The Pen And The Album
'I am Miss Catherine's book,' the album speaks;
'I've lain among your tomes these many weeks;
I'm tired of their old coats and yellow cheeks.
'Quick, Pen! and write a line with a good grace:
Come! draw me off a funny little face;
And, prithee, send me back to Chesham Place.'
PEN.
'I am my master's faithful old Gold Pen;
I've served him three long years, and drawn since then
Thousands of funny women and droll men.
'O Album! could I tell you all his ways
And thoughts, since I am his, these thousand days,
Lord, how your pretty pages I'd amaze!'
ALBUM.
'His ways? his thoughts? Just whisper me a few;
Tell me a curious anecdote or two,
And write 'em quickly off, good Mordan, do!'
PEN.
'Since he my faithful service did engage
To follow him through his queer pilgrimage,
I've drawn and written many a line and page.
'Caricatures I scribbled have, and rhymes,
And dinner-cards, and picture pantomimes;
And merry little children's books at times.
'I've writ the foolish fancy of his brain;
The aimless jest that, striking, hath caused pain;
The idle word that he'd wish back again.
. . . . . .
'I've help'd him to pen many a line for bread;
To joke with sorrow aching in his head;
And make your laughter when his own heart bled.
'I've spoke with men of all degree and sort—
Peers of the land, and ladies of the Court;
Oh, but I've chronicled a deal of sport!
'Feasts that were ate a thousand days ago,
Biddings to wine that long hath ceased to flow,
Gay meetings with good fellows long laid low;
'Summons to bridal, banquet, burial, ball,
Tradesman's polite reminders of his small
Account due Christmas last—I've answered all.
'Poor Diddler's tenth petition for a half-
Guinea; Miss Bunyan's for an autograph;
So I refuse, accept, lament, or laugh,
'Condole, congratulate, invite, praise, scoff.
Day after day still dipping in my trough,
And scribbling pages after pages off.
'Day after day the labor's to be done,
And sure as comes the postman and the sun,
The indefatigable ink must run.
. . . . .
'Go back, my pretty little gilded tome,
To a fair mistress and a pleasant home,
Where soft hearts greet us whensoe'er we come!
'Dear, friendly eyes, with constant kindness lit,
However rude my verse, or poor my wit,
Or sad or gay my mood, you welcome it.
'Kind lady! till my last of lines is penn'd,
My master's love, grief, laughter, at an end,
Whene'er I write your name, may I write friend!
'Not all are so that were so in past years;
Voices, familiar once, no more he hears;
Names, often writ, are blotted out in tears.
'So be it:—joys will end and tears will dry—
Album! my master bids me wish good-by,
He'll send you to your mistress presently.
'And thus with thankful heart he closes you;
Blessing the happy hour when a friend he knew
So gentle, and so generous, and so true.
'Nor pass the words as idle phrases by;
Stranger! I never writ a flattery,
Nor sign'd the page that register'd a lie.'
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Part VIII
The youth is somehow by the lady's side.
His right-hand grasps her right-hand once again.
Both gaze on the dead body. Hers the word.
"And that was good but useless. Had I lived
The danger was to dread: but, dying now—
Himself would hardly become talkative,
Since talk no more means torture. Fools—what fools
These wicked men are! Had I borne four years,
Four years of weeks and months and days and nights,
Inured me to the consciousness of life
Coiled round by his life, with the tongue to ply,—
But that I bore about me, for prompt use
At urgent need, the thing that 'stops the mouth'
And stays the venom? Since such need was now
Or never,—how should use not follow need?
Bear witness for me, I withdraw from life
By virtue of the license—warrant, say,
That blackens yet this Album—white again,
Thanks still to my one friend who tears the page!
Now, let me write the line of supplement,
As counselled by my foe there: ' each a line!'"
And she does falteringly write to end.
"I die now through the villain who lies dead,
Righteously slain. He would have outraged me,
So, my defender slew him. God protect
The right! Where wrong lay, I bear witness now.
Let man believe me, whose last breath is spent
In blessing my defender from my soul!"
And so ends the Inn Album.
As she dies,
Begins outside a voice that sounds like song,
And is indeed half song though meant for speech
Muttered in time to motion—stir of heart
That unsubduably must bubble forth
To match the fawn-step as it mounts the stair.
