Related quotes: One pearly day in early...

Yellow

One pearly day in early May I walked upon the sand
And saw, say half a mile away, a man with gun in hand.
A dog was cowering to his will as slow he sought to creep
Upon a dozen ducks so still they seemed to be asleep.

When like a streak the dog dashed out, the ducks flashed up in flight.
The fellow gave a savage shout and cursed with all his might.
Then as I stood somewhat amazed and gazed with eyes agog,
With bitter rage his gun he raised and blazed and shot the dog.

You know how dogs can yelp with pain; its blood soaked in the sand,
And yet it crawled to him again, and tried to lick his hand.
'Forgive me Lord for what I've done,' it seemed as if it said,
But once again he raised his gun -- this time he shot it dead.

What could I do? What could I say? 'Twas such a lonely place.
Tongue-tied I watched him stride away, I never saw his face.
I should have bawled the bastard out, a yellow dog he slew.
But worse, he proved beyond a doubt that - I was yellow too.

poem by Robert William Service
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The Man He Killed

Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have set us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!

But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.

I shot him dead because--
Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That's clear enough; although

He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
Off-hand like--just as I--
Was out of work--had sold his traps--
No other reason why.

Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat, if met where any bar is,
Or help to half a crown.

poem by Thomas Hardy
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There was, before me,

There was, before me,
Mile upon mile
Of snow, ice, burning sand.
And yet I could look beyond all this,
To a place of infinite beauty;
And I could see the loveliness of her
Who walked in the shade of the trees.
When I gazed,
All was lost
But this place of beauty and her.
When I gazed,
And in my gazing, desired,
Then came again
Mile upon mile,
Of snow, ice, burning sand.

poem by Stephen Crane
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The Book Of Life Was Opened

The Book of Life was opened
And a name was written down
All of heaven stood and gazed
Not a movement, not a sound

The angels watched in silence
As the story did unfold
And from the pages of the book
The story it was told

And life sprung up from off the page
These words became a man
The angels gasped to see such work
To see God's mighty plan

A soul was fashioned in His hand
And how, no one could tell
It was marvelous and wonderful
And this my soul knows well

Where could I go from you Spirit Lord?
Could I hide in the depths of the sea?
No matter where I run to Lord
You still come after me

I could take the wings of the morning
And fly into the darkest night
And there be blinded by the darkness
And you would come and give me sight

I could ascend to the highest heaven
And I would find you there
I could fall to the lowest pits of hell
And discover that you are everywhere

And so you came and sought me out
Even in this hell dark place
For the day and night are both alike
As they gaze upon your face

For in the glorious light of heaven
There is no darkness that can stand
For through the very gates of hell
You came and took me by the hand

And you laid your hand upon me
That hand that gave me birth
That hand that knew me through and through
Before I came to earth

For before the earth was fashioned
That Book was in your hand
Before the sun shone in the sky
All of this was planned

Oh search me God and know my heart
That sin may have no place in me
For I was covered by your Blood
That precious Blood of Calvary

This sin it would assault my soul
And rob and steal and take from me
The testimony of my King
And what He did on Calvary

But praise the Lord there is no power
Neither hell nor death nor misery
Can come against the precious work
The precious work of Calvary

How precious are your thoughts to me
They're more in number than the sand
I'll praise you Lord eternally
My name was written by your hand.

poem by Frank McEleny
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Psalm 139

poem by Frank McEleny
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A Bullet Named Ken

A Snapshot of war.

He lies next to me in the mud
Dead; a shot blew half of his skull
Away leaving the taste of brains
In my mouth.” I shot that goddamn,
Dirty, rotten rag head, Ken! I
Cut him in half before he
Hit the ground! ” Ken had a grotesque
look on his dirty, blood-soaked face.
Something I couldn’t quite make out.
I stared into his vacant eyes
And found myself unconsciously
Saying with no embarrassment,
“I’m glad it had “your” name on it.”

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Enemies

He stood alone in some queer sunless place
Where Armageddon ends. Perhaps he longed
For days he might have lived; but his young face
Gazed forth untroubled: and suddenly there thronged
Round him the hulking Germans that I shot
When for his death my brooding rage was hot.

