Children Selecting Books In A Library
With beasts and gods, above, the wall is bright.
The child's head, bent to the book-colored shelves,
Is slow and sidelong and food-gathering,
Moving in blind grace ... yet from the mural, Care
The grey-eyed one, fishing the morning mist,
Seizes the baby hero by the hair
And whispers, in the tongue of gods and children,
Words of a doom as ecumenical as dawn
But blanched like dawn, with dew.
The children's cries
Are to men the cries of crickets, dense with warmth
-- But dip a finger into Fafnir, taste it,
And all their words are plain as chance and pain.
Their tales are full of sorcerers and ogres
Because their lives are: the capricious infinite
That, like parents, no one has yet escaped
Except by luck or magic; and since strength
And wit are useless, be kind or stupid, wait
Some power's gratitude, the tide of things.
Read meanwhile ... hunt among the shelves, as dogs do, grasses,
And find one cure for Everychild's diseases
Beginning: Once upon a time there was
A wolf that fed, a mouse that warned, a bear that rode
A boy. Us men, alas! wolves, mice, bears bore.
And yet wolves, mice, bears, children, gods and men
In slow preambulation up and down the shelves
Of the universe are seeking ... who knows except themselves?
What some escape to, some escape: if we find Swann's
Way better than our own, an trudge on at the back
Of the north wind to -- to -- somewhere east
Of the sun, west of the moon, it is because we live
By trading another's sorrow for our own; another's
Impossibilities, still unbelieved in, for our own ...
"I am myself still?" For a little while, forget:
The world's selves cure that short disease, myself,
And we see bending to us, dewy-eyed, the great
CHANGE, dear to all things not to themselves endeared.
poem by Randall Jarrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
The Gods We Become?
we kill...
'holy' hands forming gods
out of our paper bag hungers,
in the image of our fears.
we sacrifice blood,
in the name of redemption.
and the ghosts of the innocents
burn our thoughts and our eyes.
what kind of father
teaches his children
to kill each other?
are we bastards, or liars,
afraid of our sins?
even the earth we defile,
cries against us in anguish.
the morality we buy and sell,
is bitter to the taste.
the voice of the eternal,
lost in the din and the madness.
leaving only the tug of the wind,
the cries of small children
the whimper of stray dogs.
words written in charcoal,
on forever grey skies...
'i have come to you,
again and again,
in countless forms,
speaking your own languages,
wearing your own skin...
why have you forgotten me?
and who do you follow? '
the voice behind gods,
or the gods we become?
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Lupus
The Lupus
Wolf, feared animal in folktales, is back in north Europe
it was eradicated, or so we thought, but they have been
observed in woodlands wiser than before, they don’t
like sheep and rabbits avoid humans and dislike dogs.
prefer deer though, and wild boars. As historians tell us
never did wolves kill man. But you can’t beat the power
of fairytales, they eat little children and prowling cats.
If this goes on hunters say there will be no wild animals
For us to kill, get rid of them “grey foot” is our enemy.
And dark tales fill the papers, a wolf has been observed
near a kindergarten, spots of lamb blood in the snow.
Wolves are always seen in the mist just like in folklores
Let’s kill them now before it is too late our children get
eaten by those shadowy four legged, satanic monsters.
A question remains thought, why don’t wolves like sheep?
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Oh Dear Children
Oh dear children of this world
Time is drawing near
When you will look around and see
Things are not as they appear.
The men in suits that wear red ties
Have no thoughts for you.
They plot and plan your future years
And what is it you can do?
You're busy with your childhood games
That will leave you much too fast.
But the powerful ones have plans for you
And so your die's been cast.
Oh dear children of the world
Let your days go slow.
For looming not so far from you
will come life's crushing blow.
And those that birthed you sadly cry
But are helpless as they pray
"Oh dear God protect them please.
