Picture of Daniel in the Lion's Den at Hamilton Palace
Amid a fertile region green with wood
And fresh with rivers, well doth it become
The Ducal Owner, in his Palace-home
To naturalise this tawny Lion brood;
Children of Art, that claim strange brotherhood,
Couched in their Den, with those that roam at large
Over the burning wilderness, and charge
The wind with terror while they roar for food.
But
these
are satiate, and a stillness drear
Calls into life a more enduring fear;
Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the cave
Daunt him - if his Companions, now bedrowsed
Yawning and listless, were by hunger roused:
Man placed him here, and God, he knows, can save.
poem by William Wordsworth
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A Voice On The Wind
I
She walks with the wind on the windy height
When the rocks are loud and the waves are white,
And all night long she calls through the night,
'O my children, come home!'
Her bleak gown, torn as a tattered cloud,
Tosses around her like a shroud,
While over the deep her voice rings loud,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
II
Who is she who wanders alone,
When the wind drives sheer and the rain is blown?
Who walks all night and makes her moan,
'O my children, come home!'
Whose face is raised to the blinding gale;
Whose hair blows black and whose eyes are pale,
While over the world goes by her wail,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
III
She walks with the wind in the windy wood;
The dark rain drips from her hair and hood,
And her cry sobs by, like a ghost pursued,
'O my children, come home!'
Where the trees loom gaunt and the rocks stretch drear,
The owl and the fox crouch back with fear,
As wild through the wood her voice they hear,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
IV
Who is she who shudders by
When the boughs blow bare and the dead leaves fly?
Who walks all night with her wailing cry,
'O my children, come home!'
Who, strange of look, and wild of tongue,
With wan feet wounded and hands wild-wrung,
Sweeps on and on with her cry, far-flung,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
V
'Tis the Spirit of Autumn, no man sees,
The mother of Death and of Mysteries,
Who cries on the wind all night to these,
'O my children, come home!'
The Spirit of Autumn, pierced with pain,
Calling her children home again,
Death and Dreams, through ruin and rain,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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Where Have The Children Gone
Where have the children gone
Where do they roam
They had to leave home
To flee the abuse alone
There are so many in this land of plenty
Where were their loved ones
Fighting to see who wins the most
Why are they not strong
They could have stop it for going wrong
Where have the children gone
Where do they roam
Their life should full of joy
Instead is almost destroyed
They are so gifted
And so uplifting
All that is taken away
Which leaves them in pain
And nowhere save to go
They will seek a brotherhood
In the local neighbourhood
I will do what
I can But I am just one man
Where have the children gone
Where do they roam
poem by John Korteman
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Calm is all Nature as a Resting Wheel
calmness
dawns
fed by war
terror
crocodile
infested river
so peaceful
after the
dismemberment
of an ill-fated calf
satiated nerves
calmness
in the creatures
of terror
with jaws and cannines
that could tear
a lion to shreds
in minutes
nothing interests them now
except
the quiet noon slumber
the haughty
teenager
after the fierce beating
and repentance
incommunicado
for weeks
as he self reflects
calm as the lake
only the breeze
and the moving clouds
to show life
the world
immediately
after the second world war
a longed for calmness
claimed by a heart
drawn out
by endless
animosity, suspicion
blood and tears
inspired by
'Calm is all Nature as a Resting Wheel.'
Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
Is cropping audibly his later meal:
Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal
That grief for which the senses still supply
Fresh food; for only then, when memory
Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain
Those busy cares that would allay my pain;
Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel
The officious touch that makes me droop again.
William Wordsworth
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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On Vacation
My family went on a vacation
I gave my father all the persuasion
Can I go and wander in the forest
To catch at least a tiny little pest
Very dangerous it is for you to go there
There will be a lion, tiger or a big black bear
He told me, to these things pay heed
But I thought these are things I don’t need
I went to the depth of the forest
But couldn’t catch a single pest
Thinking about things I shouldn’t care
A lion, tiger or a big black bear
I started going towards a cave
Suddenly a loud roar it gave
I thought this was a good part of my vacation
When suddenly I felt suffocation
I heard the loud roar again
I felt as if I was trapped in a monster’s den
The loud roar had really given me a scare
It could be a lion, tiger or a big black bear
First it’s my life I have to save
I quickly ran out of the cave
To these things I should pay heed
Go to that cave I won’t dare indeed
poem by Risha Ahmed
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Justice
Huts of childhood are in autumn,
Decayed hamlet; dark shapes,
Singing mothers in the evening wind;
At windows Angelus and hands fold.
