Fifty Years On: for Bastille Day 3
It seemed to me the mortal wrong,
the crime that marked her wretched
lay not in anything she did
but what she had neglected
nor could the woes of centuries
be righted by this course
but die she must, for otherwise
she simply was to dangerous.
The tumbril slowly started down
her shoulders shook from view
through the mud the jeering crowd
followed in pursuit
I thought a moment-should I go?
but so much blood had flowed...
I had no special love for blood
and there was work to do.
Long ago that fateful hour-
today is fifty years
since centuries of hate devoured
centuries of fear.
Maybe better, maybe not
than fifty years ago
the world turns now-but I have got
no less of work to do.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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New Year 2001...Ironic!
Two thousand years ago a child was born
Now two thousand years from then, centuries have been torn
By wars and hate and lusts of men refusing to be filled
Now two thousand years have been beaten and been killed
This new millennia can heal wounds of the past
Only if man looks back and stands aghast
At blood that has flowed from his fellow man
At sick and poor and the sorrow they withstand
Only then can the spirit of a child born long ago
Save the world from hate and help us to know
That through love there is a future free and clear
Let us not repeat the past in this bright new year!
poem by Gregory Huyette
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Fifty Years Of Marriage
With dye and hair colouring they cover their gray
Their fifty years of marriage they celebrate today
Through fifty years of marriage they have argued their way
In their love hate relationship one well might say.
Their better days one can say for them are long gone
And they age without grace though time is ticking on
Their children are grand-parents and the years on them show
Since they too are ageing and their fastest pace slow.
Fifty happy years together by some we are told
But others who know them well and with their words more bold
Will tell you they never did see eye to eye
But why they stay together one must wonder why.
They have stayed together for so many years
One can hardly say of them the lovely old dears
Since they both are quite quarrelsome and grumpy as well
Perhaps without quarrels life for them would be hell.
Fifty years together and the same bed they share
Yet even in public places at each other they swear
Such marriages as their's suppose never were rare
They are not the World's only dysfunctional pair.
Today their descendants will celebrate the marriage of their Pop and Gran
And applaud this wonderful woman and man
But the truth of their marriage they will never tell
How they seem to enjoy giving each other hell.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Villanelle of Change
Since Persia fell at Marathon,
The yellow years have gathered fast:
Long centuries have come and gone.
And yet (they say) the place will don
A phantom fury of the past,
Since Persia fell at Marathon;
And as of old, when Helicon
Trembled and swayed with rapture vast
(Long centuries have come and gone),
This ancient plain, when night comes on,
Shakes to a ghostly battle-blast,
Since Persia fell at Marathon.
But into soundless Acheron
The glory of Greek shame was cast:
Long centuries have come and gone,
The suns of Hellas have all shone,
The first has fallen to the last: --
Since Persia fell at Marathon,
Long centuries have come and gone.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Turlough Carolan
He was blind and illiterate that much of him we know
And still his music is with us from centuries ago
He had creative genius and his genius still shine through
A rare gem Turlough Carolan one of the chosen few.
The harper of the county Meath in music live today
His music known around the World in Countries far away
And Carolan's concerto still very much alive
The only test of genius is when their work survive.
The only test of genius is when their work live on
For centuries and centuries when they are dead and gone
And Carolan has passed that test a name to celebrate
His music live three hundred years the genius of the great.
A son of peasant parents and destined to be poor
And though addicted to alcohol his genius remained pure
I like that saying it says it all 'can't keep a good man down'
And the name of Turlough Carolan was destined for renown.
I just switched on the radio to hear the D.J. say
This is a tune from Ireland from Ireland far away
Carolan's farewell to music, oh let the music play
The music of the harper the harper lives today.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Years Gone By
To symbolize a year is to notify the world
Of its influence on the years and centuries housed.
Daylight has occurred and been received on this day,
Inside them the days of the sunlight regress
For the time has travelled ever so slowly.
This year, and next year it will be variously portrayed
As years of strategy, ones for the idle chatter to disappear.
The years are symbols of centuries we define
In the deepest corners of the mind.
In the bigger depths a wonderful speech has arisen
Where ogrish talents are never depicted.
The years of purity outshine them all,
Whether the rides of a park are numerous
Or they still collapse from no fun at all.
poem by Naveed Akram
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A Christmas Hymn
IT was the calm and silent night!
Seven hundred years and fifty-three
Had Rome been growing up to might,
And now was Queen of land and sea.
No sound was heard of clashing wars;
Peace brooded o’er the hush’d domain;
Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars,
Held undisturb’d their ancient reign,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.
’T was in the calm and silent night!
The senator of haughty Rome
Impatient urged his chariot’s flight,
From lordly revel rolling home.