"All's ended and all's over! Verdict found
'Not guilty'—prisoner forthwith set free,
Mid cheers the Court pretends to disregard!
Now Portia, now for Daniel, late severe,
At last appeased, benignant! 'This young man—
Hem—has the young man's foibles but no fault.
He's virgin soil—a friend must cultivate.
I think no plant called "love" grows wild—a friend
May introduce, and name the bloom, the fruit!'
Here somebody dares wave a handkerchief—
She'll want to hide her face with presently!
Good-by then! 'Cigno fedel, cigno fedel,
Addio!' Now, was ever such mistake—
Ever such foolish ugly omen? Pshaw!
Wagner, beside! 'Amo te solo, te
Solo amai!' That's worth fifty such!
But, mum, the grave face at the opened door!"
And so the good gay girl, with eyes and cheeks
Diamond and damask,—cheeks so white erewhile
Because of a vague fancy, idle fear
Chased on reflection!—pausing, taps discreet;
And then, to give herself a countenance,
Before she comes upon the pair inside,
Loud—the oft-quoted, long-laughed-over line—
" 'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!'
Open the door!"
No: let the curtain fall!
poem by Robert Browning from The Inn Album (1875)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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When I Write The Book
Nick lowe/dave edmunds/billy bremner
Plangent visions music, ltd.
Now I can remember like it was only yesterday
Love was young and foolish like a little child at play
But oh how lovers change -- I never dreamed how easily
cause now Im just a shadow of the boy I used to be
And when I write the book about my love
It will be about a man whos torn in half
About his hopes and ambitions wasted through the years
The pain will be written on every page in tears
When I write the book about my love
I was a fool to myself when I kept on runnin around
And I fared little better when I tried settlin down
Maybe some magic moment
Ive never known one, not for long
For all too soon the magic is in a moment gone
And when I write the book about my love
Itll be a heartbreaking story about love and luck
When I get down on the pages all I felt
It will make the hardest-hearted of critics hearts melt
When I write the book about my love
When I was young love was fun and I was so happy
I looked so good, and I dressed so snappy
Two-tone shoes on my feet, big old smile on my face
As I moved and grooved all over the place
Now Im down in the heels, my complexion is bad
cause my love life is sadder than sad
And when I write the book about my love
Itll be a pop publication, tougher than tough
When I get down on the pages all I missed
It will shoot to the top of the best-sellers list
When I write the book about my love
song performed by by Huey Lewis And The News
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Faded Pages
Recently I started retyping
a manuscript of short stories
I had written twenty years ago.
The pages were faded;
too much time being opened to the sun.
As I typed, I smiled
at the things I had written
and the dialogue I had created.
The stories are about a cat
and looking at the world
through his eyes and thoughts.
I had even created him a language
that I had to write a glossary
at the back of the book to explain
what some of the phrases meant.
There is a vast array of characters
and most have a funny turn.
I also remember what prompted me
to write the stories long ago.
My original intention was to write
one story and one story only,
but a friend of mine at the time
persuaded me to write another and another.
Before long, a volume was finished
with enough stories to start another.
From a one off story I have written over sixty now
about the cat and all his friends.
Now as I flick through these faded pages,
which I haven’t read in years,
I find myself being reunited
with many long lost friends.
26 January 2009
poem by David Harris
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Home Alone Happy Without Working Computer
Home alone happy without working computer
I take my pen in hand
And slowly write these words –
Let the world click and paste and post
I am out of it for now-
I have before me an evening of any book I like
Of any page I want to write
-
Peace of Mind is one place of attention at a time-
Here weighing each word as I write
I am at home with my inner self-
I hear my own thoughts
I correct them at my own pace.