Let them find a way
to escape a world gone mad.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An Angel Cries
Looking down on a world
of violence and spite
an angel cries
Cries for the children
in a nation of fears
Cries for the people
who should have been their savior
How can civilization
live like this
This was gods creation
not gods damnation
An angel cries
poem by Dave Alan Walker
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Limitations
"Who are these blokes with bulging brows
I see all o'er the shop?"
The layman asked. "Them's scientists,"
Replied the courteous cop.
"They are the country's biggest brains;
There's nothing they don't know
The ways of stars, the eight of suns,
And why the winds do blow."
"Then think you they could cure this cold
That leaves me leaden-eyed?"
"Well - no; they ain't quite up to that,"
The constable replied.
"But they could take a man apart
And sew him up again
As good as new; they know how trees
Grow from a tiny grain.
And they can harness wireless waves
And make hem do their will,
Or split an atom bang in two,
Or cleave a mighty hill."
"But could they make this north wind change
A point to east or west?"
"Well, no," the cop replied; "not yet.
That's far too stiff a test,
"But they can cause electric eyes
To shut and open doors,
Or answer telephones, or guide
A great ship from the shores.
Their ‘ographies' and ‘ologies'
And wonders that they plan,
To shove ahead this human race
Do fair amaze a man.
Why they'll have television soon,
Or so I've heard or read."
"And will that make man happier?"
The simple layman said.
"Tho' most amazing, as you say,
The things they do and know,
They cannot make the rain to fall
Or cause the breeze to blow.
They cannot build one blade of grass,
Or read a flapper's mind;
That collar stud I dropped this morn
I'll swear they could not find!... "
"Move on, there!" cried the constable
These ain't things for a joke.
Upon my word, I never see
So iggnerint a bloke!"
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Gods And Monsters
Yearning, keep them burning, kepp them earning
Someones got to pay for all these televisions
There's children singing, and church bells ringing,
and people skipping merrily to work and dreaming
and dreaming
For maybe, you'll wind up crazy, and when you're drinking
You may start thinking that you're stupid and you're lazy
Well just keep earning, keep on yearning,
and you will believe there are no gods and monsters
gods and monsters
So free of contradictions, no dereliction,
There are no gods and monsters
So useless and so pretty and so good
So pretty and so good, gods and monsters
Now have I got you watching, for all the gods and monsters
A sitting, reclining in the back row of your mind
I think thats what you'll find
Yes there are gods and monsters
Yes there are gods and monsters
Yes there are gods and monsters
song performed by by I Am Kloot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Who Must Take Care of Old-aged Parents?
Which child will care for parents when old-aged?
Which child will show compassion and respect?
Which child will find the time to talk kind words?
Which child reciprocates their affection?
Gone are the days of joint family system!
Gone is the sense of values in people!
Gone are the times when blood was quite thicker!
Gone with the wind is honouring parents!
Have parents not showered love on children?
Have they not slogged to give them life's comforts?
Have they not nursed them whenev'r they fell ill?
Have they not done their duties to their kids?
The world today is selfish to the core;
Children just want the wealth of parents old;
None volunteer to tend to old parents;
Children show scarce love to their parents dear!
What has then come upon children today?
Who should take care of parents, elderly?
Should not one's children take care of parents?
Much love seems lost in families these days!
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When The Book Of Life Is Read
Recorded by hank williams, sr.
Words and music by hank williams, sr.
Capo: 4th fret/key: f#/play: d
[d] in lifes many battles that [g] you will have to [d] fight
Just stay close to jesus and [e7] journey in his [a7] light
Then [d] on that judgement morning [g] when all pain has [d] fled
Youll stand in gods kingdom, when the [a7] book of life is [d] read.
[g] when the seals are broken and [d] names are read aloud
Youll see many loved ones [e7] standin in the [a7] crowd
So [d] brother keep on prayin and [g] follow where youre [d] lead
Youll stand in gods kingdom, when the [a7] book of life is [d] read.
All your dreams of heaven will come true on that day
When the sky shall open and this earth melt away
Then all gods faithful children will raise up from the dead
United in gods kingdom, when the book of life is read.
