On an Invitation to the United States.
My ardours for emprize nigh lost
Since Life has bared its bones to me,
I shrink to seek a modern coast
Whose riper times have yet to be;
Where the new regions claim them free
From that long drip of human tears
Which peoples old in tragedy
Have left upon the centuried years.
For, wonning in these ancient lands,
Enchased and lettered as a tomb,
And scored with prints of perished hands,
And chronicled with dates of doom,
Though my own Being bear no bloom
I trace the lives such scenes enshrine,
Give past exemplars present room,
And their experience count as mine.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Ode To Back Old Days
Another season of the year
Is now upon the earth and me;
Another spring will light these hills—
No other spring mine own may be:
I must retune my unstrung harp,
I must awake the sleeping tomb,
I must recall the loved and lost,
Ere spring again for me could bloom.
I've wandered, but it was in vain,
In many a far and foreign clime,
Absence is not forgetfulness,
And distance cannot vanquish time.
One face was ever in my sight,
One voice was ever on my ear,
From all earth's loveliness I turned
To wish, Ah that the dead were here!
Oh! weary wandering to no home,
Oh! weary wandering alone,
I turned to childhood's once glad scenes
And found life's last illusion flown.
Ah! those who left their childhood's scenes
For after-years of toil and pain,
Who but bring back the breaking heart
Should never seek those scenes again.
poem by Sunnetra Basu
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That Joke Isnt Funny Anymore
Park the car at the side of the road
You should know
Times tide will smother you
And I will too
When you laugh about people who feel so
Very lonely
Their only desire is to die
Well, Im afraid
It doesnt make me smile
I wish I could laugh
But that joke isnt funny anymore
Its too close to home
And its too near the bone
Its too close to home
And its too near the bone
More than youll ever know ...
Kick them when they fall down
Kick them when they fall down
You kick them when they fall down
Kick them when they fall down
You kick them when they fall down
Kick them when they fall down
You kick them when they fall down
Kick them when they fall down
It was dark as I drove the point home
And on cold leather seats
Well, it suddenly struck me
I just might die with a smile on my
Face after all
Ive seen this happen in other peoples
Lives
And now its happening in mine
Ive seen this happen in other peoples
Lives
And now its happening in mine
Ive seen this happen in other peoples
Lives
And now its happening in mine
Ive seen this happen in other peoples
Lives
And now its happening in mine
Oh ...
Ive seen this happen in other peoples
Lives
Oh ...
And now its happening in mine
Happening in mine
Happening in mine
Happening in mine
Happening in mine
Ive seen this happen in other peoples
Lives
Oh ...
And now, now, now its happening in mine
(Ive seen this happen)
Happening in mine
Oh... now, now
Ive seen this happen in other peoples
Lives
Oh ...
And now its happening in mine
(happen)
Happening in mine
Oh ...
Happening in mine
Happening in mine
Happening in mine
Ive seen this happen in other peoples
Lives
Oh ...
And now, now, now its happening in mine
Happening in mine
Mine, mine
Happening in mine
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Kiss Away My Tears
Stranger
Take me out of danger
Be the rearranger
Of my torn down life
Stranger
Burn incense in the room
abolish my impending doom
Release me from my tomb
Massage me with ointment for years
Kiss away my tears
Stranger
Take me out of danger
Be the rearranger
Of my torn down life
Run your fingers through my hair
Write futile notes that say you care
Bathe me soothe me buy me clothes
Kiss me daily on the nose
Stranger
Come into my room
End my thoughts of doom
Resurrect me and loom
Release me from my tomb
Kiss away my tears
Kiss away my tears
poem by Beau Golden
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The Open Door
O Mystery of life,
That, after all our strife,
Defeats, mistakes,
Just as, at last, we see
The road to victory,
The tired heart breaks.
Just as the long years give
Knowledge of how to live,
Life's end draws near;
As if, that gift being ours,
God needed our new powers
In worlds elsewhere.
There, if the soul whose wings
Were won in suffering, springs
To life anew,
Justice would have some room
For hope beyond the tomb,
And mercy, too.