Triumphal arches gleaming swell
His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;
What reck’d the Roman what befell
A paltry province far away,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago!
Within that province far away
Went plodding home a weary boor:
A streak of light before him lay,
Fall’n through a half-shut stable door
Across his path. He pass’d—for nought
Told what was going on within;
How keen the stars! his only thought;
The air how calm and cold and thin,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago!
O strange indifference!—low and high
Drows’d over common joys and cares:
The earth was still—but knew not why;
The world was listening—unawares.
How calm a moment may precede
One that shall thrill the world for ever!
To that still moment none would heed,
Man’s doom was link’d, no more to sever,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.
It is the calm and solemn night!
A thousand bells ring out, and throw
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite
The darkness, charm’d and holy now.
The night that erst no name had worn,
To it a happy name is given;
For in that stable lay new-born
The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.
poem by Alfred Domett
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That Fifty Year Old Woman
That fifty year old woman
she is someones mother
that fifty year old woman
she is someones lover
them fifty years of her life
unseen by a cover.
Covered by the leaves
from the autumn trees is the grass
surrounded by blue tape
and nosey people who pretend to pass
a group of actors walk by
they have come from a history class
to make history new
with conversation with questions to ask.
A fifty year old woman
in an autumn so cold
a fifty year old woman
seen dark winter unfold
them fifty years of life
it is all we are told.
The actors, they didn't get any information
they did not get pictures
nothing known about the situation
nothing at all to discuss
fifty years of age is all thats said
on the morning paper on the fifty bus
thats all thats said
a fifty year old woman, shes found dead.
That fifty year old woman
shes not someones mother
that fifty year old woman
how she had no lover
them fifty years of life
unseen by a cover.
That fifty year old woman
she was quoted in the paper today
that fifty year old woman will be gone tomorrow
the writers they will show no sorrow
because its the way things work
as people pass
she no longer lies on grass
shes covered in dirt.
poem by Daniel McCann
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After A Thousand Years Back
thousand years back,
when i was in love.
i had a great passion on my world.
my world was me, she and
our wings like that of butterflies...
now in each moments..
passes centuries and centuries..
life is too bigger and too smaller
than a life..
i still have a great passion on my world.
a world newer than thousand years..
poem by Firoz Khan
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Cry Freedom
I live in a world of mist words
cause beauty music therein lives
in ancient Celtic ancestry of mindsong
history runs within fibre of being
across earth runs folklore of centuries
soul aches for emerald siren shores
ancient calling of Celtic blood origins
Roman legions English arrogance's
could never defeat cry freedom within
tyrant defiant knee bends defeated not
injustice world domination defeats not
centuries enduring is cry freedom within
does not blood of warrior bard echo
haunting down resolute centuries
cry freedom defiant Celtic peoples
freedom is heritage birthright echo
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The lotus in the heart
How many centuries of centuries and trust
did it take the lotus
to take that crazy jump
from the known earth to unknown laws of water –
to learn how to feed itself, to blossom,
to float on the water
without the water dampening its trusting, open petals?
That same love that taught it all these things
may teach that lotus in my heart
over centuries of centuries
or in one crazy, trusting jump.
*
[leaning on Kabir's ‘jis se rahani apar jagat men’]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Mistake I Made
There is a question I ask myself repeatedly.
Why did I become who I am today,
a writer of songs, poems, short stories and novels?
In reality, I do not know, but I tell everyone who asks
it was simply a mistake I made.
Many will say I had it in me,
that I was born to do it.
Remembering how it started
I am not so sure of that.
It started with the words to a friend
if they can do it why can't we.
Now almost fifty years have passed
from that fateful day I picked up the pen.
If asked what I have achieved
in all that time of writing.
I would answer there is plenty,
but none of it is money.
My rewards for my writing
is bringing a smile to someone's face
someone whom I might never see.
The inspiration I have passed on to others,
but the best of all to me are the numerous friends
I have gathered from around the world.
poem by David Harris
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Can You Time Wait?
God can wait centuries
can you time wait centuries
clay shaped mortal man
poem by Terence George Craddock
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I used to think that cyberspace was fifty years away. What I thought was fifty years away, was only ten years away. And what I thought was ten years away... it was already here. I just wasn't aware of it yet.
quote by Bruce Sterling
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sophia The Psychic She Lived Down The Road
Sophia the psychic she lived down the road
She knew the roads she knew the souls
An Antipythia of the broken heart
Wept ‘don’t know thyself ‘tis too deep’
Know thy paths not entangled they are
‘spread like lilies’ not needing the truth
Sophia the psychic centuries echoed
Tormented by knowing too much
Sophia the psychic she met me one day
I looked into her eyes compassion I smiled
Yes, she started, and she could not stop
Against my smile her intermittent sobs
Sophia the psychic centuries echoed
Tormented by knowing too much
‘Tis passion Sophia I asked
Why are you telling me what I already know
Obsession, Sophia, leave the past in peace
Take some rest and do not worry
Sophia the psychic centuries echoed
Tormented by knowing too much
I am centuries old as well but still too young for your tears
And don’t ask for my coins for I have none
All the pearls of wisdom you’ve already gained
There’s no way for you to be repaid
Sophia the psychic centuries echoed
Tormented by knowing too much
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Liberty
''Let there be Liberty!' God said, and, lo!
