The Hat
In city shop a hat I saw
That to my fancy seemed to strike,
I gave my wage to buy the straw,
And make myself a one the like.
I wore it to the village fair;
Oh proud I was, though poor was I.
The maids looked at me with a stare,
The lads looked at me with a sigh.
I wore it Sunday to the Mass.
The other girls wore handkerchiefs.
I saw them darkly watch and pass,
With sullen smiles, with hidden griefs.
And then with sobbing fear I fled,
But they waylayed me on the street,
And tore the hat from off my head,
And trampled it beneath their feet.
I sought the Church; my grief was wild,
And by my mother's grave I sat:
. . . I've never cried for clay-cold child,
As I wept for that ruined hat.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Jealousy
She wore braids in her hair
every single day.
Not because she wanted to.
It was her mother's way.
She braided them so tightly.
She thought her head would break.
Sometimes just the thought of them
would make her poor head ache.
'Why can't I have my hair
flowing down my back?
Her mother's frown would let her know
to try some other tact..
'Mother can we cut it
just above my shoulder? '
the answer that was given was
'Not until you're older.'
And so she wore her hair like this.
She never wore it down.
When at night she unbraided it
she looked just like a clown.
She knew she would cut it
the very next day
right in front of her mother
to see what she would say.
Her mother watched and sat down
and had a cup of tea.
Her mother simply said
'Now you're more beautiful than me.'
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Never Wore A Gun Before
Never wore a gun before
A plane in the fog, oh wait those are clouds Im talking about
The suitcase in my hand and the way I have to walk
Those are empty smiles, empty eyes Im looking in
Times are over when it was difficult to say
It took some time but I know its just right now
So just a little word about whats really going on
If you want to take that as my way
To say goodbye to you as these red nights must go on
I was rich and I was poor
Didnt do the things I had to do
I was strong and I was weak
Was not the girl I tried to be
I was lost and I was found
He earned money you couldnt count
But I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
He left the chamber but these times are over
Shes got
Shes got more than four weeks to be herself
Hes playin with fire and looks around on this world
Oh I love them and the plane in the fog
I was brave and I had fear
I did things...oh my dar
I was strong and I was weak
Was not the girl I tried to be
I was up and I was down
He thought the things to the ground
But I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
Never wore a gun before
I was brave and I had fear
I did things...oh my dear
I never wore a gun before
I was brave and I had fear
I did things...oh my dear
I was strong and I was weak
Was not the girl I tried to be
But I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
Never wore a gun before
song performed by by Wonderwall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Never Wore A Gun Before
Never wore a gun before
A plane in the fog, oh wait those are clouds Im talking about
The suitcase in my hand and the way I have to walk
Those are empty smiles, empty eyes Im looking in
Times are over when it was difficult to say
It took some time but I know its just right now
So just a little word about whats really going on
If you want to take that as my way
To say goodbye to you as these red nights must go on
I was rich and I was poor
Didnt do the things I had to do
I was strong and I was weak
Was not the girl I tried to be
I was lost and I was found
He earned money you couldnt count
But I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
He left the chamber but these times are over
Shes got
Shes got more than four weeks to be herself
Hes playin with fire and looks around on this world
Oh I love them and the plane in the fog
I was brave and I had fear
I did things...oh my dar
I was strong and I was weak
Was not the girl I tried to be
I was up and I was down
He thought the things to the ground
But I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
Never wore a gun before
I was brave and I had fear
I did things...oh my dear
I never wore a gun before
I was brave and I had fear
I did things...oh my dear
I was strong and I was weak
Was not the girl I tried to be
But I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
I never wore a gun before
Never wore a gun before
song performed by by Wonderwall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As Ireland Wore the Green
BY RIGHT of birth in southern land I send my warning forth.
I see my country ruined by the wrongs that damned the North.
And shall I stand with fireless eyes and still and silent mouth
While Mammon builds his Londons on the fair fields of the South?
CHORUS:
O must we hide our colour
In fear of Mammon’s spleen?
Or shall we wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland wore the green?
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, we will wear our colour still,
As Ireland wore the green!
I see the shade of poverty fall on each sunny scene.
And slums and alley-ways extend where fields were evergreen.
There is a law that stamps the flower of freedom as it springs;
And this upon a soil that’s trod by prouder feet than kings’.
And must I hide my colour
In fear of Mammon’s spleen?
Or shall I wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland wore the green?
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland swore the green!
Aye, I will wear my colour yet,
As Ireland wore the green!
