0082 The New Grave
You brought your watercolour kit.
For it’s so picturesque – the smallish church
in the centre of the village
like a mother hen at drowsy midday
surrounded by her chicks;
the red-white flag of Saint George
the only sign of life, fluttering like
an aerial footnote to history
(or for some, a corner of a foreign football field…)
but there’s a new detail in the picture
since last you sketched here:
the newest arrival is the oldest: death;
the oldest signifier is the fresh-turned earth.
The uninvited thought squirms across the mind
like the exposed worms of that rich soil,
how reassuring to be buried in this ideal
picture-book of continuity amidst the change,
a country churchyard. A cemetery
has no geography and thus no history
save in the hearts of families;
here, all is reassuring
except to broken hearts which time will heal
all bar the scar.
Already, the bunch of daffodils
in the empty honey jar
have bowed to that same death;
reminding us that graves are spun around
a hundred and forty years of family history:
she’ll remember how she loved her Nan
who died at seventy-something
for all her own seventyish future years.
Rest in peace means something here.
Meanwhile, the daffodils thrive, dotted
among the graves, as unconcerned
as the soft rubber tyres of the hearse
now catching at the Spring’s reaching foliage
as it approaches at a perfectly-judged pace
down Church Lane, returning peace to peace.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
You Tell Me Of Your Australian History
You tell me of your Australian history your ancestors were British and Irish pioneers
But your history in this Land is not an old history just two centuries and twenty years
And in time that may seem quite a long span though the combined life spans of three people nothing more
Your ancestors hardly were Aussies they came here from a distant shore.
The first Australians have lived in this Country for longer than most care to know
Their ancestors came here from Asia more than sixty thousand years ago
They are indigenous to this Country all others have links to elsewhere
Yet they still struggle for recognition and that to me seems quite unfair.
Dispossessed by the Northern invaders they never did get back their Land
And that they are now ruled by white people I find that hard to understand
You talk of the history of this Land as if it were only two hundred years old
But then suppose the history of the ancient Dreamtime by white people will never be told.
I was not even born in this Country which makes you more Aussie than I
And though I'm not Nationalistic or Patriotic my heritage I won''t deny
You talk of your pioneering ancestors but why talk of Human history at all
If the history of the first Australians you do not see fit to recall.
You tell me of your pioneering ancestors but one fact you tend to ignore
That they were not born in this Country they came here from a foreign shore
You''d swear by you the Human history of this Land was only two centuries old
But the true history of this great Country by your type will never be told
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Prologue
Chronicle of The House of Maltus
In the corner of history you were there
watching the broken shadow of the air
cast by the light- from the uncertain future
of the recorded fate clothe of horror
In the corner of history- they
people of strange tongue and of ancient way
pale skinned creatures: silent in the day,
at night they with sharp and penetrating eye
In the corner of history- was a sight
the undying old between day and night
-he was un-earthed master of the tomb- the knight
and, -she was, in the womb of the lord's might
In the corner of history- still is
the great ancestors buried to the chest of bliss
lords and ladies- the royal blood of the fathers
warriors and servants- the welcomed guests
In the corner of history- I am
-the last of them, wise and valiant half man
-hundred years and more; I am the to and the from
-their birth, their death in my heart precious so warm
In the corner of history- the face and the name
of the creature cursed by them
man they are all the same
consumed by their malice they named us villain
In the corner of history- I, vanished
left the cruel world created by mans' heart
doomed by their own malice, their hatred
to my own kind- the sons and daughters of god
In the corner of history- I found
at last the heaven for us, above the sand
were memories from the past un-harmed
by the filthy beast: man, and their kind
Note:
Book the first, The Prologue
From the tradition of the “vamperas”- the story of Maltus.
(vamperas- equivalent to vampire; Maltus- character
appeared in the author's dream)
poem by Jordan Legaspi
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Peace Messenger
Thousand of rulers have come and gone
thousand of conqueror have conquered the world
most of them have become the chapter of history
history has lost some of name
but the history remember those
who have done for the sake of mankind
amongst them one more name will be added
who shall always be remembered
for his solitude administration
to conquer the peace
the messenger of peace of the present world
His Highness name is
Mr.Barack Obama
the Hon'ble President of USA
who is above all race and religion
May God bless him and his family
with Love and Peace.
poem by Ramesh Rai
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Chain of love and peace
One moment of love and peace,
Several moments of love and peace, it can make.
