If honor were profitable, everybody would be honorable.
quote by Thomas More
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The Bench and the Blonde in Black
His Honor walked into the shop
For of shopping his Honor was fond.
Did she blush? Did her eyes indicate shy surprise
In that slim little, trim little blonde?
Did his bachelor heart miss a beat?
Did she flash him a smile as she turned?
Did his Honor smile back at this vision in black?
Said his Honor, 'The case is adjourned.'
His Honor walked into his court.
Said the advocate, 'Shop-ladies lack
Much appeal, I submit, when these dark frocks they fit -'
Said his Honor, 'I like 'em in black.
Yes, I like 'em in black when they're blonde.
And I am not concerned with the cost.
It's a question of taste; and I've no time to waste.'
Said his Honor, 'Your action is lost.'
His Honor walked into the church.
'I will,' breathed his Honor, and beamed
On his blonde who, alack, was no longer in black,
For in ivory satin she gleamed.
Said the clergyman, 'Say after me -'
Said his Honor, 'My true wedded wife. . .
Er - at - sickness and health....and - er - all worldly wealth....'
Said his Honor, 'The sentence is life.'
His Honor walked up and walked down,
Sobbed the blonde, 'But you don't seem to care!
Why, my grey, pink and green are not fit to be seen;
And I haven't a rag fit to wear!
And you always did say I looked nice
In black suits? Twenty guineas? What fun!'
Then she smiled, kissed his neck, as he wrote out the cheque.
Sighed his Honor, 'Your suit, dear, is won.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Please Keep The Pain
please keep the pain
do not attempt to throw pain away
please be patient
do not scream do not tell the neighbors
do not shame pain by running wildly on the streets
screaming about your pain
please do not create a scandal for this
honorable family in pain
please keep the pain for a while and be honorable
there is decency in pain
keep this pain with a clean face on a smooth disposition
let your arms lay there
appease the pain
as though pain is a baby that you want to put to sleep
soon it will go
nothing is permanent in this world
nothing will last forever
the pain may not subside but soon it will have its right time
it decides to go by itself
there is no choice
we will have this pain too
our pains in silence
because we are honorable too
you will never know
we will never tell you we are decently in pain too
we are honorable
we do not make presumptions that we will survive
but we will
these pains that make us decent and honorable
our faces will not show these pains
we will not even tell
we just keep them without complaining
we are decent we are honorable
we are the survivors
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Beowulf
LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings
of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,
we have heard, and what honor the athelings won!
Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,
from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,
awing the earls. Since erst he lay
friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him:
for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve,
till before him the folk, both far and near,
who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate,
gave him gifts: a good king he!
To him an heir was afterward born,
a son in his halls, whom heaven sent
to favor the folk, feeling their woe
that erst they had lacked an earl for leader
so long a while; the Lord endowed him,
the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown.
Famed was this Beowulf: far flew the boast of him,
son of Scyld, in the Scandian lands.
So becomes it a youth to quit him well
with his father's friends, by fee and gift,
that to aid him, aged, in after days,
come warriors willing, should war draw nigh,
liegemen loyal: by lauded deeds
shall an earl have honor in every clan.
Forth he fared at the fated moment,
sturdy Scyld to the shelter of God.
Then they bore him over to ocean's billow,
loving clansmen, as late he charged them,
while wielded words the winsome Scyld,
the leader beloved who long had ruled….
In the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel,
ice-flecked, outbound, atheling's barge:
there laid they down their darling lord
on the breast of the boat, the breaker-of-rings,
by the mast the mighty one. Many a treasure
fetched from far was freighted with him.
No ship have I known so nobly dight
with weapons of war and weeds of battle,
with breastplate and blade: on his bosom lay
a heaped hoard that hence should go
far o'er the flood with him floating away.
No less these loaded the lordly gifts,
thanes' huge treasure, than those had done
who in former time forth had sent him
sole on the seas, a suckling child.
High o'er his head they hoist the standard,
a gold-wove banner; let billows take him,
gave him to ocean. Grave were their spirits,
mournful their mood. No man is able
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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The Honourable Mheshimiwa(part three)
From the emptiness of Shagz
A lone voice cries
Begging and beseeching
Beseeching and requesting
Requesting and asking for one thing
Justice!