So many words and so many pages
Have been written in my life-
Now in this one
I am wholly at home
Peaceful, quiet happy
Each word a small blessing
As I write it-
This is the only poem I know
The only page I see
The only place of attention
I give myself and my soul to
At this moment.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Book Of Days
Your life is as a book
Written on the pages are the weeks
For you would give anything to take just one look
Into the next chapter, the next page
Each page is a new thought, a new dream
Sometimes it takes so long to pass that page
And sometimes nothing is as it seams
For you know you can not go ahead or back
You know you are where you are
You know you can't change that
As you read page to page, so near to fear
You write the chapters as you go, with each turn
Each turn, each move changes what's to come
And you know each moment could be the last
With this in mind you go so mumb
So numb to the touch, to the thought
You turn page after page
until you reach the 'end'
And only then, you are freed from the title
The title that has kept your thoughts bound, and tight
You turn the pages one by one
You take the pain, take the joy
Until you are done
And your story becomes another on the shelf of eternity
(1/24/2008)
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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My Song
I wrote a song
It's called 'my life'
I tried my best to make it a good one
I'd never written a song
Twas indeed my first
I had an eraser
I couldn't clean my mistakes though
It turned out to be a long song
A hundred and twenty pages worth
A page a year
I made a mess of it
Blue pen made a mark
As depression took a quarter of it
Yellow pen made an entrance
I decided it was better than blue
Red pen tried to hurt me
As all anger was kept inside
Green pen whispered a note
I wished I had my neighbour's song
So many colours on just one song
Twenty-five pages were dark
I knew not which way to go
I tried to turn a page but couldn't
I basked in pages gone
Hence left several pages blank
Twenty-five pages were wet
As tears serenaded my heart, it did the pages
Too much pain in one song
Tried to change the words
The things I thought all made the song
On a scale of good to bad, bad stole the day
I searched and found other songs titled 'my life'
I wrote my song the way they had
My song was like a painting
One in utter disharmony
One drawn by a clueless artist
But an artist whose passion burned his painting
I set my heart on fire on page 35
There had to be more
And more I had
On page 120, my eyes were dim and hands tired
Since pages couldn't be turned
My mind sat, and looked back
What had I done?
I'd been mountain high
I'd been valley low
I'd been good
I'd been bad
I'd been....
I lay my head on my song
Took my last breath
But before I did
I held a girl
Who had a song called 'my life'
She read my song
And shed a tear
And said I had written....a masterpiece.
poem by Jenim Dibie
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A Poet To Be
A poet I claim not to be,
For words are never there.
In all the years I've tried to write,
I have no words to share.
I sit and think but nothing comes,
No inspiration here.
I want to write of anything,
But still no words I fear.
I read the works of other poets,
I wish I were like them.
How do they write such beautiful lines,
A poet, I'm not him.
I try to write from the heart,
From deep within my soul.
I try to write of the love I have,
But cannot reach my goal.
But why I ask, why can't I write,
Of love so pure and true.
Why can't I write about her eyes,
A mix of green and blue.
I want to write about her smile,
It brightens up my day.
I try to think of anything,
But words I cannot say.
I wish I knew how to write,
A poem with such bliss.
I wish I knew how to describe,
Her soft but tender kiss.
I cannot even begin to write,
How she holds me tight.
How her arms around me,
Makes everything just right.
A poet does not have to think,
The words flow right out.
When I sit and try to write,
I want to scream and shout.
I mean come on, how hard can it be,
To write about her hair.
Such long beautiful natural blonde,
That flows in the air.
I try to write about her laugh,
The words will not fly.
Time passes and finally,
I say it's soft and high.
It's been an hour and a half,
I'm here on verse twelve.
I had to go to Rhymezone,
To find out the rhyme is shelve.
A poet does not do that,
Go online to find a rhyme.
A poet has it in his head,
And can write at any time.
But a poet I am not,
For I cannot write of love.
How the girl I am with,
Is an angel from up above.
How I love her with all my heart,
And want to spend my life with her.
How her love for me is more,
Than I can ever be for sure.
As I draw near the end,
My mind is not so numb.
I realize I've just written of love,
A poet I have become.
poem by Adam McKim
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Lines For A Friend’s Album
LINES , in addition to the treasure
Of poesy, culled for the pleasure
Of beau and belle and gentle dame,
When seated round the evening flame,
What time the social hour is waning,
And tardy coachman guests detaining,--
A courteous friend hath bid me write
Upon her Album's pages white.
But age the easy grace hath lost
That would become such pages most,
While of a quondam rhymester's skill,
Scarce aught is extant but the will;
And sober, stinted age must use
The school-girl's worn and stale excuse,
When, long her correspondent's debtor,
The apology becomes the letter.
Apologies for those who need 'em!