Several moments of love and peace,
One minute of love and peace, it can make.
One minute of love and peace,
Several minutes of love and peace, it can make.
Several minutes of love and peace,
One hour of love and peace, it can make.
One hour of love and peace,
Several hours of love and peace, it can make.
One hour of love and peace,
Several hours of love and peace, it can make.
Several hours of love and peace,
One day of love and peace, it can make.
One day of love and peace,
Several days of love and peace, it can make.
Several days of love and peace,
One week of love and peace, it can make.
One week of love and peace,
Several weeks of love and peace, it can make.
Several weeks of love and peace,
One month of love and peace, it can make.
One month of love and peace,
Several months of love and peace, it can make.
Several months of love and peace,
One year of love and peace, it can make
One year of love and peace,
Several years of love and peace, it can make
Several years of love and peace,
One life of love and peace, it can make
One life of love and peace,
Several lives of love and peace, it can make
Several lives of love and peace,
One family of love and peace, it can make
One family of love and peace,
Several families of love and peace, it can make
Several families of love and peace,
One village of love and peace, it can make
One village of love and peace,
Several villages of love and peace, it can make
Several villages of love and peace,
One community of love and peace, it can make
One community of love and peace,
Several communities of love and peace, it can make
Several communities of love and peace,
One country of love and peace, it can make
One country of love and peace,
Several countries of love and peace, it can make
Several countries of love and peace,
One world of love and peace, it can make
One world of love and peace,
One eternity of love and peace, it can make
One moment of love and peace,
One eternity of love and peace, it can make
So, why doesn’t it?
Because this is same for hate and war…
poem by Lino Jones
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R.I.P story poem
Here where once there used to be.
A quiet village cemetery
A hallowed place in which to find
Tranquillity and peace of mind.
The graveyard served the village well
Though for how long no man can tell.
I’m sad to say the village died.
The land on which they all relied.
Suddenly lost fertility.
The people facing poverty.
Saw no good reason they should stay
and one by one they moved away.
To other places far from here
they seemed to simply disappear
to destinations we don’t know.
They had no choice they had to go
Houses fell into disrepair
because there was no one to care.
The passing years were none too kind.
There’s very little left to find.
Bar rotten floorboards here and there.
Weeds in profusion everywhere
The churchyard too is over grown
with brambles hiding each gravestone.
A long forgotten tragedy
a piece of ancient history.
The city suburbs must expand
and in their search for building land.
The greedy eyes are cast this way.
They know they will not have to pay.
The true worth of this empty land,
The kind of price it will command.
When it is cleared ready to build.
They hope their coffers will be filled.
But fate has other plans in mind
and to their great surprise they’ll find
That they have made a grave mistake.
The profits which they hope to make.
Will not now materialise.
Because they failed recognise.
The old grave yard as hallowed ground
Despite the evidence they found.
They wantonly destroyed head stones
showed no respect for buried bones.
It makes me happy to report
the vaunted plans all came to naught.
Because some archaeologists
Researching local history lists
Discovered this old cemetery
and they decided it must be.
Preserved in perpetuity
for generations yet to be.
The greedy men had lost their cash
Their dreams of profit turned to ash
the damage done for no reward.
The good folk who were buried here
can sleep in peace they need not fear.
That their rest will be disturbed.
The greedy builders have been curbed.
A happy ending to my tale
Their efforts were to no avail.
It seems that fate itself decreed
they must be punished for their greed.
Wednesday,28 July 2010 http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Flag of our Destinies
With our boundaries swung to the circling seas and a nation named to the world!
And the six-starred flag of our destinies on every port unfurled!
God grant from Greed or the dust of sleep – or the right by a lie maintained –
From all save our blood, if we must, we’ll keep the silver and blue unstained!
We yield no praise and we speak no blame, for our history ‘s weeds and flowers –
But the work of a hundred years we claim as our father’s work and ours!
Through peace to prosper or war to save – wherever the future runs –
May God make noble and strong and brave the hearts of our father’s sons.
poem by Henry Lawson
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War Is Our Worlds History
I Look into a history book.