Out there beyond the lonely range our fathers toiled for years
’Neath all the hardships that beset true-hearted pioneers;
And our brave mothers journeyed there to do the work of men
On those great awful plains that were unfit for women then.
Then must we hide our colour
In fear of Mammon’s spleen?
Or shall we wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland swore the green?
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, we shall wear our colour still,
As Ireland wore the green!
O shall the fields our fathers won be yielded to the few
Who never touched the axe or spade, and hardships never knew?
Shall lordly robbers rule the land and build their mansions high,
And ladies flaunt their jewelled plumes where our brave mothers lie?
O must we hide our colour
In fear of Mammnon’s spleen?
Or shall the wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland wore the green?
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, the will wear our colour yet,
As Ireland wore the green!
What though our stalwart fathers came from every land on earth,
We will be loyal to the land that gives our children birth.
We’ll show our banner to the sun—the Southern Cross displayed—
And join our strength together for the home our fathers made.
Let cowards hide their colour
For fear of Mammon’s spleen!
But I will wear my bonnie blue
As Ireland swore the green!
As Ireland swore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, I will wear my colour still,
As Ireland swore the green!
We’ll light the lamp of hope above the alley and the slum,
And teach the poor and drill them for the war that is to come.
We’ll send our songs recruiting far beneath the western sky,
And wake the towns and let them know the day of deeds is nigh.
And the twill wear our colour
In spite of Mammon’s spleen!
O the will wear the bonnie blue
As Ireland wore the green!
As Ireland wore the green, my friends!
As Ireland wore the green!
Aye, the will wear our colour yet,
As Ireland wore the green!
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The next to last pew
An old man was at church last Sunday
He sat in the next to last pew
I slid into the seat right next to him
And gave a him a friendly “hi-dee-do”
He gave me a nod with his time worn brow
Then swiveled his head all around
While his gaze sized up the parishioners
His ears seemed to soak up their sound
His sad gaze seemed to pick out each person
One by one, as he seemed to stare into their soul
To some he nodded, in an approving way
While to others his look was ice cold
I asked if he was a member of this church
I said I wasn’t familiar with him, was he new?
He smiled a soft smile and shook his head no
Said “I’m here most of the time…
here in this next to last pew”
I said “what do you think of our little church”
He rubbed his hands through his hair of silver grey
Looked deep in my eyes and gave a soft, sad sigh
And said “you may not like what I have to say”
He said “ Son, I can see into the soul of these people
And to you, what I say is on the level”
That Most are fools in the eyes of the Lord
The rest are pawns in the hands of the devil
I looked all around at my fellow church-goers
Of whom he spoke, I knew of more than a few
And when I turned back to allow “that could be so”
I was all alone in the next to last pew!
poem by David Whalen
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The Two April Mornings
We walked along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun;
And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,
'The will of God be done!'
A village schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering grey;
As blithe a man as yon could see
On a spring holiday.
And on that morning, through the grass,
And by the steaming rills,
We travelled merrily, to pass
A day among the hills.
'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun,
Then, from thy breast what thought,
Beneath so beautiful a sun,
So sad a sigh has brought?'
A second time did Matthew stop;
And fixing still his eye
Upon the eastern mountain-top,
To me he made reply:
'Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind
A day like this which I have left
Full thirty years behind.
'And just above yon slope of corn
Such colours, and no other,
Were in the sky, that April morn,
Of this the very brother.
'With rod and line I sued the sport
Which that sweet season gave,
And, to the church-yard come, stopped short
Beside my daughter's grave.
'Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
The pride of all the vale;
And then she sang;--she would have been
A very nightingale.
'Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
And yet I loved her more,
For so it seemed, than till that day
I e'er had loved before.
'And, turning from her grave, I met,
Beside the church-yard yew,
A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.
'A basket on her head she bare;
Her brow was smooth and white:
To see a child so very fair,
It was a pure delight!
'No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripped with foot so free;
She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.
'There came from me a sigh of pain
Which I could ill confine;
I looked at her, and looked again:
And did not wish her mine!'
Matthew is in his grave, yet now,
Methinks, I see him stand,
As at that moment, with a bough
Of wilding in his hand.
poem by William Wordsworth
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The Chair Person
The Chair Person.
The woman, who was chairing the meeting, wore a flowering
dress of an expensive material, she wore much gold and with
her tan she looked almost like a rich gipsy lady only less elegant.