An Album is a thing of freedom,
Receiving all with right good will
That fortune sends from many a quill,
And then displays like scaly store
Which fisher's net brings to the shore:
The herring sheathed in silvery green,
The whiting in its pearly sheen,
The lithe and wavy eel that glides
Athwart the mackerel's tabbied sides;
John Dory with his dolphin head,
Where amber fins like horns are spread,
And flounder, sole, and thornback, all
In turn on some observer call
To mark each varied form and tint;
And from this simile a hint
Of some encouragement I take,
And humbly this my offering make,
Which if received with favour, truly
Will shew that I have reckoned duly
On what might homelier things commend,--
On the good nature of a friend.
poem by Joanna Baillie
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Verses From God
I’m just the pen; God is the ink, Who fills me as I write and think,
And God’s ink never runs dry, as it flows from His Spirit on high.
Penning verse that never ends, as He talks to a world of friends,
As I go to God in prayer, He pens down each blessing and care.
In a trial God helps me through, He pens verse to share with you,
And the blessing He brings my way, as He helps me, day to day.
As I write every word and line, I do not claim the verses as mine,
For as the pen to page is pressed, it is my heart that is blessed.
Blessing seem to come my way, as He helps me, in what to say,
To illustrate to all those who read, that Jesus is The Lord indeed.
His Words just seem to flow, not knowing where His idea will go,
But His point He makes every time, as God speaks on each line.
He draws from deep inside, my heart, where His Scriptures hide,
Always used at the proper place, to pen down a verse of Grace.
And as the page begins to fill, it is not my poem, but God’s will,
That fills lines with His Word, which some who read, never heard.
It’s God above who fills my pen, with words for the eyes of men,
By means of only poetic verse, to claim victory, over sin’s curse.
The page is filled by God above, with true examples of His Love,
Penning Truth for men to see, He’s a God who loves you and me.
(Copyright ©08/2007)
The Writer's Dream
A writer wrote of the hearts of men, and he followed their tracks afar;
For his was a spirit that forced his pen to write of the things that are.
His heart grew tired of the truths he told, for his life was hard and grim;
His land seemed barren, its people cold—yet the world was dear to him;—
So he sailed away from the Streets of Strife, he travelled by land and sea,
In search of a people who lived a life as life in the world should be.
And he reached a spot where the scene was fair, with forest and field and wood,
And all things came with the seasons there, and each of its kind was good;
There were mountain-rivers and peaks of snow, there were lights of green and gold,
And echoing caves in the cliffs below, where a world-wide ocean rolled.
The lives of men from the wear of Change and the strife of the world were free—
For Steam was barred by the mountain-range and the rocks of the Open Sea.
And the last that were born of a noble race—when the page of the South was fair—
The last of the conquered dwelt in peace with the last of the victors there.
He saw their hearts with the author’s eyes who had written their ancient lore,
And he saw their lives as he’d dreamed of such—ah! many a year before.
And ‘I’ll write a book of these simple folk ere I to the world return,
‘And the cold who read shall be kind for these—and the wise who read shall learn.
‘Never again in a song of mine shall a jarring note be heard:
‘Never again shall a page or line be marred by a bitter word;
‘But love and laughter and kindly hours will the book I’ll write recall,
‘With chastening tears for the loss of one, and sighs for their sorrows all.
‘Old eyes will light with a kindly smile, and the young eyes dance with glee—
‘And the heart of the cynic will rest awhile for my simple folk and me.’
The lines ran on as he dipped his pen—ran true to his heart and ear—
Like the brighter pages of memory when every line is clear.
The pictures came and the pictures passed, like days of love and light—
He saw his chapters from first to last, and he thought it grand to write.
And the writer kissed his girlish wife, and he kissed her twice for pride:
‘’Tis a book of love, though a book of life! and a book you’ll read!’ he cried.
He was blind at first to each senseless slight (for shabby and poor he came)
From local ‘Fashion’ and mortgaged pride that scarce could sign its name.
What dreamer would dream of such paltry pride in a scene so fresh and fair?
But the local spirit intensified—with its pitiful shams—was there;
There were cliques wherever two houses stood (no rest for a family ghost!)
They hated each other as women could—but they hated the stranger most.
The writer wrote by day and night and he cried in the face of Fate—
‘I’ll cleave to my dream of life in spite of the cynical ghosts that wait.