What a happy feelin to know hell always care
And when our work is over heaven with him well share
Theres be no pain or sorrow, no tears will eer be shed
When we stand there in gods kingdom and the book of life is read.
Note. chords for 3rd and 4th verses same as 1st and 2nd
song performed by by Hank Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Gathering of the Brown-Eyed
The brown eyes came from Asia, where all mystery is true,
Ere the masters of Soul Secrets dreamed of hazel, grey, and blue;
And the Brown Eyes came to Egypt, which is called the gypsies’ home,
And the Brown Eyes went from Egypt and Jerusalem to Rome.
There was strife amongst the Brown Eyes for the false things and the true;
There was war amongst the Brown Eyes for the old gods and the new;
But the old gods live for ever, and their goddesses are bright
In the temples of Old Passions with the Brown Eyes of the White.
The Brown Eyes east, by Africa, they saw and conquered Spain,
And the Brown Eyes marched as Christians till a Brown Eye met a Dane,
The Dane had Brown-Eyed children who in blue eyes took delight—
And a son of blue-eyed sailors, brown-eyed, reads the stars to-night.
Oh, Knowledge from Old Deserts, where the great stars rocked the world!
Oh, courage from grim seaboards, where the Viking ships were hurled!
The clear skin of the Norseman, and the desert strength and sight,
The power to fathom mankind, and the glorious gift to write!
We can look in souls of women, aye! and let them know we do;
We can fix the false eyes earthward; we can meet and match the true;
We can startle Voice from Silence, and from Darkness flash the Light—
And the eyes to fathom Asia are the Brown Eyes of the White.
There’s a legend in the nations that all Brown Eyes once were true,
But were taught in love and warfare by the sinful shades of blue;
There’s a story amongst sinners that all Brown Eyes once were kind,
Till the Steel-Blue struck the Red-Fire in a hatred that was blind.
But the Brown Eyes are the saddest at the death of Love and Truth.
And the Brown Eyes are the grandest and the dreamiest of Youth.
They have risen in rebellion unto leadership sublime—
And the grey-eyed queens of women loved, and love them for all time!
Brown Eyes never married Brown Eyes but unhappiness held sway,
For the real mates of the Brown Eyes have for ever been the grey.
But though Brown Eyes quarrel hotly, though their very souls be wrenched,
Never Blue-Eye wronged a Brown-Eye but the Brown-Eye was avenged!
Through the breadth of wide Australia, waiting desert-like and vast,
We have sent our Brown-Eyed children, who are multiplying fast.
Patriots, picture-writers, sages, fill the Brown-Eyed rolls to-night—
’Tis the gathering from all ages of the Brown-Eyed of the White.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Threshold
In their deepest caverns of limestone
They pictured the Gods of Food--
The Horse, the Elk, and the Bison
That the hunting might be good;
With the Gods of Death and Terror--
The Mammoth, Tiger, and Bear.
And the pictures moved in the torchlight
To show that the Gods were there!
But that was before Ionia--
(Or the Seven Holy Islands of Ionia)
Any of the Mountains of Ionia,
Had bared their peaks to the air.
The close years packed behind them,
As the glaciers bite and grind,
Filling the new-gouged valleys
With Gods of every kind.
Gods of all-reaching power--
Gods of all-searching eyes--
But each to be wooed by worship
And won by sacrifice.
Till, after many winters, rose Ionia--
(Strange men brooding in Ionia)
Crystal-eyed Sages of Ionia
Who said, "These tales are lies.
"We dream one Breath in all things,
"That blows all things between.
"We dream one Matter in all things--
"Eternal, changeless, unseen.
"'That the heart of the Matter is single
"Till the Breath shall bid it bring forth--
"By choosing or losing its neighbour--
"All things made upon Earth."
But Earth was wiser than Ionia
(Babylon and Egypt than Ionia)
And they overlaid the teaching of Ionia
And the Truth was choked at birth.
It died at the Gate of Knowledge--
The Key to the Gate in its hand--
And the anxious priests and wizards
Re-blinded the wakening land;
For they showed, by answering echoes,
And chasing clouds as they rose,
How shadows should stand for bulwarks
Between mankind and its woes.