Still birth; on green ground
Mystery and stillness of blue flowers.
Insanity opens the purple mouth:
Dies irae - grave and stillness.
Groping along green thorns;
In the sleep: blood-vomit, hunger and laughter;
Fire in the village, awakening in the green;
Fear and swaying on gurgling boat.
Or in wooden staircase again
The white shadow of the strange woman leans.-
Poor sinner longing away in the blueness
Left his putrefaction behind for lilies and rats.
poem by Georg Trakl
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4. Distant Thoughts
In his splendid isolation
Sits a hermit near a cave
He doesn’t move a muscle
For his energy to save
He stares into the distance
Where he hopes to be enlightened
Not all his thoughts will bring him calm
Some often leave him frightened
He sits there nearly half asleep
As people leave him food
They mainly come in ones and two
But sometimes in a brood
The hermit sees but does not move
While little children peep
He sees for all the good and bad
In this vigil he must keep
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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No One To Welcome Me Home
Recorded by hank williams, sr.
Words and music by joe earls
[e] I went to the old home --- where I [a] once used to [e] roam
And all of my friends --- had [f#] evryone [b7] gone
How [e] sad and how drear --- no [a] voice did I [e] hear
There was no one --- to [b7] welcome me [e] home.
[e] no one --- to welcome me home;
Oh! no, no one --- to [f#] welcome me [b7] home
How [e] sad and how drear --- no [a] voice could I [e] hear
There was no one --- to [b7] welcome me [e] home.
I went to the old school --- where I once loved to play
And all of my playmates had every one gone
So lonesome and drear --- no voice did I hear
There was no one --- to welcome me home.
No one - to welcome me home
There was one --- to welcome me home
But, when I behold --- that mansion of gold
Therell be someone --- to welcome me home.
song performed by by Hank Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The End Of Worlds
In a nightmare it came
The vision to draw such fear
I saw cities burn and fall
The air thick with burning sulphur
Heard screams echo from nothing
Amid the roar of fire
The roads of man melted into rivers
Into which fell stone and glass
The sky burnt a blood red
Silhouetted the steel remains
The fallen towers of man
A wind whistled with tempest
Rising the ashes and embers
To blind and burn the eyes
Through hands raised and open fingers
I witnessed with cold numbness
A hell rise to claim the earth
The religions of man became forlorn
From this plight there was no peace
No respite or deliverance
This was as some had prophesised
Albeit but in a ghostly dream
The end of worlds, the end of our time
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Lines on Embro and Zorra
O'er various counties of the north,
When cruel order did go forth
For to destroy many a home
So that the wild deer free might roam,
The men of Sutherland and Ross
The broad Atlantic they did cross.
Each seeking for a fertile farm,
These rolling lands for them had charm.
They ne'er desired again to roam,
Each happy in his woodland home ;
Where middle branch of Thames doth flow
They built the village of Embro,
And it the hill tops now doth crown
Like its grand namesake, Edina town.
And good flour mills you here do find,
And oats, also, they here do grind.
poem by James McIntyre
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Survival Of The Fittest
When the lion roars and makes himself heard
all in the jungle shall listen
As he stalks his prey from hunger he feels
on his face his eyes do glisten.
And as he's heard all beasts do scatter
in fear, lest they be prey.
Wildebeasts, gnus and even gazelles
try to get away.
For to end up in the bowels means death
and survival comes to an end.
And the anxious ones who make their escape
nervously make their wend.
Luck was with them on this day
and so they graze and feed,
unaware of when the lion will roar.
They're intent on only their need.
Survival of the fittest in every jungle
reminds me of how we act.
For the world at large is just the same
as we are attacked
by the strong and mighty who feast upon
the weakest of all men.