‘’Tis the shyness born of their simple lives,’ he said to the paltry pride—
(The homely tongues of the simple wives ne’er erred on the generous side)—
‘They’ll prove me true and they’ll prove me kind ere the year of grace be passed,’
But the ignorant whisper of ‘axe to grind!’ went home to his heart at last.
The writer sat by his drift-wood fire three nights of the South-east gale,
His pen lay idle on pages vain, for his book was a fairy tale.
The world-wise lines of an elder age were plain on his aching brow,
As he sadly thought of each brighter page that would never be written now.
‘I’ll write no more!’ But he bowed his head, for his heart was in Dreamland yet—
‘The pages written I’ll burn,’ he said, ‘and the pages thought forget.’
But he heard the hymn of the Open Sea, and the old fierce anger burned,
And he wrenched his heart from its dreamland free as the fire of his youth returned:—
‘The weak man’s madness, the strong man’s scorn—the rebellious hate of youth
‘From a deeper love of the world are born! And the cynical ghost is Truth!’
And the writer rose with a strength anew wherein Doubt could have no part;
‘I’ll write my book and it shall be true—the truth of a writer’s heart.
‘Ay! cover the wrong with a fairy tale—who never knew want or care—
‘A bright green scum on a stagnant pool that will reek the longer there.
‘You may starve the writer and buy the pen—you may drive it with want and fear—
‘But the lines run false in the hearts of men—and false to the writer’s ear.
‘The bard’s a rebel and strife his part, and he’ll burst from his bonds anew,
‘Till all pens write from a single heart! And so may the dream come true.
‘’Tis ever the same in the paths of men where money and dress are all,
‘The crawler will bully whene’er he can, and the bully who can’t will crawl.
‘And this is the creed in the local hole, where the souls of the selfish rule;
‘Borrow and cheat while the stranger’s green, then sneer at the simple fool.
‘Spit your spite at the men whom Fate has placed in the head-race first,
‘And hate till death, with a senseless hate, the man you have injured worst!
‘There are generous hearts in the grinding street, but the Hearts of the World go west;
‘For the men who toil in the dust and heat of the barren lands are best!
‘The stranger’s hand to the stranger, yet—for a roving folk are mine—
‘The stranger’s store for the stranger set—and the camp-fire glow the sign!
‘The generous hearts of the world, we find, thrive best on the barren sod,
‘And the selfish thrive where Nature’s kind (they’d bully or crawl to God!)
‘I was born to write of the things that are! and the strength was given to me.
‘I was born to strike at the things that mar the world as the world should be!
‘By the dumb heart-hunger and dreams of youth, by the hungry tracks I’ve trod—
‘I’ll fight as a man for the sake of truth, nor pose as a martyred god.
‘By the heart of “Bill” and the heart of “Jim,” and the men that their hearts deem “white,”
‘By the handgrips fierce, and the hard eyes dim with forbidden tears!—I’ll write!
‘I’ll write untroubled by cultured fools, or the dense that fume and fret—
‘For against the wisdom of all their schools I would stake mine instinct yet!
‘For the cynical strain in the writer’s song is the world, not he, to blame,
‘And I’ll write as I think, in the knowledge strong that thousands think the same;
‘And the men who fight in the Dry Country grim battles by day, by night,
‘Will believe in me, and will stand by me, and will say to the world, “He’s right!”’
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dear Friend
Dear friend,
Today I turn the pages of our memories
Those laughter and tears
That we have shared for more many years
Those secrets that we hide
Underneath the cherry tree
These photographs I held, and
I used to smile every time I looked at them
Dear friend,
I've been to the place were we first met
It’s the same old, and new, nothing has changed
Like an old book with precious stories
Every page has a wonderful thing to say
Like a laughter that remains on air
They’re sounds music in my ear
A symphony of our yesterday
Dear friend,
I plow our memories that blanket by autumn leaves
On this mango tree
And its branches look so droopy
But there’s a last leaf-standing firm on a trunk
That forgotten, as the time goes by
Like this friendship buried from the shadow of past
Thou I know it will never last
Dear friend,
Remember the summer skies
Those butterflies that landed in our hands
The kites that we ever flew
In these green fields of our childhood memory
We were children once before
When the trees were tall and we were small
And now we are tall and the trees fall
Dear friend,
Autumn was come
And the leaves started to fall
I can’t count the hours, how long I've stood here
Waiting for your presence
That you have promised you will come
The wind whistle like your soft voice
I feel the heavenly touch on my face
Dear friend,
You never told me that you are leaving
Together with the clouds that passed by
Together with the angels that flew into the sky
Like the waters that flow freely back to the sea
Like a wind that danced on its own
But your soul still live inside of me
You will always be my special memory
Dear friend,
I wrote you a letter sealed with my tears
Saying take care, I miss our funny deeds
Id rather be sad
And my heart is in grief
But somehow I’ll be happy then
That once in my life I had you as my friend
Dear friend, you will always be my best friend
poem by Cheryl Aldea
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What Is These All About?