Honorable Mheshimiwa sighs and says
‘Yes! Justice! ’
The human rights watchdogs
Hiss and fuss
In a quick rejoinder
‘Hey! Justice? Mheshimiwa?
MP? Professor...
Let me puke before I proceed...
Honorary doctor of peace
Didn’t you steer, stimulate
Support and strengthen violence in Shagz! ’’
The international community storms in
Pushing pressurizing ‘n demandin’
‘Justice! Mheshimiwa must be tried, sentenced..In? ...
Yes! Justice must pace in’
The honorable Mheshimiwa barks
‘That’s neocolonialism
An attempt to character assassinate me
Me, I, myself and my allies
We shall unite
And fight…fight...fight
And eliminate
Our enemies’
Honorable Kanzu
Join hands with the Mheshimiwa
To fight ‘their’ opponents
A dry and husky voice implores
‘Excuse me honorable Kanzu
I’m your constituent and was violently evicted from Shagz
For the past fortnight
Fighting for my survival in the tent
Has been my rite…(maybe I have no right)
As you dwell dine n wine
With the mighty Mheshimiwa et al
Honorable Kanzu retorts angrily
‘Shhh! shut up before I spit n shit on you
Con man!
You want to dupe a super duper
[...] Read more
poem by Ibrahim Tendera Oroni
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 12
WHEN Turnus saw the Latins leave the field,
Their armies broken, and their courage quell’d,
Himself become the mark of public spite,
His honor question’d for the promis’d fight;
The more he was with vulgar hate oppress’d, 5
The more his fury boil’d within his breast:
He rous’d his vigor for the last debate,
And rais’d his haughty soul to meet his fate.
As, when the swains the Libyan lion chase,
He makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace; 10
But, if the pointed jav’lin pierce his side,
The lordly beast returns with double pride:
He wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain;
His sides he lashes, and erects his mane:
So Turnus fares; his eyeballs flash with fire, 15
Thro’ his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire.
Trembling with rage, around the court he ran,
At length approach’d the king, and thus began:
“No more excuses or delays: I stand
In arms prepar’d to combat, hand to hand, 20
This base deserter of his native land.
The Trojan, by his word, is bound to take
The same conditions which himself did make.
Renew the truce; the solemn rites prepare,
And to my single virtue trust the war. 25
The Latians unconcern’d shall see the fight;
This arm unaided shall assert your right:
Then, if my prostrate body press the plain,
To him the crown and beauteous bride remain.”
To whom the king sedately thus replied: 30
“Brave youth, the more your valor has been tried,
The more becomes it us, with due respect,
To weigh the chance of war, which you neglect.
You want not wealth, or a successive throne,
Or cities which your arms have made your own: 35
My towns and treasures are at your command,
And stor’d with blooming beauties is my land;
Laurentum more than one Lavinia sees,
Unmarried, fair, of noble families.
Now let me speak, and you with patience hear, 40
Things which perhaps may grate a lover’s ear,
But sound advice, proceeding from a heart
Sincerely yours, and free from fraudful art.
The gods, by signs, have manifestly shown,
No prince Italian born should heir my throne: 45
Oft have our augurs, in prediction skill’d,
And oft our priests, a foreign son reveal’d.
Yet, won by worth that cannot be withstood,
Brib’d by my kindness to my kindred blood,
Urg’d by my wife, who would not be denied, 50
[...] Read more
poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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The Pure Norwegian Flag
I
Tri-colored flag, and pure,
Thou art our hard-fought cause secure;
Thor's hammer-mark of might
Thou bearest blue in Christian white,
And all our hearts' red blood
To thee streams its full flood.
Thou liftest us high when life's sternest,
Exultant, thou oceanward turnest;
Thy colors of freedom are earnest
That spirit and body shall never know dearth.-
Fare forth o'er the earth!
II
'The pure flag is but pure folly,'
You 'wise' men maintain for true.
But the flag is the truth poetic,
The folly is found in you.