He stared at them, half-wondering; and then
They told him how I’d killed them for his sake—
Those patient, stupid, sullen ghosts of men;
And still there seemed no answer he could make.
At last he turned and smiled. One took his hand
Because his face could make them understand.

poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Ducks On The Wall

After dinner norman becomes depressed.
Star:
Normans office got on my nerves to-day.
Wife:
What do you mean? you are norman!
Star:
(shouts) I am a star!
Wife:
Youre not a star norman. youre
Just a plain ordinary little bloke and
Even if you walked down the street in
A silver suit people still wouldnt
Recognise you. youre dull, ordinary
And uninteresting! youre a drag!
Star rises from his chair and smashes
The dinner plates to the floor.
Star:
I hate this house and I hate you, but
More than anything else I hate those
Ducks!
Wife:
Dont you touch those ducks norman!
They were a present from my mother.
Look, norman, Ive had enough of you
And your ridiculous fantasies. first of
All you wanted to be a painter, then
You wanted to be an astronaut, then
A footballer and now youre playing at
Being a rock singer. if you touch those
Ducks Im leaving!
Ducks on the wall
My babys got the most deplorable taste,
But her biggest mistake
Is hanging over the fireplace.
Shes got ducks, ducks on the wall,
Ducks, ducks, hanging on the wall.
My ladys got a sort of strange fascination,
An obsessive fixation
For cheap decorations
Shes got ducks, ducks on the wall.
Ducks, ducks, hanging on the wall.
Wo-wo-wo I love her so but if she doesnt move the ducks,
I think my mind is gonna go.
Ducks ducks on the wall.
Ducks ducks, hanging on the wall.
I leave the office and I want to relax.
Dont want to stare at a wall
And look at a duck that cant quack.
I love you baby but I cant fall
For those ducks on the wall.
I start to snuggle up and squeeze her so tight.
Then out of the corner of my eye
I see those ducks in flight.
I love you baby but I cant ball
When I see those ducks on the wall.
Wo-wo-wo I can sit through your gossip and your soap opera shows,
But those ducks have got to go.
I love you baby but I cant ball
When I see those ducks on the wall.
And when I went to a cocktail party
With the bores next door,
What was the first thing that I saw?
Ducks, ducks on the wall.
Ducks, ducks hanging on the wall.
My babys got the most deplorable taste,
But her biggest mistake
Is hanging over the fireplace.
Shes got ducks, ducks on the wall,
Ducks, ducks hanging on the wall.
Ill sit and look at all the soap operas with her
Ill play all the panel games and watch all the quiz shows,
But those ducks theyve got to go,
Those ducks are getting up my nose.
If those ducks can fly, well so can i.
And if those ducks have got to stay
Then Im going to fly away.
I love you baby but I cant ball
When I see those ducks on the wall.
Ducks, ducks, ducks on the wall.
Ducks, ducks, ducks on the wall.
Oh those ducks on the wall are beginning to move
Theyre talking to me
Ive got to get away from those ducks.

song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The poor ducks

A duck was given a place among geese
For its brain; fellow ducks beamed with that.
The exalted duck behaved like a goose
And severed ties with its fellow ducks.

Don’t exult some one your tribe
Or religion has been elevated
15.03.2005

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Hand In Hand, Come Lets Love...

A dream it was, just a dream-
we were walking together with hand in hand
towards the Sun set where the sky and the earth
seemed to be holding together

you the emotional and impractical was arguing,
that they were destined to be together as we do-
me the practical with rationale was saying,
that for all eternity it can't be true;

we have walked a long way, the Sun has left the horizon
and the moon has taken his place with a gleam,
still we walked together with hand
in hand, into places unknown,

hoping to know, what's there at the end of the ends
and at the farthest of the farthest places-
each one trying to prove the other wrong, but wanna
see it for ourselves, with what's there after all-

blessed by thee, do they get to be together
or are they cursed to not to be
for all the distance we have walked together
and all the places left behind

the sky and the earth still seemed to be holding
together in the end of the ends and in the farthest
of the farthest places; so we were, holding ourselves
together with hand in hand, walking with stride to stride;

love is not there to be found or to be sought,
it is there to be lived, in every walk we walk
and every hold we hold, come what may, with hand
in hand together forever!

- to my love

poem by Senthil Kumar B
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In Another Land

In another land where the breeze and the
Trees and flowers were blue
I stood and held your hand.
And the grass grew high and the feathers floated by
I stood and held your hand.
And nobody else's hand will ever do
Nobody else will do
Then I awoke
Was this some kind of joke
Much to my surprise
I opened my eyes.