It was then that men bethought them of Ionia
(The few that had not allforgot Ionia)
Or the Word that was whispered in Ionia;
And they turned from the shadows and the shows.
They found one Breath in all things,
That moves all things between.
They proved one Matter in all things--
Eternal, changeless, unseen;
That the heart of the Matter was single
Till the Breath should bid it bring forth--
Even as men whispered in Ionia,
(Resolute, unsatisfied Ionia)
Ere the Word was stifled in Ionia--
All things known upon earth!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Departure
Since first the White Horse Banner blew free,
By Hengist's horde unfurled,
Nothing has changed on land or sea
Of the things that steer the world.
(As it was when the long-ships scudded through the gale
So it is where the Liners go.)
Time and Tide, they are both in a tale--
"Woe to the weaker -- woe! "
No charm can bridle the hard-mouthed wind
Or smooth the fretting swell.
No gift can alter the grey Sea's mind,
But she serves the strong man well.
(As it is when her uttermost deeps are stirred
So it is where the quicksands show,)
All the waters have but one word--
"Woe to the weaker -- woe! "
The feast is ended, the tales are told,
The dawn is overdue,
And we meet on the quay in the whistling cold
Where the galley waits her crew.
Out with the torches, they have flared too long,
And bid the harpers go.
Wind and warfare have but one song--
"Woe to the weaker -- woe!"
Hail to the great oars gathering way,
As the beach begins to slide!
Hail to the war-shields' click and play
As they lift along our side!
Hail to the first wave over the bow--
Slow for the sea-stroke! Slow!--
All the benches are grunting now:--
"Woe to the weaker -- woe!"
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Book Lover
I keep collecting books I know
I'll never, never read;
My wife and daughter tell me so,
And yet I never head.
"Please make me," says some wistful tome,
"A wee bit of yourself."
And so I take my treasure home,
And tuck it in a shelf.
And now my very shelves complain;
They jam and over-spill.
They say: "Why don't you ease our strain?"
"some day," I say, "I will."
So book by book they plead and sigh;
I pick and dip and scan;
Then put them back, distrest that I
Am such a busy man.
Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne,
my Gibbon and Defoe;
To savour Swift I'll never learn,
Montaigne I may not know.
On Bacon I will never sup,
For Shakespeare I've no time;
Because I'm busy making up
These jingly bits of rhyme.
Chekov is caviare to me,
While Stendhal makes me snore;
Poor Proust is not my cup of tea,
And Balzac is a bore.
I have their books, I love their names,
And yet alas! they head,
With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James,
My Roster of Unread.
I think it would be very well
If I commit a crime,
And get put in a prison cell
And not allowed to rhyme;
Yet given all these worthy books
According to my need,
I now caress with loving looks,
But never, never read.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Faithful Eckart
"OH, would we were further! Oh, would we were home,
The phantoms of night tow'rd us hastily come,
The band of the Sorceress sisters.
They hitherward speed, and on finding us here,
They'll drink, though with toil we have fetch'd it, the beer,
And leave us the pitchers all empty."
Thus speaking, the children with fear take to flight,
When sudden an old man appears in their sight:
"Be quiet, child! children, be quiet!
From hunting they come, and their thirst they would still,
So leave them to swallow as much as they will,
And the Evil Ones then will be gracious."
As said, so 'twas done! and the phantoms draw near,
And shadowlike seem they, and grey they appear,
~Yet blithely they sip and they revel
The beer has all vanish'd, the pitchers are void;
With cries and with shouts the wild hunters, o'erjoy'd,
Speed onward o'er vale and o'er mountain.
The children in terror fly nimbly tow'rd home,
And with them the kind one is careful to come:
"My darlings, oh, be not so mournful!--
"They'll blame us and beat us, until we are dead."--
"No, no! ye will find that all goes well," he said;
"Be silent as mice, then, and listen!