It wasn’t that she was very fat but her lips where huge, too red
and octopus greedy and her fingers, when resting on the table
looked like guillotined, corpulent men, blood still dripping and
when lesser charges shared it looked as she mentally hurried
them on so she could speak.
There was something insincere about her, maybe she didn’t
have problem, but this was the only place people tolerated her.
Beautiful summer evening windows open, I heard bird song,
sun was setting into an azure sea. at home I had a cold bottle
of white wine waiting. Must have dreamt there was a grave
silence in the room, I looked up the woman was glaring at me
waiting for me to share something, I looked up to the roof and
counted the beams and thus the meeting ended
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Metzengerstein
I think that I was only nine
When first I met Metzengerstein,
Too young to know his foul intent,
Too young, too pure, too innocent.
He lived in some old ruined church
With gothic columns, vaulted arch,
That sheltered him from thundered skies,
And hid, in gloom, his enterprise.
For from that church were mutterings
On windy nights, such utterings
As screams, while weird unholy moans
Disturbed the graveyard's scattered bones.
He wore a cape that wrapped him in
A hat, broad-brimmed, and black as sin,
His gaiters to the knee were brown
The boots he wore, they made no sound.
At night I'd see his shadow pass
Dark stained, upon my window glass
As stealthily he roamed abroad
While mist and fog obscured the road.
He came from some small German town,
My kindly father asked him round:
'We must be kind, and make no fuss,
But treat him just as one of us.'
Metzengerstein then came to call
And sat and stared - stared at us all,
My mother brought us cake and tea
And laughed, and smiled most happily.
She was so sweet, so fair of face
My father said: 'She lends us grace.'
She was much younger, then, than he,
He'd brought her from the old country.
But while she played the welcome host
Metzengerstein watched her the most,
His eyes burned fierce beneath thick brows
As once he'd spied on German fraus.
He came again, again and he
Ignored my father, ignored me,
But watched my mother's every move;
She danced, to see if he'd approve.
My father sat bemused and still,
And worried too, for I could tell;
His wife would seem to be bewitched,
Metzengerstein had scratched her itch.
So soon that sweet and dainty dame
Had added rumour to her name,
She raised her skirts above the knee,
Wore tops as low as low could be.
While in our parlour, came the sounds
Of dancing music, all year round,
Metzengerstein sat in his chair
While she would dance, and taunt, and stare…
Right back at him, full in the eyes
As if he had her hypnotized;
'I wish I'd never asked him here, '
My father muttered, in despair.
Then one day when I was but ten
My mother, with Metzengerstein
Went out, and said: 'We're going to search,
The bowels of that ruined church.'
He'd told her there was music there
Would charm the roots of her fair hair,
Would spin her giddy in the dark
Would faery-like, ignite her spark.
I waited 'til my father came
And told him I was not to blame:
'But mother's gone, some stairs to climb,
She's gone with that Metzengerstein! '
We waited, and we waited on,
But of the two there was no sign,
At length we sought the church in pain
But all was echoes in the rain.
For days and weeks, and then for years
I watched my father burst in tears
Whenever tunes, they did remind him
Of his wife… Metzengerstein!
And lonely then became his life,
He mourned his only love, his wife,
But she had disappeared, as if
Her dainty frame did not exist.
This year, as autumn winds were due
I found that I was fifty-two,
When down the road I saw a sign -
My mother, and Metzengerstein! .
She danced on in, and said: 'We're back!
We found no music in the rack.'
I looked and stared like one deranged -
For neither of the two had aged!
My father, crippled in his chair
Cried out: 'Oh God! Is that my dear? '
And she shrank back to see him now,
This pale old man, his feeble brow.
'I have been but an hour or so;
What's wrong? Where did my husband go? '
I looked at her through childhood tears:
'You have been gone for forty years! '
She swooned, fell swiftly to the floor
As I peered out the open door,
But of that cape there was no sign,
He'd gone for good - Metzengerstein!
19 April 2008
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Search The Night
the lie hidden inside the stone,
buried in the field;
slept waiting for nuclear rain,
and the lamp that portayed the sun...
then with a burst of reptile genius,
grew and blossomed into a city,
heavy with the musk of empty bodies...
and they prayed beneath neon lights,
dancing to synthetic music.
as she devoured her young,
on the day after progress!
while gods wore masks and demons shuddered,
to the sound of wheels biting pavement.
the gravemakers wore plastic gloves,
their eyes red with smoke.
and judges stood in bank lines,
while convicts gave blood.