And so the world we are living in
is just like the lion's den.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Were I A Lion King
Were I a lion king of the pride how proud a lion I'd be
To think that other lions for miles around are very scared of me
In the stillness of the African night I would roar aggressively
I would not be kind to other lions or in ways act neighbourly
Of the prey the lionesses did kill I would be first to eat
The other members of the pride would have to wait for their share of the meat
The male lion who has compassion will never rule a pride
Of any honour in his life by his attitude self denied
If I were a lion king of the pride the lionesses for me would kill the prey
But if's an obstacle that always does get in the way
Human beings need some aggression in life for to succeed
The timid like the timid lion are not destined to lead
Were I a lion king in the African night I'd give a mighty roar
That would be heard by other lions for two miles distant or more.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Fertile Lands and Mammoth Cheese
In barren district you may meet
Small fertile spot doth grow fine wheat,
There you may find the choicest fruits,
And great, round, smooth and solid roots.
But in conditions such as these
You cannot make a mammoth cheese,
Which will weigh eight thousand pounds,
But where large fertile farms abounds.
Big cheese is synonymous name,
With the fertile district of the Thame,
Here dairy system's understood,
And they are made both large and good.
poem by James McIntyre
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Sonnet: The World has Aplenty
The earth has place for more people to live;
Its trees have wood for more houses to build;
Its soil can generate more food and give;
There isn’t a dearth of good souls for a guild.
The rivers have fresh-water plentiful;
The earth has much reserve of oil and ore;
If peace prevails, earth looks so beautiful;
The rich nations cannot the poor ignore.
The money/ food wastage can millions feed;
Each man must love his neighbor honestly;
The brotherhood of nations is the need;
The human race is one and one must be!
Wake up humans! There is no time to waste;
Let not your greed enslave others in haste!
6-2-2001
poem by John Celes
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The Key Of Life
To roar like a lion and to growl like lion cubs,
And like rams with male goats when your lover calls in!
But patience is the key of life,
So try to humble yourself in whatever you do.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Sun And Rain And Seed
The distance calls.
Hedges and dry stone walls
On hillsides, flocks of sheep.
Rough cliffs high, valleys deep.
One stretched out patchwork quilt,
Time formed, from rocks and silt.
Our planet’s richness shown,
Under the sky’s ozone.
The distance calls.
Even through heavy squalls,
The wind, the trees reshape,
Mists falling like a cape.
Weathered timber barns,
Mountains, vales and tarns.
All grace this pleasant earth,
Prized beauty of such worth.
The distance calls.
Swift rivers, waterfalls
All senses become sharp.
The salmon, trout and carp,
Swim silently and glide,
Not easily espied.
These lands are fertile still,
With stream, with brook, with rill.
The distance calls.
Hear cows in cattle stalls.
Across the loose blown hay,
Their bellows drift away,
Fields grassed, look rich and green,
The air is fresh and clean.
And nature’s cleansed anew.
Space for every hue,
For what more does one need,
Just sun and rain and seed.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Lion's Roar
In the jungle, a lion's roar,
Loud rumbling from it's core.
Magnificent mane of golden brown,
He is a king but wears no crown.
Predator and enemy they have two,
Human hunters, Hyenas too.
The lion and his lioness pride,
If you cross them, run, don't hide.
The roar of a Lion,
The rolling sound of thunder,
The chase of a Lion,
His prey runs asunder.
The Lion's roar is his symbol,
Of Strength, Of Leadership, Of pride,
The raw Roar sound is tribal,
His pride, so true, abide.
We Cry for Food and They Give Us Bullets
Food! Food! Food!
It is all that we need
It is all that we need
to calm down our spirits!
It is food that fills
that fills the empty pangs
of our stomachs,
pangs that make us yawn
but cannot sleep
that make us gulp
but cannot vomit,
that make our saliva
taste sour and acidic!
We cry for food
like the helpless little children
with the art to attract attention
by our street demonstrations.
Yes, we cry for food like little children
to calm down our spirits,
that the cry cannot at all be neglected
for it is food,
it is food that soothes our spirits.
But you give us bullets
on the streets where we stage
our cry for food
You give us bullets
instead of food.
But even bullets cannot silence
our cry for food
for as long as we`re hungry
we shall be like little children
that will ever cry for food.
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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Oh prophet!
Oh prophet! Oh prophet! get up and flee
The dormant city
Is vicious, merciless without joviality or glee
Oh prophet! Oh prophet get up and run
The dreadful city before the rising sun
The gentle night welcomes with cover and calm
Oh prophet! oh prophet get up and haste your retreat
The night city drums thunder and beat
A place so foul, no man is liberated or free in solitary streets
Oh prophet! oh prophet get up and hide
This city is filled with bigotry and shameful pride
The night is pure with divinity and delight
Oh Prophet! oh Prophet wake up and rise
Large treasure rapture city eyes
Their sins are blotted in shape and size
Oh prophet! oh prophet take a warning heed
Tomorrow God's wrath will over the city take lead
And with fury and fire burns her towers and her peaks
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Sumter In Ruins
I.