"And he by whose counsels thus wisely ye're taught,
Is he who with children loves ever to sport.
The trusty and faithful old Eckart.
Ye have heard of the wonder for many a day,
But ne'er had a proof of the marvellous lay,--
Your hands hold a proof most convincing."
They arrive at their home, and their pitchers they place
By the side of their parents, with fear on their face,
Awaiting a beating and scolding.
But see what they're tasting: the choicest of beer!
Though three times and four times they quaff the good cheer
The pitchers remain still unemptied.
The marvel it lasts till the dawning of day;
All people who hear of it doubtless will say:
"What happen'd at length to the pitchers?"
In secret the children they smile, as they wait;
At last, though, they stammer, and stutter, and prate,
And straightway the pitchers were empty.
And if, children, with kindness address'd ye may be,
Whether father, or master, or alderman he,
Obey him, and follow his bidding!
And if 'tis unpleasant to bridle the tongue,
Yet talking is bad, silence good for the young--
And then will the beer fill your pitchers!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Cache Cache
Did you ever sleep in a bear pit
Did you ever sleep in a bear pit
With apple cores and mice along
With apple cores and mice along
Did you ever lay on ice and grit
Did you ever lay on ice and grit
Or search for a place where the wind was gone
Or search for a place where the wind was gone
Did you ever tramp up endless hills
Did you ever tramp up endless hills
Past cosy homes with secret beds
Past cosy homes with secret beds
Did you ever dream of a suicide pill
Did you ever dream of a suicide pill
And wake up cold to the smell of bread
And wake up cold to the smell of bread
Well I have slept there badly twice
Well I have slept there badly twice
And shared my straw with scratchin mice
And shared my straw with scratchin mice
Although youll find some deep brown hair
Although youll find some deep brown hair
Ill tell you something for nothing
Ill tell you something for nothing
There aint no bears in there (cache cache)
There aint no bears in there (cache cache)
Not a single bear in there (cache cache)
Not a single bear in there (cache cache)
Did you ever have to make a draw
Did you ever have to make a draw
For a hard wooden bench or a bed of stone
For a hard wooden bench or a bed of stone
Did you ever jemmy a stable door
Did you ever jemmy a stable door
Or scare the horse to escape the snow
Or scare the horse to escape the snow
Did you ever invade a neat little yard
Did you ever invade a neat little yard
Wake up the children who hope for ghosts
Wake up the children who hope for ghosts
Did you ever cause their dogs to bark
Did you ever cause their dogs to bark
Their guests to curse their noisy hosts
Their guests to curse their noisy hosts
Dont jump in expectin fun
Dont jump in expectin fun
Dont swagger in there with your elephant gun
Dont swagger in there with your elephant gun
Dont enter the cage with wavin chairs
Dont enter the cage with wavin chairs
Cos Ill tell you something for nothing
Cos Ill tell you something for nothing
There aint no bears in there (cache cache)
There aint no bears in there (cache cache)
Not a single bear in there (cache cache)
Not a single bear in there (cache cache)
Did you ever pass the police at work
Did you ever pass the police at work
And hope that they might take you in
And hope that they might take you in
Did you ever wonder why music hurts
Did you ever wonder why music hurts
When someone plays it aloof to sin
When someone plays it aloof to sin
Did you ever believe that a smile could cure
Did you ever believe that a smile could cure
A happy face keep you warm at night?
A happy face keep you warm at night?
Were you ever fooled by laughters lure
Were you ever fooled by laughters lure
Only to find that they laughed in spite?
Only to find that they laughed in spite?
Chorus: (as above)
Chorus: (as above)
Did you ever finally find a place
Did you ever finally find a place
A soft warm bed in a room of flowers
A soft warm bed in a room of flowers
And when you finally laid down your face
And when you finally laid down your face
You found you slept for a hundred hours
You found you slept for a hundred hours
A hundred hours.
A hundred hours.