In poetry upward soaring,
The nation's immortal soul
With hands invisible carries
The flag toward the future goal.
That soul's every toil and trial,
That soul's every triumph sublime,
Are sounding in songs immortal,-
To their music the flag beats time.
We bear it along surrounded
By mem'ry's melodious choir,
By mild and whispering voices,
By will and stormy desire.
It gives not to others guidance,
Can not a Swedish word say;
It never can flaunt allurement:-
Clear the foreign colors away!
III
The sins and deceits of our nation
Possess in the flag no right;
The flag is the high ideal
In honor's immortal light.
The best of our past achievements,
The best of our present prayers,
It takes in its folds from the fathers
And bears to the sons and heirs;
Bears it all pure and artless,
By tokens that tempt us unmarred,
Is for our will's young manhood
Leader as well as guard.
[...] Read more
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Women IV. a prise poem for women
Life without life it's not life
Almost every one will remember
Day and night is cycle of life
Life on its own is not matured
I reiterate well spoken words
Hence its admiral, the day i recognize the significant role of women
Some women can bless the day indeed
with their smiles
with their Assimilate of culture admiral
with high concentration of moral fiber
These are the women of integrity
I talk nothing else but
Women like Nthabiseng Mthethwa
Women like Mapaseka Dlamini
Women like Sebolelo Mokoena
Women like Elsie Moganedi
Look around they are there
To reconstitute norms and Values.
I call them women of integrity
As Harley barley, there are honorable women
Full of high concentration of moral fiber
They adhere to walk the walks
And talk the talks; they are extraordinary in every aspect
Women like Delsile Hlophe
Women like Nonhlanhla Ndlovu
Women like Ellah Ngomane
Women like Whitey Mahlangu
Chronically they remain transparent
I call them honorable women of integrity
Fair remain fair as long as it's fair
There are extraordinary women
They are living in their time
And they are in time with their integrity
They deserve honor as they live it
Perfectionism is not enough
They remain constant and consistent
Women like Mapule Tshabalala
Women like Sara Mahlangu
Women like Selina Madihlaba
They are extraordinary women they deserve their Honor
I fore one applaud them for inherent of their heredity
There are women who are making difference
Printing their footprints
[...] Read more
poem by Jacques Sprenkie Mateya
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The Vision Of Piers Plowman - Part 13
And I awaked therwith, witlees nerhande,
And as a freke that fey were, forth gan I walke
In manere of a mendynaunt many yer after,
And of this metyng many tyme muche thought I hadde
First how Fortune me failed at my mooste nede,
And how that Elde manaced me, myghte we evere mete;
And how that freres folwede folk that was riche,
And [peple] that was povere at litel pris thei sette,
And no corps in hir kirkyerd ne in hir kirk was buryed
But quik he biquethe hem aught or sholde helpe quyte hir dettes;
And how this coveitise overcom clerkes and preestes;
And how that lewed men ben lad, but Oure Lord hem helpe,
Thorugh unkonnynge curatours to incurable peynes;
And how that Ymaginatif in dremels me tolde
Of Kynde and of his konnynge, and how curteis he is to bestes,
And how lovynge he is to bestes on londe and on watre
Leneth he no lif lasse ne moore;
The creatures that crepen of Kynde ben engendred;
And sithen how Ymaginatif seide, ' Vix iustus salvabitur,'
And whan he hadde seid so, how sodeynliche he passed.
I lay down longe in this thoght, and at the laste I slepte;
And as Crist wolde ther com Conscience to conforte me that tyme,
And bad me come to his court - with Clergie sholde I dyne.
And for Conscience of Clergie spak, I com wel the rather;
And there I [merkede] a maister - what man he was I nyste -
That lowe louted and loveliche to Scripture.
Conscience knew hym wel and welcomed hym faire;
Thei wesshen and wipeden and wenten to the dyner.
Ac Pacience in the paleis stood in pilgrymes clothes,
And preyde mete par charite for a povere heremyte.
Conscience called hym in, and curteisliche seide,
' Welcome, wye, go and wassh; thow shalt sitte soone.'