The red skies all were luminous. The glow
Struck first Columbia's kindling mountain peaks
One hundred and eleven years ago!'
So sang a patriot whom once I saw
Descending Bunker's holy hill. With awe
I noted that he shone with sacred light,
Like Moses with the tables of the Law.
One hundred and eleven years? O small
And paltry period compared with all
The tide of centuries that flowed and ebbed
To etch Yosemite's divided wall!
Ah, Liberty, they sing you always young
Whose harps are in your adoration strung
(Each swears you are his countrywoman, too,
And speak no language but his mother tongue).
And truly, lass, although with shout and horn
Man has all-hailed you from creation's morn,
I cannot think you old-I think, indeed,
You are by twenty centuries unborn.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Pensive On Her Dead Gazing, I Heard The Mother Of All
PENSIVE, on her dead gazing, I heard the Mother of All,
Desperate, on the torn bodies, on the forms covering the battle-
fields gazing;
(As the last gun ceased--but the scent of the powder-smoke linger'd;)
As she call'd to her earth with mournful voice while she stalk'd:
Absorb them well, O my earth, she cried--I charge you, lose not my
sons! lose not an atom;
And you streams, absorb them well, taking their dear blood;
And you local spots, and you airs that swim above lightly,
And all you essences of soil and growth--and you, my rivers' depths;
And you, mountain sides--and the woods where my dear children's
blood, trickling, redden'd;
And you trees, down in your roots, to bequeath to all future
trees, 10
My dead absorb--my young men's beautiful bodies absorb--and their
precious, precious, precious blood;
Which holding in trust for me, faithfully back again give me, many a
year hence,
In unseen essence and odor of surface and grass, centuries hence;
In blowing airs from the fields, back again give me my darlings--give
my immortal heroes;
Exhale me them centuries hence--breathe me their breath--let not an
atom be lost;
O years and graves! O air and soil! O my dead, an aroma sweet!
Exhale them perennial, sweet death, years, centuries hence.
poem by Walt Whitman
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She has all Ireland in her blood
She has all Ireland in her blood,
All Ireland's need of sword and tears,
With memories dim before the flood,
And conflicts of a thousand years.
No son of Italy should love
A heart the centuries have worn.
She had no thought of kissing lips—
She held her womanhood in scorn.
And all her joy is blackest pain,
And all her love is bitter woe.
Then you must leave her side again.
That is no path for you to go.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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The Suicide
For fifty years,
Cruel, insatiable Old World.
You have punched me over the heart
Till you made me cough blood.
The few paltry things I gathered
You snatched out of my hands.
You have knocked the cup from my thirsty lips.
You have laughed at my hunger of body and soul.
You look at me now and think,
'He is still strong,
There ought to be twenty more years of good punching there.
At the end of that time he will be old and broken,
Not able to strike back,
But cringing and crying for leave
To live a little longer.'
Those twenty, pitiful, extra years
Would please you more than the fifty past,
Would they not, Old World?
Well, I hold them up before your greedy eyes,
And snatch them away as I laugh in your face,
Ha! Ha!
Bang —!
poem by James Weldon Johnson
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Warrior by Night
Centuries have passed
And still we mass
To fight for our kind to survive
By day live a normal life
A warrior by night
Ancient blood fued
Over the centuries fought
No end in sight
By nights cover we fight
Underneath the moons swaying light
Embrace the destiny we’ve been given
To authorities, no submission
Live forever, complete this mission
Without sunlight’s permission
Fighting in the nights passion
Mortal by day, warrior by night
For the same reason we always fight
The chance for our kind t survive
Spill blood of the innocent
Invade the thoughts of the magnificent
Embrace the chosen destiny
Act out your fantasy
Live like it was meant to be
Be unknown by day
Be a warrior by night
poem by Guarded Heart
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Never Can We Know
Never in this world can we know
The country of a person who rides
His car for more than twenty years.
Beaming on the world its lights are out,
After so many centuries and years,
Some of us live among the times.
This considers a roof and house,
Jostling behind the crowd and looking
At certain beasts of prey,
This prey is dead after so much hunting.
This nation shall relish the disaster
Made by some who learn and prey.
poem by Naveed Akram
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