Jesus stopped, and vomited,
on the highway to Gethsemene!
and crosses wept for meaning,
leaving the dogs to search the night...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Kohoutek
Who will stand alone?
She carried ribbons, she wore them out
Courage built a bridge, jealous tore it down
At least its something youve left behind
Like kohoutek, you were gone
We sat in the garden, we stood on the porch
I wont deny myself, we never talked
She wore bangles, she wore bells
On her toes and she jumped like a fish
Like a flyin friend, you were gone
Like kohoutek, cant forget that
Fever built a bridge, reason tore it down
If I am one to follow.. who will stand alone?
Maybe youre not the problem
Scissors, paper, stone
If you stand and holler, these prayers will talk
She carried ribbons, she wore them out
Michael built a bridge...michael tore it down
At least its something youve left behind
Like kohoutek, you were gone
Michael built a bridge... michael tore it down
If I stand and holler... will I stand alone?
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Mask
yes, there was this man in the village
he was happy.
yet, no one know who he really was
even until death.
all his life he wore the mask of the happy man
dignified and praised.
when he lived till 60 he wore the mask through and through
he was famous for his love and charity.
till his funeral the people cried
there i saw the mask, smiling and always willing to help
always empathizing, always willing to understand
the plight of each and everyone
and he was buried a happy man
time buries all including the mask of the happy man
if only they had taken time to dig him out from his grave
they could have seen the rotten ugliness beneath the mask of happiness
let him go, those who knew later said
he was a happy man, he served us so well, let him be, we pray.
i know the ugliness of his true self
but i guess, no one likes to hear what it is.
my lips are sealed
now we must praise him again: posthumously.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Old Town Types No. 21 - Mr Woolin-Wister
Mr Woolin-Wister was assistant at the store,
He had an air of breeding, and the kind of clothes he wore
Were very, very natty and exceedingly correct;
For every single day he was habitually decked
In the very latest fashion; and he had a roving eye
That wakened many a smile demure and many a gentle sigh.
For, whenever he sought to 'twit' them, then the ladies straight began:
'Now, Mr Woolin-Wister! Oo, you are a naughty man!'
He wore a wide straw-decker with a pretty colored band;
His pants - the shepherd plaid ones - were the tightest in the land,
He wore a braided coat, with vest - in summer-time a sash -
And a set of heavy sideboards and a very large moustache;
His hair combed on his forehead in a very genteel 'slick,'
He made just the perfect masher with his silver-headed stick,
And thro' the street, when he walked out, the female titters ran:
'There is Mr Woolin-Wister. Oo, he is a saucy man!'
His linen is immaculate. His broad stiff-bosomed shirt
Upheld a three-inch collar; and he was a fearful flirt.
For he flirted with the matrons and he flirted with the maids;
At conversation lollies he was boldest of the blades;
For the things he used to pass them at a soiree or a dance
Caused many a maiden blush to glow and many a downward glance;
Yet many a maiden giggled, as she peeped behind her fan:
'Fie, Mr Woolin-Wister! Oo, you are a forward man!'
When last I saw the old town I went into the store,
And there was Mr Woolin-Wister - still a bachelor.
His pate was bald, his eye was dull, his grey moustache was clipped,
And his general demeanour seemed considerably hipped.
Then a lady (rather elderly) came tripping in the shop,
And Mr Woolin-Wister let all other matters drop.
Then she gushed and then she giggled as the persiflage began:
'Now, Mr Woolin-Wister! Oo, you are an awful man!'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Only A Soldier's Grave
Only a soldier's grave! Pass by,
For soldiers, like other mortals, die.
Parents had he - they are far away;
No sister weeps o'er the soldier's clay;
No brother comes, with tearful eye;
It's only a soldier's grave - pass by.
True, he was loving, and young, and brave,
Though no glowing epitaph honors his grave;
No proud recital of virtues known,
Of griefs endured, or triumphs won;
No tablet of marble, or obelisk high; -
Only a soldier's grave: - pass by.
Yet bravely he wielded his sword in fight,
And he gave his life in the cause of right!
When his hope was high, and his youthful dream
As warm as the sunlight on yonder stream;
His heart unvexed by sorrow or sigh; -
Yet, 'tis only a soldier's grave: - pass by.
Yet, we should mark it - the soldier's grave,
Some one may seek him in hope to save!