And since, without this dream
No light, no faintest gleam
Answers our 'why';
But earth and all its race
Must pass and leave no trace
On that blind sky;
Shall reason close that door
On all we struggled for,
Seal the soul's doom;
Make of this universe
One wild answering curse,
One lampless tomb?
Mine be the dream, the creed
That leaves for God, indeed,
For God, and man,
One open door whereby
To prove His world no lie
And crown His plan.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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To Olinthus Gregory, On Hearing Of The Death Of His Eldest Son, Who Was Drowned As He Was Returning By Water To His Father’s House At Woolrich
IS there a spot where Pity's foot,
Although unsandalled, fears to tread,
A silence where her voice is mute,
Where tears, and only tears, are shed?
It is the desolated home
Where Hope was yet a recent guest,
Where Hope again may never come,
Or come, and only speak of rest.
They gave my hand the pictured scroll,
And bade me only fancy there
A parent's agony of soul,
A parent's long and last despair;
The sunshine on the sudden wave,
Which closed above the youthful head,
Mocking the green and quiet grave,
Which waits the time-appointed dead.
I thought upon the lone fire-side,
Begirt with all familiar thought,
The future, where a father's pride
So much from present promise wrought:
The sweet anxiety of fears,
Anxious from love's excess alone,
The fond reliance upon years
More precious to us than our own:
All past—then weeping words there came
From out a still and darkened room,
They could not bear to name a name
Written so newly on the tomb.
They said he was so good and kind,
The voices sank, the eyes grew dim;
So much of love he left behind,
So much of life had died with him.
Ah, pity for the long beloved,
Ah, pity for the early dead;
The young, the promising, removed
Ere life a light or leaf had shed.
Nay, rather pity those whose doom
It is to wait and weep behind,
The father, who within the tomb
Sees all life held most dear enshrined.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Hearthside
Half across the world from me
Lie the lands I'll never see-
I, whose longing lives and dies
Where a ship has sailed away;
I, that never close my eyes
But to look upon Cathay.
Things I may not know nor tell
Wait, where older waters swell;
Ways that flowered at Sappho's tread,
Winds that sighed in Homer's strings,
Vibrant with the singing dead,
Golden with the dust of wings.
Under deeper skies than mine,
Quiet valleys dip and shine.
Where their tender grasses heal
Ancient scars of trench and tomb
I shall never walk: nor kneel
Where the bones of poets bloom.
If I seek a lovelier part,
Where I travel goes my heart;
Where I stray my thought must go;
With me wanders my desire.
Best to sit and watch the snow,
Turn the lock, and poke the fire.
poem by Dorothy Parker
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On a picture of Harvey Birch
I know not if thy noble worth
My country's annals claim,
For in her brief, bright history
I have not read thy name.
I know not if thou e'er didst live;
Save in the vivid thought
Of him who chronicled thy life,
With silent suffering fraught.
Yet, in thy history I see
Full many a great soul's lot;
Who joins that martyr-army's ranks,
That the world knoweth not;---
Who cannot weep "melodious tears,"
For fame or sympathy;
But who, in silence, bear their doom,
To suffer and to die;---
For whom no poet's harp is struck,
No laurel wreath is twined;
Who pass unheard---unknown, away,
And leave no trace behind;---
Who, but for their unwavering trust
In Justice, Truth, and God,
Would faint upon their weary way,
And perish by the road.
Truth, Justice, God! Oh mighty faith,
To bear us up unharmed;
The gates of Hell may not prevail
Against a soul so armed.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Little Treasures
Little treasures that get lost
from years long gone by
keep reappearing daily
to give us a treat in our lives.
Look along the shelves
in any book store
and you will almost certainly find
words of a passed on author left behind.
It is not only books,
but films from the past
that have been restored to be seen again
and give us a treat in our lives.
Little treasures, little treasure
that when are found
prompt our memories
to recall times from long ago.