This maister was maad sitte as for the mooste worthi,
And thanne Clergie and Conscience and Pacience cam after.
Pacience and I were put to be mettes,
And seten bi oureselve at a side borde.
Conscience called after mete, and thanne cam Scripture
And served hem thus soone of sondry metes manye -
Of Austyn, of Ambrose, of alle the foure Evaungelistes
Edentes et bibentes que apud eos sunt.
Ac this maister ne his man no maner flessh eten,
Ac thei eten mete of moore cost - mortrews and potages
Of that men myswonne thei made hem wel at ese.
Ac hir sauce was over sour and unsavourly grounde
In a morter, Post mortem, of many bitter peyne -
But if thei synge for tho soules and wepe salte teris
Vos qui peccata hominum comeditis, nisi pro eis lacrimas et
oraciones effuderitis, ea que in deliciis comeditis, in tormentis evometis.
Conscience ful curteisly tho commaunded Scripture
[...] Read more
poem by William Langland
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The Potatoes' Dance
(A Poem Game.)
I
"Down cellar," said the cricket,
"Down cellar," said the cricket,
"Down cellar," said the cricket,
"I saw a ball last night,
In honor of a lady,
In honor of a lady,
In honor of a lady,
Whose wings were pearly-white.
The breath of bitter weather,
The breath of bitter weather,
The breath of bitter weather,
Had smashed the cellar pane.
We entertained a drift of leaves,
We entertained a drift of leaves,
We entertained a drift of leaves,
And then of snow and rain.
But we were dressed for winter,
But we were dressed for winter,
But we were dressed for winter,
And loved to hear it blow
In honor of the lady,
In honor of the lady,
In honor of the lady,
Who makes potatoes grow,
Our guest the Irish lady,
The tiny Irish lady,
The airy Irish lady,
Who makes potatoes grow.
II
"Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the band,
Potatoes were the dancers
Kicking up the sand,
Kicking up the sand,
Kicking up the sand,
Potatoes were the dancers
Kicking up the sand.
Their legs were old burnt matches,
Their legs were old burnt matches,
Their legs were old burnt matches,
[...] Read more
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Honor
we have lost our sense of honor.
honor's not something you win in
battle, not a crown for the victor,
not something you can build or buy.
honor is a way of life... and it begins
with respect.
we no longer respect the many forms
of life around us... hell, we're so busy
just trying to survive that we dont even
see life, much less know it!
every person, good, bad, or ugly, deserves
our respect... for they are merely in all their
glory, and in all their human weakness,
reflections of us... a part of us!
every form of life... dogs, cats, elephants, ants,
whales, turtles, trees, rivers, mountains...
deserve our respect... for they are a part
of us, and we of them...
so many of us are experiencing financial
failures, hunger, poverty, and distress...
and we feel like we've lost any sense of honor...
but a man and a woman's honor is not held
in these things...
it is held in the naked truth of what we do
next... whether we remain as self-oriented
islands, or whether we rejoin the sea and
the sky of life... together as one. only then
will we be an honorable people!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 11
SCARCE had the rosy Morning rais’d her head
Above the waves, and left her wat’ry bed;
The pious chief, whom double cares attend
For his unburied soldiers and his friend,
Yet first to Heav’n perform’d a victor’s vows: 5
He bar’d an ancient oak of all her boughs;
Then on a rising ground the trunk he plac’d,
Which with the spoils of his dead foe he grac’d.
The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,
Now on a naked snag in triumph borne, 10
Was hung on high, and glitter’d from afar,
A trophy sacred to the God of War.
Above his arms, fix’d on the leafless wood,
Appear’d his plumy crest, besmear’d with blood:
His brazen buckler on the left was seen; 15
Truncheons of shiver’d lances hung between;
And on the right was placed his corslet, bor’d;
And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.
A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man,
Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began: 20
“Our toils, my friends, are crown’d with sure success;
The greater part perform’d, achieve the less.
Now follow cheerful to the trembling town;
Press but an entrance, and presume it won.
Fear is no more, for fierce Mezentius lies, 25
As the first fruits of war, a sacrifice.