We walked across the sand and the sea and
The sky and the castles were blue.
I stood and held your hand.
And the spray flew high and the feathers floated by
I stood and held your hand.
And nobody else's hand will ever do
Nobody else will do
Then I awoke
Was this some kind of joke
Much to my surprise
When I opened my eyes.

We heard the trumpets blow and the sky
Turned red when I accidently said
That I didn't know how I came to be here
Not fast asleep in bed.
I stood and held your hand.
And nobody else's hand will ever do
Nobody else's hand
Then I awoke
Was this some kind of joke
I opened my eyes.
Much to my surprise.

song performed by by Rolling Stones from Their Satanic Majesties Request
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On the Garden Wall

Oh, once I walked a garden
In dreams. 'Twas yellow grass.
And many orange-trees grew there
In sand as white as glass.
The curving, wide wall-border
Was marble, like the snow.
I walked that wall a fairy-prince
And, pacing quaint and slow,
Beside me were my pages,
Two giant, friendly birds.
Half swan they were, half peacock.
They spake in courtier-words.
Their inner wings a charriot,
Their outer wings for flight,
They lifted me from dreamland.
We bade those trees good-night.
Swiftly above the stars we rode.
I looked below me soon.
The white-walled garden I had ruled
Was one lone flower--the moon.

poem by Vachel Lindsay
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London Interior

Autumn is in the air,
The children are playing everywhere.

One dare not open this old door too wide;
It is so dark inside.
The hall smells of dust;
A narrow squirt of sunlight enters high,
Cold, yellow.
The floor creaks, and I hear a sigh,
Rise in the gloom and die.

Through the hall, far away,
I just can see
The dingy garden with its wall and tree.
A yellow cat is sitting on the wall
Blinking toward the leaves that fall.
And now I hear a woman call
Some child from play.

Then all is still. Time must go
Ticking slow, glooming slow.

The evening will turn grey.
It is sad in London after two.
All, all the afternoon
What can old men, old women do?

It is sad in London when the gloom
Thickens, like wool,
In the corners of the room;
The sky is shot with steel,
Shot with blue.

The bells ring the slow time;
The chairs creak, the hours climb;
The sunlight lays a streak upon the floor.

poem by Harold Monro
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The wounded vulture

A kingly vulture sat alone,
Lord of the ruin round,
Where Egypt's ancient monuments
Upon the desert frowned.

A hunter's eager eye had marked
The form of that proud bird,
And through the voiceless solitude
His ringing shot was heard.

It rent that vulture's pluméd breast,
Aimed with unerring hand,
And his life-blood gushed warm and red
Upon the yellow sand.

No struggle marked the deadly wound,
He gave no piercing cry,
But calmly spread his giant wings,
And sought the upper sky.

In vain with swift pursuing shot
The hunter seeks his prey,
Circling and circling upward still
On his majestic way.

Up to the blue empyrean
He wings his steady flight,
Till his receding form is lost
In the full flood of light.

Oh wounded heart! oh suffering soul!
Sit not with folded wing,
Where broken dreams and ruined hopes
Their mournful shadows fling.

Outspread thy pinions like that bird,
Take thou the path sublime,
Beyond the flying shafts of Fate,
Beyond the wounds of Time.

Mount upward! brave the clouds and storms!
Above life's desert plain
There is a calmer, purer air,
A heaven thou, too, may'st gain.

And as that dim, ascending form
Was lost in day's broad light,
So shall thine earthly sorrows fade,
Lost in the Infinite.

poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Space Travel Is Boring

Won herself a pass to some far off moon
It was second class but whats to lose
And looking out her window she could more than assume
That you cant see air or time
Shes the only rocketeer in the whole damn place
They gave her a mirror so she could talk to a face
She still got plenty lonely but thats just the case
With time, time, time
Started hearing voices sometime in june
She knew she could go crazy but didnt think that soon
Now she doesnt feel lonely but shed just as soon
Try, try, try try
Man shot to the moon
I read a paperback and want to come home soon
Im shot to the moon
Been there a half an hour, I want to come home soon

song performed by by Modest Mouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Child of Then

I lay down on my living room floor
Convinced that the world would end.
A crisis off Cuba with missiles in route.
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

A lady in pink with blood on her dress.
A President shot in the head
I remember where I was exactly that day
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

Police battle Blacks, Watts is in flames
Protests rage on without end.
King is dead at the hand of a bigoted man
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

Camelots heir sought to bind up the wounds
Then Sirhan Sirhan shot him dead.
Bobby bled out on the kitchen tiled floor
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

Asian girl running, naked, on a dirt country road.
A Viet Cong man shot in the head
Fifty Eight Thousand names on a wall
Yes, I am a Child of Then.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Cattle-Dog's Death

The Plains lay bare on the homeward route,
And the march was heavy on man and brute;
For the Spirit of Drought was on all the land,
And the white heat danced on the glowing sand.