17 September 2010
poem by David Harris
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On the March
So the time seems come at last,
And the drums go rolling past,
And above them in the sunlight Labour's banners float and flow;
They are marching with the sun,
But I look in vain for one
Of the men who fought for freedom more than fifteen years ago.
They were men who did the work
Out at Blackall, Hay, and Bourke –
They were men who fought the battle that the world shall never know;
And they vanished one by one
When their bitter task was done –
Men who worked and wrote for freedom more than fifteen years ago.
Some are scattered, some are dead,
By the shanty and the shed,
In the lignum and the mulga, by the river running low;
And I often wish in vain
I could call them back again –
Mates of mine who fought for freedom more than fifteen years ago.
From the country of their birth
Some have sailed and proved their worth;
Some have died on distant deserts, some have perished in the snow.
Some are gloomy, bitter men,
And I meet them now and then –
Men who'd give their lives for Labour more than fifteen years ago.
Oh, the drums come back to me,
And they beat for victory,
But my heart is scarcely quickened, and I never feel the glow;
For I've learnt the world since then,
And the hopelessness of men,
And the fire it burnt too fiercely more than fifteen years ago.
Lucky you who still are young,
When the rebel war-hymn's sung,
And the sons of slaves are marching with their faces all aglow,
When the revolution comes
And the blood is on the drums –
Oh! I wish the storm had found me more than fifteen years ago!
Bear the olden banner still!
Let the nations fight who will!
'Tis the flag of generations – the flag that all the peoples know;
And they'll bear it, brave and red,
Over ancient rebel dead,
In the future to the finish as a thousand years ago!
poem by Henry Lawson
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A Memory That Lives
The scent of the roses
have filled the room.
They came today
to lessen my gloom.
Why the gloom?
why the doom?
There's a hole in my heart
like a cold stone tomb
filled with pain
ever present
like an empty womb.
I've lost my babe.
She was taken away
and 50 years later
there are roses to say
'Your pain is mine.
I feel it too.
For mine was the seed
placed in you.'
And so on this melancholy day
once every year
the roses are sent by my love,
my dear
to help me remember
her birth, her death
as I inhale the sweetness
with my breath
that I only wish was hers.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Time and Experience
I found the past in my present
I built the future on my past
I found the gift of today
When I thought about what
The future has to offer
Where is the wisdom in experience
If there is no folly in wisdom
What's the real meaning of death
If our spirits live forever
Times never change
But circumstances do
I'll let mystery play with the future
Surprises couple with the present
And experience mourn the past
Because sun always rises from the east
And each day always comes to an end
Experience is not chained to wisdom
Nor is folly tied to bad results
But to the circumstances that burden
Our past, present and future because
Time is always anxious for the future
Experience loves the present
And wisdom never divorces the past
poem by Benaiah Sondashi
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The Nile
Out of the unknown South,
Through the dark lands of drouth,
Far wanders ancient Nile in slumber gliding:
Clear-mirrored in his dream
The deeds that haunt his stream
Flash out and fade like stars in midnight sliding.
Long since, before the life of man
Rose from among the lives that creep,
With Time's own tide began
That still mysterious sleep,
Only to cease when Time shall reach the eternal deep.
From out his vision vast
The early gods have passed,
They waned and perished with the faith that made them;
The long phantasmal line
Of Pharaohs crowned divine
Are dust among the dust that once obeyed them.
Their land is one mute burial mound,
Save when across the drifted years
Some chant of hollow sound,
Some triumph blent with tears,
From Memnon's lips at dawn wakens the desert meres.
O Nile, and can it be
No memory dwells with thee
Of Grecian lore and the sweet Grecian singer?
The legions' iron tramp,
The Goths' wide-wandering camp,
Had these no fame that by thy shore might linger?
Nay, then must all be lost indeed,
Lost too the swift pursuing might
That cleft with passionate speed
Aboukir's tranquil night,
And shattered in mid-swoop the great world-eagle's flight.
Yet have there been on earth
Spirits of starry birth,
Whose splendour rushed to no eternal setting:
They over all endure,
Their course through all is sure,
The dark world's light is still of their begetting.