And what do I see?
Pain and agony, death and suffering,
I see history that tells a lot about our world.
War!
Our world's history is war.
It is the pain and agony, the death and the suffering,
I see large fields of dead bodies,
I see our heritage being destroyed by other people
because it is not what they believe in,
I see people begging for mercy, but they do not get it
instead they get a bullet in the head.
In our history I see many mistakes in which we can learn from,
but we obviously we do not.
They say not to judge a book by its cover,
to me this quote means nothing to our history.
Our history is our cover,
and the book is filled with pain and agony, death and suffering.
Plain and Simple
War!
poem by Christian Cervantes
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Death, and Life
so many forms of
death so many chapters
ended abruptly without
resolution
the father or mother
you thought you'd never lose
that you didnt spend enough time with
the son lost to a foreign conflict,
draped in a flag
the abortion you opted for
cause you couldnt see
any other way and now,
years later, you have doubts
the teenager who committed suicide,
that you couldnt reach,
somehow couldnt tell them or
show them they were not alone
the young man who overdosed
alone in an empty apartment
the baby left to die
in an alley and the teenage mother
who died there too!
the companion who walked away
after so many years and the
best part of you died there
the old man diagnosed with a cancer
that they cant treat and the death
of waiting to die.
the young family who loses everything,
and the dream of a future dies
as they become numbers lost
to the din of hopelessness
but what is death?
is it an ending?
or a beginning?
time worn brown leaves crumbling,
dissolving into dirt,
waiting through the winter
for a new spring to come
winter doesnt last forever!
spring is already there
in those time browned leaves
open your eyes, open your heart,
life never ends!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Pilgrims
For oh, when the war will be over
We'll go and we'll look for our dead;
We'll go when the bee's on the clover,
And the plume of the poppy is red:
We'll go when the year's at its gayest,
When meadows are laughing with flow'rs;
And there where the crosses are greyest,
We'll seek for the cross that is ours.
For they cry to us: Friends, we are lonely,
A-weary the night and the day;
But come in the blossom-time only,
Come when our graves will be gay:
When daffodils all are a-blowing,
And larks are a-thrilling the skies,
Oh, come with the hearts of you glowing,
And the joy of the Spring in your eyes.
But never, oh, never come sighing,
For ours was the Splendid Release;
And oh, but 'twas joy in the dying
To know we were winning you Peace!
So come when the valleys are sheening,
And fledged with the promise of grain;
And here where our graves will be greening,
Just smile and be happy again.
And so, when the war will be over,
We'll seek for the Wonderful One;
And maiden will look for her lover,
And mother will look for her son;
And there will be end to our grieving,
And gladness will gleam over loss,
As -- glory beyond all believing!
We point . . . to a name on a cross.
poem by Robert William Service
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Life and Death, How Ironic
Life, it described my Mother
Life, she was the image
Life, she was healthy
Life, she loved every day
Life, you saw it in her eyes
Life, you heard it in her voice
Life, how ironic it could be
Death, the impossible
Death, too somber a thought for her
Death, she would live a long, long time before it would confront her
Death, sickness maybe, but there is always a cure
Death, not even a thought in the doctor’s mind
Death, it now replaced life
Life and death, my mother passed away with a look of peace on her face
She died knowing that she lived every moment to the fullest.
poem by Janice Karp
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Peace: not war
Each heart is thriving for peace
Peace!
That every soul seeks
Peace!
That each mind needs
A war torn world with peace nowhere
Crying and mourning everywhere
Poverty spread all over
Sadness in every corner
No love, no peace to bond
But warriors falling to the ground
No time to see someone in peace
No time to be in peace
Let peace prevail everywhere
With love, unity and care
Let peace take war's place and
Make blue days to happy days
Peace and contentment will soar in our hearts
No wars on creed, race or caste because,
Love and peace will fill our hearts.
poem by Sanjana Nagraj
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Shahid, Come And Witness
Shahid,
Come and WITNESS,
The illusions of peace;
Under the serene shades of Naseem Bagh
Everything puts up a sober show,
And i'm forced to forget
The blood on the streets (of Lal Chowk)
The broken glasses(of the ''Dignity'Showroom)
The blurb of the new books on Kashmir
(by eminent''squalors'') ,
resting on the shelves of The Atlantic Book Shop.