The best of our cattle-dogs lagged at last,
His strength gave out ere the plains were passed,
And our hearts grew sad when he crept and laid
His languid limbs in the nearest shade.

He saved our lives in the years gone by,
When no one dreamed of the danger nigh,
And the treacherous blacks in the darkness crept
On the silent camp where the drovers slept.

‘The dog is dying,’ a stockman said,
As he knelt and lifted the shaggy head;
‘’Tis a long day’s march ere the run be near,
‘And he’s dying fast; shall we leave him here?’

But the super cried, ‘There’s an answer there!’
As he raised a tuft of the dog’s grey hair;
And, strangely vivid, each man descried
The old spear-mark on the shaggy hide.

We laid a ‘bluey’ and coat across
The camping pack of the lightest horse,
And raised the dog to his deathbed high,
And brought him far ’neath the burning sky.

At the kindly touch of the stockmen rude
His eyes grew human with gratitude;
And though we parched in the heat that fags,
We gave him the last of the water-bags.

The super’s daughter we knew would chide
If we left the dog in the desert wide;
So we brought him far o’er the burning sand
For a parting stroke of her small white hand.

But long ere the station was seen ahead,
His pain was o’er, for the dog was dead
And the folks all knew by our looks of gloom
’Twas a comrade’s corpse that we carried home.

poem by Henry Lawson
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Sweet Delight

There was that sweet delight
especially when she
had that smile on her
and as you sat

by the pond with her
and she joined her hands
over her knees
and stared ahead

at the ducks out there
and you gazed at her
sideward on
and took in

her fine breasts
and thighs
and she said
ducks are very greasy creatures

to eat unlike rabbits
which are very dry
and you said
I guess they are

but my sisters wouldn't
touch either with a bargepole
and she raised her eyebrows
and sighed and said

guess they would
if they were starving
and you said
I guess people would eat

almost anything
if they were starving
and she turned
towards you

and said
I read somewhere
they ate each other
in the Civil War in Russia

and there was
some sweet delight
when she said that
and the way

her breasts and thighs
captured your eyes
with love of course
with a small dose of lust

mixed in
and that wished
for passion
and dream of sin.

poem by Terry Collett
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Little Yellow Butterfly

Oh, liitle yellow butterfly
to this lonely house
please come in
and let your shadow
fill the empty wall
as I watch closely
till I fall asleep.

Oh, little yellow butterfly
to this lonely house
please come in
and change the color of my life
with your tiny yellow wings.

Oh, little yellow butterfly
to this lonely house
please come in
I have prepared flowers for you
so you can stay with me
without being lonely.

Oh, little yellow butterfly
to this lonely house
please come in.

poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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An Assassin

. . . They caught him at the bend. He and his son
Sat in the car, revolvers in their laps.
From either side the stone-walled wintry road
There flashed thin fire-streaks in the rainy dusk.
The father swayed and fell, shot through the chest.
The son was up, but one more fire-streak leaped
Close from the pitch-black of a thick-set bush
Not five yards further and lit all the face
Of him whose sweetheart walked the Dublin streets
For lust of him who gave one yell and fell
Flat on the stony road a sweltering corse.
Then they came out, the men who did this thing,
And looked upon their hatred's retribution,
While heedlessly the rattling car fled on.
Grey-haired old Wolf, your letch for peasants' blood,
For peasants' sweat turned gold and silver and bronze,
Is done for ever, for ever and ever is done!
O foul young Fox, no more young girls' fresh lips
Shall bruise and bleed to cool your lecher's lust.
Slowly from out the great high-terraced clouds
The round moon sailed. The dead were left alone.
* * * * *
I talked with one of those who did this thing,
A coughing half-starved lad, mere skin and bone.
I said: 'They found upon those dead men gold.
Why did you not take it?' Then with proud-raised head,
He looked at me and said: 'Sorr, we're not thaves!'
Brother, from up the maimed and mangled earth,
Strewn with our flesh and bones, wet with our blood,
Let that great Word go up to unjust heaven
And smite the cheek of the Devil they've called 'God!'

poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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Marshall's Mate

You almost heard the surface bake, and saw the gum-leaves turn --
You could have watched the grass scorch brown had there been grass to burn.
In such a drought the strongest heart might well grow faint and weak --
'Twould frighten Satan to his home -- not far from Dingo Creek.