There aint no bears in there (cache cache)
There aint no bears in there (cache cache)
song performed by by Who
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Deaf Martha
Poor Martha is old, and her hair is turn'd grey,
And her hearing has left her for many a year;
Ten to one if she knows what it is that you say,
Though she puts her poor wither'd hand close to her ear.
I've seen naughty children run after her fast,
And cry, "Martha, run, there's a bullock so bold;"
And when she was frighten'd, laugh at her at last,
Because she believed the sad stories they told.
I've seen others put their mouths close to her ear,
And make signs as if they had something to say;
And when she said, "Master, I'm deaf and can't hear,"
Point at her and mock her, and scamper away.
Ah! wicked the children poor Martha to tease,
As if she had not enough else to endure;
They rather should try her affliction to ease,
And soothe a disorder that nothing can cure.
One day, when those children themselves are grown old,
And one may be deaf, and another be lame,
Perhaps they may find that some children, as bold,
May tease them, and mock them, and serve them the same.
Then, when they reflect on the days of their youth,
A faithful account will their consciences keep,
And teach them, with shame and with sorrow, the truth,
That "what a man soweth, the same shall he reap."
poem by Ann Taylor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
TERENCE McKENNA
He navigated thru the fields of mystery
Unafraid to taste the “Food Of The Gods”
Explored, with wisdom Shamanic history
For this a grateful Earth applauds
ROTMS
Epilog from “Food of the Gods”
By Terence McKenna
WE AWAIT OURSELVES WITHIN A VISION
“We can now move toward a new vision of ourselves and our role
in nature. We are the omni-adaptable species, we are the thinkers,
the makers and solvers of problems. These great gifts that are
ours alone and which come out of the evolutionary matrix of the
planet is not for us, out of convenience, satisfaction, or our greater
glory. They are for life; they are the special qualities that we can
contribute to the great community of organic being, if we are to
become the care giver, the gardener, and the mother of our Mother,
which is the living Earth.
Here there is a great mystery. In the middle of the slow-moving
desert of unreflecting nature we come upon ourselves and perhaps
we ourselves for the first time. We are colorful, cantankerous, and
alive with hopes and dreams that, so far as we know, are unique in
the universe. We have been too long asleep and shackled by the
power we have ceded to the least noble parts of ourselves and the
least noble among us. It is time that we stood up and faced the fact
that we must and can change our minds.
The long night of human history is drawing at last to its conclusion.
Now the air is hushed and the east is streaked with the rosy
blush of dawn. Yet in the world we have always known evening
grows deeper and the shadows lengthen toward the night that will
know no end. One way or another the story of the foolish monkey
is nearly and forevermore over. Our destiny is to turn without regret
from what has been, to face ourselves, our parents, lover, and children,
to gather our tool kits, animals, and the old-old dreams, so
that we may move out across the visionary landscape of ever-deeper
understanding. Hopefully there, where we have always been most
comfortable, most ourselves, we will find glory and triumph in the
search for meaning in the endless life of the imagination, at play
at last in the fields of an Eden re-found.”
Terence McKenna
poem by Ray Lucero
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
T.y.s.o.n.
Across the Queensland border line
The mobs of cattle go;
They travel down in sun and shine
On dusty stage, and slow.
The drovers, riding slowly on
To let the cattle spread,
Will say: "Here's one old landmark gone,
For old man Tyson's dead."
What tales there'll be in every camp
By men that Tyson knew!
The swagmen, meeting on the tramp,
Will yarn the long day through,
And tell of how he passed as "Brown",
And fooled the local men:
"But not for me -- I struck the town,
And passed the message further down;
That's T.Y.S.O.N.!"
There stands a little country town
Beyond the border line,
Where dusty roads go up and down,
And banks with pubs combine.
A stranger came to cash a cheque --
Few were the words he said --
A handkerchief about his neck,
An old hat on his head.
A long grey stranger, eagle-eyed --
"Know me? Of course you do?"
"It's not my work," the boss replied,
"To know such tramps as you."
"Well, look here, Mister, don't be flash,"
Replied the stranger then,
"I never care to make a splash,
I'm simple, but I've got the cash;
I'm T.Y.S.O.N."