at 9: 18 p.m.
the head gets the pain
another relief
swallowed
finally you go back
to where you
started
page one
when you said
you do not miss her
page two and three
empty
pages more pages
until you reach
that page where you cried
dried tears at the middle
of the blotted letters
you quickly run your fingers
close the notebook
you stand by the window
at par with the moon.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Take Back the Virgin Page
Written on Returning a Blank Book
Take back the virgin page,
White and unwritten still;
Some hand, more calm and sage,
The leaf must fill.
Thoughts come, as pure as light
Pure as even you require;
But, oh! each word I write
Love turns to fire.
Yet let me keep the book:
Oft shall my heart renew,
When on its leaves I look,
Dear thoughts of you.
Like you, 'tis fair and bright;
Like you, too bright and fair
To let wild passion write
One wrong wish there.
Haply, when from those eyes
Far, far away I roam,
Should calmer thoughts arise
Towards you and home;
Fancy may trace some line,
Worthy those eyes to meet,
Thoughts that not burn, but shine,
Pure, calm, and sweet.
And as, o'er ocean far,
Seamen their records keep,
Led by some hidden star
Through the cold deep;
So may the words I write
Tell through what storms I stray --
You still the unseen light,
Guiding my way.
poem by Thomas Moore
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The Missal Makers
To visit the Escurial
We took a motor bus,
And there a guide mercurial
Took charge of us.
He showed us through room after room,
And talked hour after hour,
Of place, crypt and royal tomb,
Of pomp and power.
But in bewilderment of grace
What pleased me most of all
Were ancient missals proud in place
In stately hall.
A thousand tomes there were at least,
All luminously bright,
That each a score of years some priest
Had toiled to write.
Poor patient monk who brushed and penned
From rise to set of sun!
And when his book came to an end,
His life was done.
With heart of love to God above
For guidance he would pray,
And here behold his art of gold
Undimmed today.
And as our homeward way we took,
The thought occurred to me -
If scribes would only write one book,
How good 'twould be!
Or if our authors had to scroll
Their words on vellum fair,
Their output might be very small,
But oh how rare!
So writers of today take note,
If you your souls would save,
Let every line be one to quote
And to engrave.
Then though you dismally are dead,
You will be cheered to know
your precious prose may still be read
-Ten years or so.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Photo Album
The photo album stores the history of my life,
Every page is the mirror of bygone days,
The reflections in the mirror brings memories alive,
The memories which beam me magically in the world of my choice.
A first few pages of my album are blank,
As a little kid I did not want to stand in front of a box with a man in black hood,
I did not want to be seen upside down in his view finder,
I was happier playing soccer somewhere else in the nearby play ground.
The b & w family portrait of me, my siblings and my parents is my prize possession,
It was a rare event when we all could gather and pose for a moment,
Now some are grown up, some have left our midst,
The glimpse of all of us together brings the emotions of close family ties.
As I turn the pages of my album,
I see happiness radiating from every picture,
May it be a smile of a family member or mine,
Or it may be the beauty of the nature smiling at me,
Every picture brings a memory flashback,
of the joys and emotions of important events in my life.
Next my eyes get glued on my personal family picture,
My wife radiating with her beautiful smile,
My kids little scared of the dark studio set,
Me grinning with smile of worth thousand words.
It is picture which remains in my heart and wallet,
It is a picture which brings joy, love and affection to me every minute.
I guess no one ever keeps the pictures of death and agony,
It is hard to see the cremation picture of departed love,
It seems as if my heart is turning into ashes,
The pain and agony of this scene is so much,
The book of album closes by itself.