The tanks went dry on Ninety Mile, as tanks go dry out back,
The Half-Way Spring had failed at last when Marshall missed the track;
Beneath a dead tree on the plain we saw a pack-horse reel --
Too blind to see there was no shade, and too done-up to feel.
And charcoaled on the canvas bag (`twas written pretty clear)
We read the message Marshall wrote. It said: `I'm taken queer --
I'm somewhere off of Deadman's Track, half-blind and nearly dead;
Find Crowbar, get him sobered up, and follow back,' it said.

`Let Mitchell go to Bandicoot. You'll find him there,' said Mack.
`I'll start the chaps from Starving Steers, and take the dry-holes back.'
We tramped till dark, and tried to track the pack-horse on the sands,
And just at daylight Crowbar came with Milroy's station hands.
His cheeks were drawn, his face was white, but he was sober then --
In times of trouble, fire, and flood, 'twas Crowbar led the men.
`Spread out as widely as you can each side the track,' said he;
`The first to find him make a smoke that all the rest can see.'

We took the track and followed back where Crowbar followed fate,
We found a dead man in the scrub -- but 'twas not Crowbar's mate.
The station hands from Starving Steers were searching all the week --
But never news of Marshall's fate came back to Dingo Creek.
And no one, save the spirit of the sand-waste, fierce and lone,
Knew where Jack Marshall crawled to die -- but Crowbar might have known.

He'd scarcely closed his quiet eyes or drawn a sleeping breath --
They say that Crowbar slept no more until he slept in death.
A careless, roving scamp, that loved to laugh and drink and joke,
But no man saw him smile again (and no one saw him smoke),
And, when we spelled at night, he'd lie with eyes still open wide,
And watch the stars as if they'd point the place where Marshall died.

The search was made as searches are (and often made in vain),
And on the seventh day we saw a smoke across the plain;
We left the track and followed back -- 'twas Crowbar still that led,
And when his horse gave out at last he walked and ran ahead.
We reached the place and turned again -- dragged back and no man spoke --
It was a bush-fire in the scrubs that made the cursed smoke.
And when we gave it best at last, he said, `I'LL see it through,'
Although he knew we'd done as much as mortal men could do.
`I'll not -- I won't give up!' he said, his hand pressed to his brow;
`My God! the cursed flies and ants, they might be at him now.
I'll see it so in twenty years, 'twill haunt me all my life --
I could not face his sister, and I could not face his wife.
It's no use talking to me now -- I'm going back,' he said,
`I'm going back to find him, and I will -- alive or dead!'

. . . . .

He packed his horse with water and provisions for a week,
And then, at sunset, crossed the plain, away from Dingo Creek.
We watched him tramp beside the horse till we, as it grew late,
Could not tell which was Bonypart and which was Marshall's mate.
The dam went dry at Dingo Creek, and we were driven back,
And none dared face the Ninety Mile when Crowbar took the track.

They saw him at Dead Camel and along the Dry Hole Creeks --
There came a day when none had heard of Marshall's mate for weeks;
They'd seen him at No Sunday, he called at Starving Steers --
There came a time when none had heard of Marshall's mate for years.
They found old Bonypart at last, picked clean by hungry crows,
But no one knew how Crowbar died -- the soul of Marshall knows!

And now, way out on Dingo Creek, when winter days are late,
The bushmen talk of Crowbar's ghost `what's looking for his mate';
For let the fools indulge their mirth, and let the wise men doubt --
The soul of Crowbar and his mate have travelled further out.
Beyond the furthest two-rail fence, Colanne and Nevertire --
Beyond the furthest rabbit-proof, barbed wire and common wire --
Beyond the furthest `Gov'ment' tank, and past the furthest bore --
The Never-Never, No Man's Land, No More, and Nevermore --
Beyond the Land o' Break-o'-Day, and Sunset and the Dawn,
The soul of Marshall and the soul of Marshall's mate have gone
Unto that Loving, Laughing Land where life is fresh and clean --
Where the rivers flow all summer, and the grass is always green.