sun is in autumn light
And moon of glowing dark
Sky deep and high
Days days days in red
Flowing on hours in night
Where love lost its flight
Once those were alright
Now they no more spark
Days days days in red
In days days days ahead
The sun is in autumn light
Is there a horizon of ignite
Where hours go on by
Days days days in red
Flowing memories at sight
No feeling seems now right
But love's still inside
Come come babe now close abide
Days days days in red
In days days days ahead
The sun is in autumn light
Is there a horizon of ignite
Where hours go on by
Days days days in red
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Winter Uplands
The frost that stings like fire upon my cheek,
The loneliness of this forsaken ground,
The long white drift upon whose powdered peak
I sit in the great silence as one bound;
The rippled sheet of snow where the wind blew
Across the open fields for miles ahead;
The far-off city towered and roofed in blue
A tender line upon the western red;
The stars that singly, then in flocks appear,
Like jets of silver from the violet dome,
So wonderful, so many and so near,
And then the golden moon to light me home--
The crunching snowshoes and the stinging air,
And silence, frost, and beauty everywhere.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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Lost April
(newman/spencer/delange)
Lost april,
Where did you go?
Like winter's snow,
I saw you vanish.
Lost april,
So soft and warm.
A memory
Not even time can banish.
Lost april,
That taught me this.
A single kiss
Could lead to heaven.
But april had numbered days,
So when they passed,
Love couldn't last.
I lost love and you,
And april, too.
~interlude~
So when they passed,
Love couldn't last.
I lost love and you,
And april, too.
song performed by by Nat King Cole
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No Fresh Game in the Fields
There is no fresh game in the fields.
The paupers have pounced
To leave not an ounce of dignity
Anyone could patronize!
The charity days have gone.
And so has every excuse played
To get 'over' on someone else.
It's awful...
But survival skills today
Are requiring much more,
Than mooching and fresh gossip.
Those who hunt with precision,
Are on the scene.
And if you can not carry
Thoughts you can use...
For those who can use them?
You will be lost to discover
Any around,
You can borrow!
There is no fresh game in the fields.
And you have not prepared yourself to play!
With the seriousness of tight lips,
Or the sense of urgency...
To sit and develop your own action.
You've been working on reactions for years.
And that has been outdated!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Portrait Of Jennie
Lost April
Where did you go?
Like winter's snow
I saw you vanish
Lost April
so soft and warm
a memory not even time can vanish
Lost April
that taught me this
a single kiss
could lead to heaven
but April had numbered days
so when they passed
love couldn't last
I lost love and you and April too.
strings
so when they passed
love couldn't last
I lost love and you and April too.
song performed by by Nat King Cole
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To The Shore
When your nine day feed is up
And youve drained your loving cup
Come stands reeling to the shore
When the brave are coming out
The dry fight and the dusty shout
See you crawling on the floor
And diamond stars shine glitter bright
Gorging your sanhedralite
Words are falling to the floor
Glands stand pouring fruit tree
Now they glisten on the waterline
See how you are at the shore
Im moving chrissie pretty flowers in the shutter maze
Haul up all your petty desires
Leave it lying down before
Wash away the rusty disease
Of your brown town days in our silver sea
Leave it dying at the door
Feather yell youve time to leave
Open out your arms and breathe
Breathe
Breathe
Breathe
song performed by by Duran Duran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Laplander To His Rein-Deer
HOW long, oh, my faithful companion and guide!
Thou hast wafted o'er deserts my car!
How oft, oh, my rein-deer! thy speed has been tried,
O'er mountains unknown and afar!
But thy youth is departed, thy fire is no more,
And thy limbs all their vigor have lost;
For age steals upon thee, relentless and hoar,
And colder than winter his frost!
When friendship, or pleasure, invited away,
Thou hast borne me o'er valleys and plains;
Untir'd with the dangers, the toils of the day,
While the road was beguil'd by my strains!
When love gave the word, o'er the landscape of snow,
We flew like the wings of the wind!
In this ice-cover'd region, his sun-beam may glow,
To melt and to soften the mind!
But thy youth is departed, thy spirit and grace,
And thy limbs all their vigor have lost;
For age steals upon thee with lingering pace,
And colder than winter his frost.
How oft has the summer, in mantle of green,
Array'd the wild Tenglio's side;
Since thou, oh, my rein-deer! my servant hast been,
My faithful companion and guide!
When we journey'd together, and both in our prime,
How fleet were thy steps o'er the waste;
But fleeter than thee, oh, my rein-deer! is time,
More swift, more unsparing in haste!
For thy youth is departed, thy spirit is fled,
And thy limbs all their vigor have lost;
Now age steals upon thee, unwelcome and dread,
And colder than winter his frost!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Fire Fighting Days
The sun is blocked out by a heavy smoke haze
Twelve miles south of here a huge bushfire blaze
It's way through the brown paddocks and stands of trees
fanned on by a warm and a freshening breeze,
Where-ever there's smoke there is fire to be found
And smoke travels by air for miles and miles around
The C F A the Country fire fighters are busy today
The destructive fire front they fight to keep it at bay,
Such courageous people one can't help but them admire
They risk their own lives to save homes from the fire
They display their courage in the gap of fear
Great stories of their bravery we so often hear
Through dry scrublands and paddocks the huge fire front blaze
We are in the Season of fire fighting days.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Most Famous I Am Poem
The most famous I Am poem was penned by John Clare
When he was in Northampton mental asylum and burdened by care
A poem from all others that set him apart
For life's poor and forsaken a cry from the heart,
A poem by an aged poet lost in the lost years
The most famous I Am poem move many to tears
A poem written by one who knew about despair
That poem his reality such poems are rare
The most famous I Am poem tells of an Earthly Hell
Known by the fringe dwellers the mentally unwell
The song of an old poet forsaken and gray
The truth in his words is still living today
And though the renowned old wordsmith to the reaper long gone
His famous I Am poem it is living on.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Memory and Oblivion
When all is lost, there is still a memory
From which a new city can be built in a new world.
Those with memory will be wealthy.
Oblivion cures the old wounds, and you must agree,
There is only the past and the future on the path;
When all is lost, there is still a memory.
Memory will save oblivion from a bad reverie;
When the new city is built, it will be an abode,
Bestowed by those with memory to make others wealthy.
Before the temple, in the middle of the city,
Keepers of the fire all abided.
When all is lost, there is still a memory.
Fire will be born from night to be
New light when all knowledge is swallowed
And those with memory will be wealthy.
A new rose will bloom from the dark sea,
A city revived from memory and abroad;
When all is but a memory, there is still memory.
Those with memory will be wealthy.
poem by Dejan Stojanovic
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