But in that last great drafting-yard,
Where Peter keeps the gate,
And souls of sinners find it barred,
And go to meet their fate,
There's one who ought to enter in
For good deeds done on earth,
One who from Peter's self must win
That meed of sterling worth.
Not to the strait and narrow gate
Reserved for wealthy men,
But to the big gate, opened wide,
The grizzled figure, eagle-eyed,
Will saunter up -- and then
Old Peter'll say: "Let's pass him through;
There's many a thing he used to do,
Good-hearted things that no one knew;
That's T.Y.S.O.N."
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To Minnie
The red room with the giant bed
Where none but elders laid their head;
The little room where you and I
Did for awhile together lie
And, simple, suitor, I your hand
In decent marriage did demand;
The great day nursery, best of all,
With pictures pasted on the wall
And leaves upon the blind--
A pleasant room wherein to wake
And hear the leafy garden shake
And rustle in the wind--
And pleasant there to lie in bed
And see the pictures overhead--
The wars about Sebastopol,
The grinning guns along the wall,
The daring escalade,
The plunging ships, the bleating sheep,
The happy children ankle-deep
And laughing as they wade:
All these are vanished clean away,
And the old manse is changed to-day;
It wears an altered face
And shields a stranger race.
The river, on from mill to mill,
Flows past our childhood's garden still;
But ah! we children never more
Shall watch it from the water-door!
Below the yew--it still is there--
Our phantom voices haunt the air
As we were still at play,
And I can hear them call and say:
"How far is it to Babylon?"
Ah, far enough, my dear,
Far, far enough from here--
Smiling and kind, you grace a shelf
Too high for me to reach myself.
Reach down a hand, my dear, and take
These rhymes for old acquaintance' sake!
Yet you have farther gone!
"Can I get there by candlelight?"
So goes the old refrain.
I do not know--perchance you might--
But only, children, hear it right,
Ah, never to return again!
The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt,
Shall break on hill and plain,
And put all stars and candles out
Ere we be young again.
To you in distant India, these
I send across the seas,
Nor count it far across.
For which of us forget
The Indian cabinets,
The bones of antelope, the wings of albatross,
The pied and painted birds and beans,
The junks and bangles, beads and screens,
The gods and sacred bells,
And the load-humming, twisted shells!
The level of the parlour floor
Was honest, homely, Scottish shore;
But when we climbed upon a chair,
Behold the gorgeous East was there!
Be this a fable; and behold
Me in the parlour as of old,
And Minnie just above me set
In the quaint Indian cabinet!
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Children Of The Moon
(lead vocal - david paton)
Pay no attention to the writing on the wall
The words seem empty cause theres nothing there at all
We let the wise men beat the drums too soon
We were just children of the moon
No one to turn to
Nowhere to run to even if we could
Too late to save us but try to understand
The seas were empty there was hunger in the land
We let the blind man lead the way too long
Easy to see where we went wrong
Nothing to live for
Nothing to die for
Were lost in the middle of a hopeless world
Lost in the middle of a hopeless world
Children children of the moon watch the world go by
Children children of the moon are hiding from the sun and the sky
Children children of the moon watch it all go by
Children children of the moon are blinded by the light in their eyes
No one to turn to
Nowhere to run to even if we could
Follow the pilgrim to the temple of the dawn
The altars empty and the sacrifice is gone
We let the madmen write the golden rules
We were no more than mortal fools
Nothing to live for
Nothing to die for
Were lost in the middel of a hopeless world
Lost in the middle of a hopeless world
Children children of the moon watch the world go by
Children children of the moon hiding from the sky
song performed by by Alan Parsons Project
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Gods
The ivory gods,
And the ebony gods,
And the gods of diamond and jade,
Sit silently on their temple shelves
While the people
Are afraid.
Yet the ivory gods,
And the ebony gods,
And the gods of diamond-jade,
Are only silly puppet gods
That the people themselves
Have made.
poem by Langston Hughes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!