Turnus shall fall extended on the plain,
And, in this omen, is already slain.
Prepar’d in arms, pursue your happy chance;
That none unwarn’d may plead his ignorance, 30
And I, at Heav’n’s appointed hour, may find
Your warlike ensigns waving in the wind.
Meantime the rites and fun’ral pomps prepare,
Due to your dead companions of the war:
The last respect the living can bestow, 35
To shield their shadows from contempt below.
That conquer’d earth be theirs, for which they fought,
And which for us with their own blood they bought;
But first the corpse of our unhappy friend
To the sad city of Evander send, 40
Who, not inglorious, in his age’s bloom,
Was hurried hence by too severe a doom.”
Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way,
Where, new in death, lamented Pallas lay.
Acoetes watch’d the corpse; whose youth deserv’d 45
The father’s trust; and now the son he serv’d
With equal faith, but less auspicious care.
Th’ attendants of the slain his sorrow share.
A troop of Trojans mix’d with these appear,
And mourning matrons with dishevel’d hair. 50
[...] Read more
poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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The Equilibrists
Full of her long white arms and milky skin
He had a thousand times remembered sin.
Alone in the press of people traveled he,
Minding her jacinth, and myrrh, and ivory.
Mouth he remembered: the quaint orifice
From which came heat that flamed upon the kiss,
Till cold words came down spiral from the head.
Grey doves from the officious tower illsped.
Body: it was a white field ready for love,
On her body's field, with the gaunt tower above,
The lilies grew, beseeching him to take,
If he would pluck and wear them, bruise and break.
Eyes talking: Never mind the cruel words,
Embrace my flowers, but not embrace the swords.
But what they said, the doves came straightway flying
And unsaid: Honor, Honor, they came crying.
Importunate her doves. Too pure, too wise,
Clambering on his shoulder, saying, Arise,
Leave me now, and never let us meet,
Eternal distance now command thy feet.
Predicament indeed, which thus discovers
Honor among thieves, Honor between lovers.
O such a little word is Honor, they feel!
But the grey word is between them cold as steel.
At length I saw these lovers fully were come
Into their torture of equilibrium;
Dreadfully had forsworn each other, and yet
They were bound each to each, and they did not forget.
And rigid as two painful stars, and twirled
About the clustered night their prison world,
They burned with fierce love always to come near,
But honor beat them back and kept them clear
.
Ah, the strict lovers, they are ruined now!
I cried in anger. But with puddled brow
Devising for those gibbeted and brave
Came I descanting: Man, what would you have?
For spin your period out, and draw your breath,
A kinder saeculum begins with Death.
Would you ascend to Heaven and bodiless dwell?
Or take your bodies honorless to Hell ?
[...] Read more
poem by John Crowe Ransom
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Polyhymnia
[Polyhymnia: Describing, The honourable Triumph at Tylt,
before her Maiestie, on the 17. of Nouember, last past,
being the first day of the three and thirtith yeare of
her Highnesse raigne. With Sir Henrie Lea, his resignation
of honour at Tylt, to her Maiestie, and receiued by the right
honourable, the Earle of Cumberland.]
[Polyhimnia. Entituled, with all dutie to the Right
Honourable, Lord Compton of Compton.]
Therefore, when thirtie two were come and gone,
Years of her raigne, daies of her countries peace,
Elizabeth great Empresse of the world,
Britanias Atlas, Star of Englands globe,
That swaies the massie scepter of her land,
And holdes the royall raynes of Albion:
Began the gladsome sunnie day to shine,
That drawes in length date of her golden raigne:
And thirtie three shee numbreth in her throne:
That long in happinesse and peace (I pray)
May number manie to these thirtie three.
Wherefore it fares as whilom and of yore,
In armour bright and sheene, faire Englands knights
In honour of their peerelesse Soueraigne:
High Maistresse of their seruice, thoughtes and liues
Make to the Tyltamaine: and trumpets sound,
And princelie Coursers neigh, and champ the byt,
When all addrest for deeds of high deuoyre,
Preace to the sacred presence of their Prince.
The 1. couple. Sir Henrie Lea. The Earle of Cumberland.