I leave a rose and a lily near my album,
Rose shows our everlasting love,
The lily puts the aura of comfort and hope,
That one day her love will resurrect and meet my heart.
poem by Jay P Narain
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Damian Who Buried His Dog 'Miss
He buried poor old 'miss' in the backyard
And on her shovelled earth he swallowed hard
And struggled just to keep the tears at bay
And this for him perhaps his saddest day.
She was his friend and canine friends are true
And your dog up to the end will stick by you
Your dog will always be your faithful mate
And wag her tail and greet you at the gate.
And 'Miss' to damian was a faithful friend
She stuck by him up to the very end
Her balance poor her eyes with age grown dim
But to the very end she stuck by him.
A drive in car, fetch stick or chase a ball
Some of the things she enjoyed most of all
Till age came too soon and wore each bodily part
Still miss was always a young dog at heart.
I like 'blue heelers' they are good enough
And they don't mind it when the going gets tough
And Miss the heeler to her breed was true
And she was faithful to her master too.
To save her further suffering he had her put to rest
And he only did for his dog what was best
And he buried her in her old stomping ground
Where as a pup she barked and played around.
A dog is just a dog some people say
Whilst others see things in a different way
And some even treat their dog as family
'You kick my dog you may as well kick me'.
Today poor Damian buried an old friend
And she was faithful to him till the end
It's hard so very hard to say goodbye
But memories live on memories never die.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mary smith
Away down East where I was reared amongst my Yankee kith,
There used to live a pretty girl whose name was Mary Smith;
And though it's many years since last I saw that pretty girl,
And though I feel I'm sadly worn by Western strife and whirl;
Still, oftentimes, I think about the old familiar place,
Which, someway, seemed the brighter for Miss Mary's pretty face,
And in my heart I feel once more revivified the glow
I used to feel in those old times when I was Mary's beau.
I saw her home from singing school--she warbled like a bird.
A sweeter voice than hers for song or speech I never heard.
She was soprano in the choir, and I a solemn bass,
And when we unisoned our voices filled that holy place;
The tenor and the alto never had the slightest chance,
For Mary's upper register made every heart-string dance;
And, as for me, I shall not brag, and yet I'd have you know
I sung a very likely bass when I was Mary's beau.
On Friday nights I'd drop around to make my weekly call,
And though I came to visit her, I'd have to see 'em all.
With Mary's mother sitting here and Mary's father there,
The conversation never flagged so far as I'm aware;
Sometimes I'd hold her worsted, sometimes we'd play at games,
Sometimes dissect the apples which we'd named each other's names.
Oh how I loathed the shrill-toned clock that told me when to go--
'Twas ten o'clock at half-past eight when I was Mary's beau.
Now there was Luther Baker--because he'd come of age
And thought himself some pumpkins because he drove the stage--
He fancied he could cut me out; but Mary was my friend--
Elsewise I'm sure the issue had had a tragic end.
For Luther Baker was a man I never could abide,
And, when it came to Mary, either he or I had died.
I merely cite this instance incidentally to show
That I was quite in earnest when I was Mary's beau.
How often now those sights, those pleasant sights, recur again:
The little township that was all the world I knew of then--
The meeting-house upon the hill, the tavern just beyond,
Old deacon Packard's general store, the sawmill by the pond,
The village elms I vainly sought to conquer in my quest
Of that surpassing trophy, the golden oriole's nest.
And, last of all those visions that come back from long ago,
The pretty face that thrilled my soul when I was Mary's beau.
Hush, gentle wife, there is no need a pang should vex your heart--
'T is many years since fate ordained that she and I should part;
To each a true, maturer love came in good time, and yet
It brought not with its nobler grace the power to forget.
And would you fain begrudge me now the sentimental joy
That comes of recollections of my sparkings when a boy?
I warrant me that, were your heart put to the rack,'t would show
That it had predilections when I was Mary's beau.
And, Mary, should these lines of mine seek out your biding place,
God grant they bring the old sweet smile back to your pretty face--
God grant they bring you thoughts of me, not as I am to-day,
With faltering step and brimming eyes and aspect grimly gray;
But thoughts that picture me as fair and full of life and glee
As we were in the olden times--as you shall always be.