Though the long past forgotten lies,
Nile! in thy dream remember him,
Whose like no more shall rise
Above our twilight's rim,
Until the immortal dawn shall make all glories dim.
For this man was not great
By gold or kingly state,
Or the bright sword, or knowledge of earth's wonder;
But more than all his race
He saw life face to face,
And heard the still small voice above the thunder.
O river, while thy waters roll
By yonder vast deserted tomb,
There, where so clear a soul
So shone through gathering doom,
Thou and thy land shall keep the tale of lost Khartoum.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Long Years Have Past Since Last I Stood
LONG years have past since last I stood
Alone amid this mountain scene,
Unlike the future which I dreamed,
How like my future it has been!
A cold grey sky o'erhung with clouds,
With showers in every passing shade,
How like the moral atmosphere
Whose gloom my horoscope has made!
I thought if yet my weary feet
Could rove my native hills again,
A world of feeling would revive,
Sweet feelings wasted, worn in vain.
My early hopes, my early joys,
I dreamed those valleys would restore;
I asked for childhood to return,
For childhood, which returns no more.
Surely the scene itself is changed!
There did not always rest as now
That shadow in the valley's depth,
That gloom upon the mountain-brow.
Wild flowers within the chasms dwelt
Like treasures in stone fairy hold,
And morning o'er the mountains shed
Her kindling world of vapoury gold.
Another season of the year
Is now upon the earth and me;
Another spring will light these hills—
No other spring mine own may be:
I must retune my unstrung harp,
I must awake the sleeping tomb,
I must recall the loved and lost,
Ere spring again for me could bloom.
I've wandered, but it was in vain,
In many a far and foreign clime,
Absence is not forgetfulness,
And distance cannot vanquish time.
One face was ever in my sight,
One voice was ever on my ear,
From all earth's loveliness I turned
To wish, Ah that the dead were here!
Oh! weary wandering to no home,
Oh! weary wandering alone,
I turned to childhood's once glad scenes
And found life's last illusion flown.
Ah! those who left their childhood's scenes
For after-years of toil and pain,
Who but bring back the breaking heart
Should never seek those scenes again.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Immersion! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
The day the thoughts dashed the ground,
Rowing ambitions produced no sound.
Where emotions paralysed
Only tears but had dried.
Everything had come to an end,
The tragedy could not be mend.
Lost! lost! lost!
Everything is lost!
Nothing more left,
With my unfortunate pathetic fate.
I have lost my child,
In the mouth of the ancient wild
I have lost my parents
The sky above forlorn and the ground snatched
I have lost my life's partner
Who loved, understood and compromised and was my supporter.
Seeping wounds of darkness dawned at the rise of the day,
Where in agony, anguish, misery and melancholy they lay.
Never will they come back.
From the path they had come, they have gone back.
None can wipe their everlasting tears
None can bring them solace from tears.
poem by Green Peace
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The Path Of Time
Whether of present or past
Or future if you please
The time that you portray
Moves only for yourself
Some choose to live in the past
Lost hopes and dreams they share
But time only last
Until they release the burden they bear
Some choose to live in the present
And behold the sights of each day
A balance of decisions for 10 second frames
And everything always seems fair
Some people look towards the future
To see long term effects unfold
However long it takes to get there
They keep persisting towards their goal
I chose to live in the present
Ignore the past and future presence
And live life like I will not see the next day
And still not have to care
But if I provide an example
For past, present, or future
My path is still my own
And moves only for myself
poem by Logan Fulk
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Trench Warfare
From trench to trench
You followed me, to speed
My penance at the midnight hour of life,
Once all was lost, and mine the greater need
You came again, to gloat, and turn the knife.
It’s always been the same
A thrust, then grief;
A few yards forward, then dig in, and damn the cost,
We worried at the borders of belief
To count advantage first, but never loss!
I can’t remember peace,
There’s never been
A time for me when war was not the game,
Each word a bullet, spat from lips that screamed;
You drank your deadly cocktails, then took aim.