Mightie in Armes, mounted on puissant horse,
Knight of the Crown in rich imbroderie,
And costlie faire Caparison charg'd with Crownes,
Oreshadowed with a withered running Vine,
As who would say, My spring of youth is past:
In Corslet gylt of curious workmanship,
Sir Henry Lea, redoubted man at Armes.
Leades in the troopes, whom woorthie Cumberland
Thrice noble Earle, aucutred as became
So greate a Warriour and so good a Knight.
Encountred first, yclad in coate of steele,
And plumes and pendants al as white as Swanne,
And speare in rest, right readie to performe
What long'd vnto the honour of the place.
Together went these Champions, horse and man,
Thundring along the Tylt, that at the shocke
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poem by George Peele
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A Poet's Voice XV
Part One
The power of charity sows deep in my heart, and I reap and gather the wheat in bundles and give them to the hungry.
My soul gives life to the grapevine and I press its bunches and give the juice to the thirsty.
Heaven fills my lamp with oil and I place it at my window to direct the stranger through the dark.
I do all these things because I live in them; and if destiny should tie my hands and prevent me from so doing, then death would be my only desire. For I am a poet, and if I cannot give, I shall refuse to receive.
Humanity rages like a tempest, but I sigh in silence for I know the storm must pass away while a sigh goes to God.
Human kinds cling to earthly things, but I seek ever to embrace the torch of love so it will purify me by its fire and sear inhumanity from my heart.
Substantial things deaden a man without suffering; love awakens him with enlivening pains.
Humans are divided into different clans and tribes, and belong to countries and towns. But I find myself a stranger to all communities and belong to no settlement. The universe is my country and the human family is my tribe.
Men are weak, and it is sad that they divide amongst themselves. The world is narrow and it is unwise to cleave it into kingdoms, empires, and provinces.
Human kinds unite themselves one to destroy the temples of the soul, and they join hands to build edifices for earthly bodies. I stand alone listening to the voice of hope in my deep self saying, "As love enlivens a man's heart with pain, so ignorance teaches him the way of knowledge." Pain and ignorance lead to great joy and knowledge because the Supreme Being has created nothing vain under the sun.
Part Two
I have a yearning for my beautiful country, and I love its people because of their misery. But if my people rose, stimulated by plunder and motivated by what they call "patriotic spirit" to murder, and invaded my neighbor's country, then upon the committing of any human atrocity I would hate my people and my country.
I sing the praise of my birthplace and long to see the home of my children; but if the people in that home refused to shelter and feed the needy wayfarer, I would convert my praise into anger and my longing to forgetfulness. My inner voice would say, "The house that does not comfort the need is worthy of naught by destruction."
I love my native village with some of my love for my country; and I love my country with part of my love for the earth, all of which is my country; and I love the earth will all of myself because it is the haven of humanity, the manifest spirit of God.
Humanity is the spirit of the Supreme Being on earth, and that humanity is standing amidst ruins, hiding its nakedness behind tattered rags, shedding tears upon hollow cheeks, and calling for its children with pitiful voice. But the children are busy singing their clan's anthem; they are busy sharpening the swords and cannot hear the cry of their mothers.
Humanity appeals to its people but they listen not. Were one to listen, and console a mother by wiping her tears, other would say, "He is weak, affected by sentiment."
Humanity is the spirit of the Supreme Being on earth, and that Supreme Being preaches love and good-will. But the people ridicule such teachings. The Nazarene Jesus listened, and crucifixion was his lot; Socrates heard the voice and followed it, and he too fell victim in body. The followers of The Nazarene and Socrates are the followers of Deity, and since people will not kill them, they deride them, saying, "Ridicule is more bitter than killing."
Jerusalem could not kill The Nazarene, nor Athens Socrates; they are living yet and shall live eternally. Ridicule cannot triumph over the followers of Deity. They live and grow forever.
Part Three
Thou art my brother because you are a human, and we both are sons of one Holy Spirit; we are equal and made of the same earth.