Some of the dear ones, far away,
Would bear him home to his native clay:
'Twere sad, indeed, should they wander nigh,
Find not the hillock, and pass him by.
poem by S.A. Jones
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Only A Soldier's Grave
Only a soldier's grave! Pass by,
For soldiers, like other mortals, die.
Parents he had--they are far away;
No sister weeps o'er the soldier's clay;
No brother comes, with a tearful eye:
It's only a soldier's grave--pass by.
True, he was loving, and young, and brave,
Though no glowing epitaph honors his grave;
No proud recital of virtues known,
Of griefs endured, or of triumphs won;
No tablet of marble, or obelisk high;--
Only a soldier's grave--pass by.
Yet bravely he wielded his sword in fight,
And he gave his life in the cause of right!
When his hope was high, and his youthful dream
As warm as the sunlight on yonder stream;
His heart unvexed by sorrow or sigh;--
Yet,'tis only a soldier's grave:--pass by.
Yet, should we mark it--the soldier's grave,
Some one may seek him in hope to save!
Some of the dear ones, far away,
Would bear him home to his native clay:
'Twere sad, indeed, should they wander nigh,
Find not the hillock, and pass him by.
poem by Sidney Alroy Jonas
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Boots
I found a pair of boots upon the street
So I took them home to wear on my feet
I washed them I cleaned them and I aired them out
So I could put them all later when I would walk about.
I put my new boots on, and I walked down the road
They seemed so very sturdy to carry my heavy load
Then they took me places where I have never been
I could tell that these boots were very well broken in.
They felt so very soft and comfortable upon my feet
How excited I was for my new boots others would see.
And when I did my walk many persons just stared
As they looked at my new boots but I really never cared.
Maybe they too just wanted boots just like mine
But this one thing I knew they were hard for me to find.
I had so much fun with my brand new pair of boots
We walked everywhere they placed me in a happy mood
And the longer that I walked still no pain did I feel
I was excited and content my life became so surreal.
So it started to get late so I decided to walk home
So that's were we head just me and my boots alone
And then when I took them off I placed them beside my bed
So I could be ready for my next journey or adventure ahead.
I wore those boots of mine for many, many years
They always felt so comfortable never brought me any tears
I would wash them and clean them and polish them too
Now they were always mine and they always looked brand new.
Then one day I wore another pair of shoes when I went out
I left my old boots home alone so they could air out
So myself and my new shows were gone most of the day
As I had errands to run and also many bills to pay.
But sadly when I got home I was taken by surprise
My boots were stolen and that brought tears to my eyes
I thought to myself who would steal those old boots of mine
Boots that have been worn and used who would commit that crime.
So I went out and bought so many different pairs of shoes
And none are that old as they are all seemingly brand new
I still go for my walks and I still go to town and all about
My feet are so much happier now I myself with joy wanna shout
But every now and then I think about those boots I once wore
The ones I found on the street and I never bought in the store
I wonder now if they are ragged and torn and beyond repair
But that's someone else problem now, so why would I care.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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The Little Match Girl
It was biting cold, and the falling snow,
Which filled a poor little match girl's heart with woe,
Who was bareheaded and barefooted, as she went along the street,
Crying, "Who'll buy my matches? for I want pennies to buy some meat!"
When she left home she had slippers on;
But, alas! poor child, now they were gone.
For she lost both of them while hurrying across the street,
Out of the way of two carriages which were near by her feet.
So the little girl went on, while the snow fell thick and fast;
And the child's heart felt cold and downcast,
For nobody had bought any matchea that day,
Which filled her little mind with grief and dismay.
Alas! she was hungry and shivering with cold;
So in a corner between two houses she made bold
To take shelter from the violent storm.
Poor little waif! wishing to herself she'd never been born.
And she grew colder and colder, and feared to go home
For fear of her father beating her; and she felt woe-begone
Because she could carry home no pennies to buy bread,
And to go home without pennies she was in dread.
The large flakes of snow covered her ringlets of fair hair;
While the passers-by for her had no care,
As they hurried along to their homes at a quick pace,
While the cold wind blew in the match girl's face.
As night wore on her hands were numb with cold,
And no longer her strength could her uphold,
When an idea into her little head came:
She'd strike a match and warm her hands at the flame.
And she lighted the match, and it burned brightly,
And it helped to fill her heart with glee;
And she thought she was sitting at a stove very grand;
But, alas! she was found dead, with a match in her hand!