Oh! the complacent lilies,
Growing beside the graveyard;
Sheer white, untouched by grief.
Well-clad and pompous,
Speaking;
But not our own lanuage,
Discussing,
But not our own culture,
Our history, our heritage,
Living,
A life haunted by death,
A life of begged 'dignity'.
Oh! the complacent lilies,
The children of graveyard,
Sheer white, untouched by grief.
Are not the gallons of gore,
Enough to paint your petals red! !
And dont you feel to piece together
A mothers heart torn apart,
The pieces of broken glass! ! !
Said tell them,
About the burden of Other's narrative,
About the natives;
The best writers of their own history.
Oh! the hiers of generational corruption,
Come out of these phelegmatic ghettos,
Come out with your eyes wide-open,
With your hearts human! ! ! ! !
Enough is enough,
The cynical answer is Hitler;
I've watched you Romano on BBC,
And gone with you to Auswich,
The bare brute of power,
The pair of your ageing eyes
The irrevocable human losses,
The ugliness of history,
Commiseration and heart-felt sympathy.
Yet, Hitler has his appeals,
You are silent,
Silently murdering our cause,
Your complacency, your brutality because,
Your hearts beat without
The music of revolution.
Can't you come out.....
Can't you come out.....
The vicious cycle of history goes on,
Among the rosy illusions of peace.
poem by Feroz Rather
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What Christmas Should Be
What wishes will you make
When the season is near
Will your dreams be the same
As they were last year
Will you ask for a little
Will you ask for a lot
And when you make your list
Will there be something you forgot
How about peace on earth
It can't be bought or sold
How about peace this Christmas
And someones hand to hold
How about love in our hearts
And hope for you and me
How about peace on earth
That's what Christmas should be
Will you get all the things
That you've been waiting for
Snowfall and presents
Choire singing at your door
This season will be perfect
Like those picture postcards seem
But is that the anwser
Is that what Christmas really means
How about peace on earth
It can't be bought or sold
How about peace this Christmas
And someones hand to hold
How about love in our hearts
And hope for you and me
How about peace on earth
That's what Christmas should be
What would you sacrifice
What would you give away
For the greatest gift of all
On Christmas day
How about peace on earth
It can't be bought or sold
How about peace this Christmas
And someones hand to hold
How about love in our hearts
And hope for you and me
How about peace on earth
How about peace on earth
It can't be bought or sold
How about peace this Christmas
And someones hand to hold
How about love in our hearts
And hope for you and me
How about peace on earth
How about peace on earth
That's what Christmas should be
Merry Christmas
Merry Christmas
Merry Christmas
song performed by by Hilary Duff
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Peace Prayer
Leafy turtle green aviary tapestries
lotus bowing mantis branches
hovering meditative hugs
pherochimerical language
spoken by the wind
cloud melting mental magic
cool cavernous catalpa shade
songs soaking in the sun
high life, taking it easy
catching lightning bugs
chasing fireflies
time running marathon distances
every moment measured in palpitations
old familiar blue, never the same as it was yesterday
one with the world, together in a state of constant change,
life nestles in a womb of love
creation continuously giving birth to itself
beneath the sun moon and stars
breathing bodies and beating hearts
thoughts unwind all is calm in the mind
peace, a piece of which, be all any noble
being ever aspires to obtain
Inner Outer Worldly Universal Mind Body Soul
peace in life, peace in death,
peace in the work of waking hours
peace in sleep, peace at rest,
peace in nature, peace at home
peace on the streets, peace on the farm,
peace between brothers, peace with god,
peace with self, peace with what's beyond control
peace in love, peace in light
poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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Coexist
Different faiths can surely coexist, but a larger concern is missed,
Men who gather of different belief, to foster man’s temporal relief,
From all that opposition and strife, while living together in this life,
But, this man manufactured peace, shall indeed in due time cease.
A body of men that in a mixture, of many faiths misses the picture,
The larger picture all men will face, when they must leave this place,
The awesome picture of eternity, a picture some choose not to see,
But, all will clearly see my friend, an Eternal Picture that has no end.