‘Til I was sorely wounded,
Sick at heart,
And pounded by the mortars of your mind;
I slept in foxholes, waking with a start
To seek relief in silence, marking time.
While tanks, like thunder
Rolled across my soul
To leave their shadow-tracks upon my brain,
My thoughts were camouflaged, and left untold,
I worked at night, while you explored your pain.
I lost my way, as if
I’d ever known
The forward from the back, the bleak terrain
That you and I once conquered, then disowned
Has left me not a landmark I could claim.
And so to this, the shadow
That at night
Will beckon me toward some ancient death,
When life has lost its paltry appetite
And I, the walking wounded, give it breath.
12 February 1991
poem by David Lewis Paget
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In England
In England, there are wrongs no doubt,
Which should be righted; so men say,
Who seek to weed earth's garden out,
And give the roses right of way;
Yes, right of way, to fruit and rose,
Where now but poison ivy grows.
In England, there is wide unrest,
They tell me who should know; and yet
I saw but hedges, gayly dressed,
And eyes where love and kindness met;
Yes, love and kindness, met and made
Soft sunshine even in the shade.
In England, there are haunting things
Which follow one to other lands;
Like some pervading scent that clings
To laces touched by vanished hands;
Yes, touched by vanished hands, which made
A fragrance that defies the grave.
In England, centuries of art
Give common things a mellow tone;
And wake old memories in the heart
Of other lives the soul has known;
Yes, other lives in some past age
Start forth from canvas, and from page.
In England, there are simple joys,
The modern world has left all sweet;
In London's heart, are nooks where noise
Has entered but with slippered feet;
Yes, entered softly. Friend, believe,
To part from England is to grieve.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Missing Star
WHY did the star leave the sky,
The far, pure sky?
Shone she not high and hallowed and fair?
Could she not tarry her life-time there?
Why must she fall and fade?
She had heaven nigh.
I of the earth, I would she had stayed
In her lonely air.
Higher than love lived my star,
My clear, cold star.
Why must she droop to our mists below?
Ah, for the glory of long ago!
Ah, for the pride no more!
When she stood so far.
Would she were lost in the days before,
In the perished glow.
Star wandered out of my light,
Once all my light,
Seeing the sky through a dullness of tears,
Crying for thee to the empty years,
Where should I seek for thee
Mid the. desert night?
Not on the earth.
Ah! the star that nears
Has forgotten to be.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Sacred Listening....
the human heart is the
rarest of gems, and the
most misunderstood mystery
we're faced with....
what we seek for in the stars
is already there within us.
what we long for we already have!
what we long to hold in our hands
is that which we must give.
the human heart is more than emotions.
emotions are the feet of the ego.
beneath our egos the real 'us' resides.
we are more rivers than bones!
the silence we fear is the language of the heart.
the god we seek for tugs at our souls.
our conscience whispers what our spirit knows.
we are both individual, and a part of the whole.
sacred listening...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Hiding Place
See the gloomy gath'ring cloud
Hanging o'er a sinful land!
Sure the Lord proclaims aloud,
Times of trouble are at hand:
Happy they, who love his name!
They shall always find him near;
Though the earth were wrapped in flame,
They have no just cause for fear.
Hark! his voice in accents mild,
O, how comforting and sweet!
Speaks to every humble child,
Pointing out a sure retreat!
Come, and in my chambers hide,
To my saints of old well known;
There you safely may abide,
Till the storm be overblown.
You have only to repose
On my wisdom, love, and care;
Where my wrath consumes my foes,
Mercy shall my children spare:
While they perish in the flood,
You that bear my holy mark,
Sprinkled with atoning blood,
Shall be safe within the ark.
Sinners, see the ark prepared!
Haste to enter while there's room;
Though the Lord his arm has bared,
Mercy still retards your doom:
Seek him while there yet is hope,
Ere the day of grace be past;
Lest in wrath he give you up,
And this call should prove your last.
poem by John Newton
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