Her body was found half-covered with snow,
And as the people gazed thereon their hearts were full of woe;
And many present let fall a burning tear
Because she was found dead on the last night of the year,
In that mighty city of London, wherein is plenty of gold -
But, alas! their charity towards street waifs is rather cold.
But I hope the match girl's in Heaven, beside her Saviour dear,
A bright reward for all the hardships she suffered here.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Two Brothers
Two brothers on their way
Two brothers on their way
Two brothers on their way
One wore blue
And one wore grey
One wore blue and one wore grey
As they marched along the way
A fife and drum began to play
All on a beautiful morning
One was gentle, one was kind
One was gentle, one was kind
One came home, one stayed behind
A cannonball don't pay no mind
A cannonball don't pay no mind
Though you're gentle or you're kind
It don't think of the folks behind
All on a beautiful morning
Two girls waiting by the railroad track
Two girls waiting by the railroad track
For their darlings to come back
One wore blue, and one wore black
One wore blue, and one wore black
Waiting by the railroad track
For their darlings to come back
All on a beautiful morning
One wore blue, and one wore black
Waiting by the railroad track
For their darlings to come back
All on a beautiful morning
All on a beautiful morning
song performed by by Tom Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Great Valuable Gift On Christmas Day
“Wow! It’s Christmas, happiness coming
Now for the gift welcoming loving
Then to the church to bow before God
And to the market to buy me a gift
I have the fifty cents all for myself”
Fanny jumped happily, she ran out to shop.
Dancing and skipping she went on her way
Across holy Churches,
Across lit up houses
Across snow laden parks and snowy canals
Gardening, sweating
She had made her money.
“I want a present,
A present I want,
I had a hard time to earn these
Christmas is the best time to forget it all”
She cried out with joy,
To the man in the shop
Beautiful pastries and plum cakes a fresh
Packed up in boxes
She left from the shop
But lo! At the end of the street, she did see
A young dainty lady, holding her child
Sobbing away at the plight so sad
Tired she looked, unhappy too
For her baby was sick and hungry too
Fanny stood still and thought for a while
Then the gift to the child, she smilingly gave
The two of them,
Very grateful now, went on their way to their cold little home
Blessed is the child,
Who gift from the heart
Rest she will ever in the arm of her Lord.
December 2007
(I wrote this for the Christmas celebration December 2007 in my school. And I presented it there)
© Copyright Aiswarya T Anish, Kerala, India
poem by Aiswarya T. Anish
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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They Just Don't Make 'em Like You Anymore
Ive looked every where there is a love affair
I must replace racing through the people chase
But still surrounded by memories of your face.
They just dont make em like you anymore
Not up in the mountains or down by the shore
Something shine in the fashion
In the smile that you wore.
They just dont make em like you anymore
In the eyes of someone new
I wait for a glance of you.
But its never there
Among the precious few
Your kind of person is becoming so rare.
They just dont make em like you anymore
Not up in the mountains or down by the shore
Something shine in the fashion
In the smile that you wore.
Like those whiteless dresses
At the second hand store
Or sweet old songs filtering out through the floor.
The fashion comes and the fashion goes
And the gossip magazines and the videos
A bran new actress on a screen
In a brand new style of clothes
But by any other name.
A rose is still a rose
And it grows in my memories
Wonder if you still are the same
While I look for a remedy
Someone with a tender heart
To clean your name.
They just dont make em like you anymore
Not up in the mountains or down by the shore
Something shine in the fashion
In the smile that you wore.
Its an easy thing to learn, but so hard to ignore
Now I know exactly what Im looking for
They just dont make em like they made em before.
They just dont make em like you anymore
Not up in the mountains or down by the shore
Something shine in the fashion
In the smile that you wore...
song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Betrayed
I WENT back to our home to-day
That still its robe of roses wore;
My feet took the old easy way,
And led me to our door.
And you are gone and never more
Those little feet of yours will come
To meet me at the open door,
The threshold of our home.
The door unlatched did not protest:
I entered, and the silence drew
My steps towards the little nest
That once I shared with you.
There lay your fan, your open book,
Your seam half-sewn, and I could see
The window whence you used to look--
Yes, once you looked--for me.
Print of your little head caressed
Our pillow still, and on the floor
Still lay, dropped there when last you dressed,
The scarf and rose you wore.
All should have spoken of you plain,
Yet, when I bade the silence tell
Of you, my bidding was in vain,
I could not break its spell.
The silence would not speak, my dear,
Till the last level light grew dim;
Then, in the twilight I could hear;
The silence spoke--of him.
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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