Ye batter down the lion's den,
But yet the lordly beast g'oes free;
And ye shall hear his roar again,
From mountain height, from lowland glen,
From sandy shore and reedy fen--
Where'er a band of freeborn men
Rears sacred shrines to liberty.
II.
The serpent scales the eagle's nest,
And yet the royal bird, in air,
Triumphant wins the mountain's crest,
And sworn for strife, yet takes his rest,
And plumes, to calm, his ruffled breast,
Till, like a storm-bolt from the west,
He strikes the invader in his lair.
III.
What's loss of den, or nest, or home,
If, like the lion, free to go;--
If, like the eagle, wing'd to roam,
We span the rock and breast the foam,
Still watchful for the hour of doom,
When, with the knell of thunder-boom,
We bound upon the serpent foe!
IV.
Oh! noble sons of lion heart!
Oh! gallant hearts of eagle wing!
What though your batter'd bulwarks part,
Your nest be spoiled by reptile art--
Your souls, on wings of hate, shall start
For vengeance, and with lightning-dart,
Rend the foul serpent ere he sting!
V.
Your battered den, your shattered nest,
Was but the lion's crouching-place;--
It heard his roar, and bore his crest,
His, or the eagle's place of rest;--
But not the soul in either breast!
This arms the twain, by freedom bless'd,
To save and to avenge their race!
poem by William Gilmore Simms
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Afar in the Desert
Afar in the Desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast,
And, sick of the Present, I cling to the Past;
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,
From the fond recollections of former years;
And shadows of things that have long since fled
Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead:
Bright visions of glory -- that vanish too soon;
Day-dreams -- that departed ere manhood's noon;
Attachments -- by fate or by falsehood reft;
Companions of early days -- lost or left;
And my Native Land -- whose magical name
Thrills to the heart like electric flame;
The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime;
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time
When the feelings were young and the world was new,
Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view;
All -- all now forsaken -- forgotten -- foregone!
And I -- a lone exile remembered of none --
My high aims abandoned, -- my good acts undone, --
-- Aweary of all that is under the sun, --
With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan,
I fly to the Desert afar from man!
Afar in the Desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life,
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife --
The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear, --
The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear --
And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly,
Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy;
When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high,
And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh --
Oh! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride,
Afar in the Desert alone to ride!
There is rapture to vault on the champing steed,
And to bound away with the eagle's speed,
With the death-fraught firelock in my hand --
The only law of the Desert Land!
Afar in the Desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
Away -- away from the dwellings of men,
By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen;
By valleys remote where the oribi plays,
Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartèbeest graze,
And the kùdù and eland unhunted recline
By the skirts of grey forests o'erhung with wild-vine;
Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood,
And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood,
And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will
In the fen where the wild-ass is drinking his fill.
Afar in the Desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
O'er the brown Karroo, where the bleating cry
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively;
And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh
Is heard by the fountain at twilight grey;
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane,
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain;
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste,
Hying away to the home of her rest,
Where she and her mate have scooped their nest,
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view
In the pathless depths of the parched Karroo.
Afar in the Desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
Away -- away -- in the Wilderness vast,
Where the White Man's foot hath never passed,
And the quivered Coránna or Bechuán
Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan:
A region of emptiness, howling and drear,
Which Man hath abandoned from famine and fear;
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone,
With the twilight bat from the yawning stone;
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root,
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot;
And the bitter-melon, for food and drink,
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink:
A region of drought, where no river glides,
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides;
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount,
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount,
Appears, to refresh the aching eye:
But the barren earth, and the burning sky,
And the black horizon, round and round,
Spread -- void of living sight or sound.
And here, while the night-winds round me sigh,
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky,
As I sit apart by the desert stone,
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone,
'A still small voice' comes through the wild
(Like a Father consoling his fretful Child),
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, --
Saying -- MAN IS DISTANT, BUT GOD IS NEAR!
poem by Thomas Pringle
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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