Eternity no matter what some feel, for every single soul is truly real,
Ignoring eternity to simply coexist, creates not, truth you can resist,
As this present age is dwarfed by, Eternity, in both scope and time,
A time ahead that will never cease, but many shall not see its peace.
The only true peace on earth’s sod, comes from The Only True God,
The only peace provided on the earth, which is also of eternal worth,
A peace that Christ issues here, which extends to the eternal sphere,
That peace which you will only see, if you know The God of Eternity.
Apart from God’s Truth, all will learn, their peace was not of concern,
This as they take in their last breath, only to experience eternal death;
However, God sent His Only Son, down into this world, for everyone,
Sending His Eternal Son, Jesus Christ, so all could have Eternal Life.
(Copyright ©11/2011)
On The Western Front
I
I found a dreadful acre of the dead,
Marked with the only sign on earth that saves.
The wings of death were hurrying overhead,
The loose earth shook on those unquiet graves;
For the deep gun-pits, with quick stabs of flame,
Made their own thunders of the sunlit air;
Yet, as I read the crosses, name by name,
Rank after rank, it seemed that peace was there;
Sunlight and peace, a peace too deep for thought,
The peace of tides that underlie our strife,
The peace with which the moving heavens are fraught,
The peace that is our everlasting life.
The loose earth shook. The very hills were stirred.
The silence of the dead was all I heard.
II
We, who lie here, have nothing more to pray.
To all your praises we are deaf and blind.
We may not ever know if you betray
Our hope, to make earth better for mankind.
Only our silence, in the night, shall grow
More silent, as the stars grow in the sky;
And, while you deck our graves, you shall not know
How many scornful legions pass you by.
For we have heard you say (when we were living)
That some small dream of good would “cost too much.”
But when the foe struck, we have watched you giving,
And seen you move the mountains with one touch.
What can be done, we know. But, have no fear!
If you fail now, we shall not see or hear.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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In the sun
A dog is a dog
And a bird is a bird.
I m flying like bird
and guard my house
like dog.
Dog and bird friends
And in the open field
both want to study
geography.
Geography differs
from person to person
from history to history
from time to time.
And in future
geography melt
like fog in the sun.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Enough Of War
Enough of war from war there is no gain
Only injuries, bloodshed and death and pain
What we need is love and peace and harmony
Enough of war and it's tragic history,
Enough of war for god and territory
And yet in the twenty first century
People are dying in war zones every day
For war in death and in suffering we pay,
Enough of war 'tis still seen worth a brag
To take up arms to honour your Nation's flag
Old long gone battles with pride we recall
We have not learned from the past at all
Far too much of war and of war men we do know
'Tis time that we did give peace a fair go.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Peace Activists Grave
The one who loved peace she was buried today
And peace it surrounds her now where she does lay
But a bugler for her the last post did not play
No heroes for peace or it would seem that way.
Though in her honour there never will be a parade
To speak against war she was never afraid
And though patriots did not like what she had to say
For her views such a price she was prepared to pay.
She was a peace activist until her end
And to those who loved peace she was always a friend
Her motto was the one without sin cast the stone
And war was one thing she could never condone.
Though she was one who was quite honourable and brave
No National flag at the peace activists grave
She first saw light of day in nineteen thirty four
And may she now rest in peace forever more.
poem by Francis Duggan
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LANDSCAPE WITH FIGURES by carlos bulosan
Homeward again under foreign stars,
history was a strange gush of wind from memory
that came to echo waterfalls of those years:
home to find the place lost among
galaxies of signs. The hills were gone. The river
trail was forgotten... Trying to remember meadowlark
and those who perished in the vanishing land
(bones in the earth where our parents died poor) ,
the journey fell into heavy tides of flowing
scorn that echoed and reechoed time there.
The sun was most unkind to the place:
history: names of men: patterns of life:
all that distant floodtide heaved and moved,
breaking familiar names that immortal tongues
clipped for the heart to cry, 'Home is a foreign address,
every step toward it is a step toward three hundred years
of exile from the truth...'
It was not homeward
to the first known land, nor escape
to white sea sprays blossoming on inland shore,
nor love leaping the boundaries naked in the soul,
but a vast heritage of war and destruction breaking
too soon for the living and willing to die.
Life is a foreign language. Every man mispronounced it...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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