Think of me ever, Mary, as the boy you used to know
When time was fleet, and life was sweet, and I was Mary's beau.
Dear hills of old New England, look down with tender eyes
Upon one little lonely grave that in your bosom lies;
For in that cradle sleeps a child who was so fair to see
God yearned to have unto Himself the joy she brought to me;
And bid your winds sing soft and low the song of other days,
When, hand in hand and heart to heart, we went our pleasant ways--
Ah me! but could I sing again that song of long ago,
Instead of this poor idle song of being Mary's beau.
poem by Eugene Field
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Why Do I Write
I write from my sadness
I write from the madness
I write because I have something to say
I write to pass the day
I write only from the heart
I write for sometimes I am not that smart
Whatever is in head just comes out on paper (in this case a word document) , and I go with the flow
Write to let my mind go
I follow my hand to where ever it takes me
I write all the things that I can see
I write when I am happy, but not as much
I write from my heart that you can touch
I write because I’d go insane
I am driven to write quell my pain
At times I feel alone so I write what I am feeling
I write for it is self-healing
Confident not so I write it all away
I write and write to pass the day
I write to comfort my soul that cries out in the night
I write for love is always out of sight
I write so I don't have to cry any more
I write for I have no one to adore
I write so someone somewhere will hear my plea
I write for someone is out there for me
I am lost and I the clown
I write to turn my frown upside down
I write to embrace the sadness I hide inside
I write with my heart opened wide
I write to silence the ghost
I write for I’ve been let down by the one I loved the most
I write through the stormy weather
I write for I am light as a feather
I am not a writer nor am I a poet
I write for the grief I do know it
I will write until I draw my last breath
I write because I'll die a lonely death
I have to write for strangers delight
I write because I have to write
I write for my own happiness
I write to relieve my stress
I write because I have no other choice
I write as if I was writing a letter
I write because I can’t do any better
I write because I am afraid not to
I write for this is what I do
I write for I give a damn
I write just because I am
poem by Wilfred Mellers
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Am Too
I AM TOO TIRED TO WRITE A GOOD POEM
I am too tired to write a good poem
I am too cold also
I have been out all day in the cold and the rain
I have been doing errands since early in the morning
I babysat for four hours in the afternoon
I went out again in the cold and rain to buy a few groceries
I tried to write and could not
I read and overate a few times
I tried to write
But I could not
I am very tired now
A poem should not be a simple clear description of one’s own mood at the moment
I am too tired to write a good poem
But I try to write
And this is the result
A poor poem indeed.
I AM GRATEFUL FOR THE PARENTS I HAD AND HAVE
I am grateful for the parents I had and have
They are still with me
I miss them
Sometimes they appear in my dreams
When I am walking I think of them
I see them at various ages of their lives
My father young tall strong
My mother smiling kind warm in strong middle age
My father bent on his way to the senior citizens
My mother in a wheelchair no longer even half herself
Or in the pictures of them in their youth
As I never saw them in life
I think of them and miss them
Their dreams their loves are in me
Yesterday I was with a great – grandchild of theirs
Who they never have seen or will see
How happy that smiling calm child would have made them
Life is difficult and long and filled with loss and blessing
How I will love and miss my parents always
How they still live in me
And hopefully in what comes after me.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Write Me
Aerosmith
Write Me
Well I've been away forever, suicide's crossin' my mind,
But I'll never never never never never get so far behind.
I said, the ways of the night are evil with eyes that love the day,
but I'll never never never never never get so far away.
I said write me, write me, write me.
I said write me, write me, write me.
Well there's nothin' I can see that'd ever make
me want to be without her she's good, she's good to me.
Said there's no way to explain the kind of feeling
that you get out in the rain she's good, she's good to me.
See this emptiness inside it makes me scream
it make me crawl out of my high, she's good, she's good to me.
I love her.
Write me a letter, write me a letter, write it today, I'm goin' away.
Well I've been away forever, suicide's crossin' my mind,
But I'll never never never never never get so far behind.
Well I've been so many places hidin' from the wind and the rain,
But you could write me a letter for to save me from a goin' insane.
I said write me, write, write, write me.
Write me, write, write, write me.
Write me, write, write, write.
I said write me, write, write, write me.
Write me, write, write, write me.
Don't write me baby.
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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