You are here as my companion along the path of life, and my aid in understanding the meaning of hidden Truth. You are a human, and, that fact sufficing, I love you as a brother. You may speak of me as you choose, for Tomorrow shall take you away and will use your talk as evidence for his judgment, and you shall receive justice.
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poem by Khalil Gibran
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Aechdeacon Barbour
THROUGH the long hall the shuttered windows shed
A dubious light on every upturned head;
On locks like those of Absalom the fair,
On the bald apex ringed with scanty hair,
On blank indifference and on curious stare;
On the pale Showman reading from his stage
The hieroglyphics of that facial page;
Half sad, half scornful, listening to the bruit
Of restless cane-tap and impatient foot,
And the shrill call, across the general din,
'Roll up your curtain! Let the show begin!'
At length a murmur like the winds that break
Into green waves the prairie's grassy lake,
Deepened and swelled to music clear and loud,
And, as the west-wind lifts a summer cloud,
The curtain rose, disclosing wide and far
A green land stretching to the evening star,
Fair rivers, skirted by primeval trees
And flowers hummed over by the desert bees,
Marked by tall bluffs whose slopes of greenness show
Fantastic outcrops of the rock below;
The slow result of patient Nature's pains,
And plastic fingering of her sun and rains;
Arch, tower, and gate, grotesquely windowed hall,
And long escarpment of half-crumbled wall,
Huger than those which, from steep hills of vine,
Stare through their loopholes on the travelled Rhine;
Suggesting vaguely to the gazer's mind
A fancy, idle as the prairie wind,
Of the land's dwellers in an age unguessed;
The unsung Jotuns of the mystic West.
Beyond, the prairie's sea-like swells surpass
The Tartar's marvels of his Land of Grass,
Vast as the sky against whose sunset shores
Wave after wave the billowy greenness pours;
And, onward still, like islands in that main
Loom the rough peaks of many a mountain chain,
Whence east and west a thousand waters run
From winter lingering under summer's sun.
And, still beyond, long lines of foam and sand
Tell where Pacific rolls his waves a-land,
From many a wide-lapped port and land-locked bay,
Opening with thunderous pomp the world's highway
To Indian isles of spice, and marts of far Cathay.
'Such,' said the Showman, as the curtain fell,
'Is the new Canaan of our Israel;
The land of promise to the swarming North,
Which, hive-like, sends its annual surplus forth,
To the poor Southron on his worn-out soil,
Scathed by the curses of unnatural toil;
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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Tom Zart's 52 Best Of The Rest America At War Poems
SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III
The White House
Washington
Tom Zart's Poems
March 16,2007
Ms. Lillian Cauldwell
President and Chief Executive Officer
Passionate Internet Voices Radio
Ann Arbor Michigan
Dear Lillian:
Number 41 passed on the CDs from Tom Zart. Thank you for thinking of me. I am thankful for your efforts to honor our brave military personnel and their families. America owes these courageous men and women a debt of gratitude, and I am honored to be the commander in chief of the greatest force for freedom in the history of the world.
Best Wishes.
Sincerely,
George W. Bush
SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III
Our sons and daughters serve in harm's way
To defend our way of life.
Some are students, some grandparents
Many a husband or wife.
They face great odds without complaint
Gambling life and limb for little pay.
So far away from all they love
Fight our soldiers for whom we pray.
The plotters and planners of America's doom
Pledge to murder and maim all they can.
From early childhood they are taught
To kill is to become a man.
They exploit their young as weapons of choice
Teaching in heaven, virgins will await.
Destroying lives along with their own
To learn of their falsehoods too late.
The fearful cry we must submit
And find a way to soothe them.
Where defenders worry if we stand down
The future for America is grim.
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poem by Tom Zart
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Destined For Glory
Once upon a time in a forlorn land,
a man on a mission was left at fates hand
In his eyes you could see the whites turn red
Surrounded by evil, abandoned for dead
Born on the run by the sign of the sun
A mail-clad warrior, the chosen one
His name's been cursed, he is bound to fail
A wandering spirit with the will to prevail
By the sign of the moon,
he swore the oath to fight alone
Fight with your heart, and you're Destined For Glory
But fight without honor, and you're destined to fall
He still can recall his father's words
"Don't loose your faith, let your voice be heard"
Echoes from the past will lead him on
By these words of honor, shine like the sun
By the sign of the moon
He swore the oath to fight alone
Fight with your heart, and you're Destined For Glory
But fight without honor, and you're destined to fall
Fight with your heart, and you're Destined For Glory
But fight without soul and you will loose it all
The prophecies spoke of a wandering man
Skilled with steel, black as the night
Normally veiled from the mortal eyes
His hammer arose like a magic force
With a gaze that turned everything into stone
the warrior spoke, "I am the one"
Fight with your heart, and you're Destined For Glory
But fight without honor, and you're destined to fall
Fight with your heart, and you're Destined For Glory
But fight without soul and you will loose it all
Fight with your heart, and you're Destined For Glory
But fight without honor, and you're destined to fall
Fight with your heart, and you're Destined For Glory
But fight without soul and you will loose it all
song performed by Hammerfall
Added by Lucian Velea
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Desinted For Glory
Once upon a time in a forlorn land,
A man on a mission was left at fates hand
In his eyes you could see the whites turn red
Surrounded by evil, abandoned for dead
Born on the run by the sign of the sun
A mail-clad warrior, the chosen one
His names been cursed, he is bound to fail
A wandering spirit with the will to prevail
By the sign of the moon,
He swore the oath to fight alone
Fight with your heart, and youre destined for glory
But fight without honor, and youre destined to fall
He still can recall his fathers words
Dont loose your faith, let your voice be heard
Echoes from the past will lead him on
By these words of honor, shine like the sun
By the sign of the moon
He swore the oath to fight alone
Fight with your heart, and youre destined for glory
But fight without honor, and youre destined to fall
Fight with your heart, and youre destined for glory
But fight without soul and you will loose it all
The prophecies spoke of a wandering man
Skilled with steel, black as the night
Normally veiled from the mortal eyes
His hammer arose like a magic force
With a gaze that turned everything into stone
The warrior spoke, I am the one
Fight with your heart, and youre destined for glory
But fight without honor, and youre destined to fall
Fight with your heart, and youre destined for glory
But fight without soul and you will loose it all
Fight with your heart, and youre destined for glory
But fight without honor, and youre destined to fall
Fight with your heart, and youre destined for glory
But fight without soul and you will loose it all
song performed by Hammerfall
Added by Lucian Velea
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Who Else is Going to Protect You.
Who else is going to protect you?
Who else is going to hunt for you?
Who else will die for you?
I am a Cheyenne dog soldier,
It’s my life,
It’s my honor,
To die for you,
Who else is going to cry for you?
Who else?
Who else will mourn for you?
Who else will fight?
Against the white mans might,
I am a Cheyenne dog soldier,
It’s my life,
It’s my honor,
To die for you,
Who else will wipe your tears away?
Who else will pick up the broken pieces?
Who else can see?
Who else can feel my pain?
Will we ever be the same?
Will our hearts ever heal?
I am a Cheyenne dog soldier,
It’s my life,
It’s my honor,
To die for you,
Who turned our world upside down?
Who was it who bought us down?
Who was it who scorched our ground?
Who was it who saw what was coming?
Who saw the darkness coming?
Who saw the image of the buffalo fading?
I am a Cheyenne dog solder,
It’s my life,
It’s my honor,
To die for you,
Visions and dreams haunt me,
Starvation,
Concentration,
Reservation,
Deprivation,
Our spirit can’t be broken,
Our language is still spoken,
Our pride indestructible,
Our treatment unspeakable,
More promises broken,
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poem by Osceola Waters
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The Count Of Hapsburg
At Aix-la-Chapelle, in imperial array,
In its halls renowned in old story,
At the coronation banquet so gay
King Rudolf was sitting in glory.
The meats were served up by the Palsgrave of Rhine,
The Bohemian poured out the bright sparkling wine,
And all the Electors, the seven,
Stood waiting around the world-governing one,
As the chorus of stars encircle the sun,
That honor might duly be given.
And the people the lofty balcony round
In a throng exulting were filling;
While loudly were blending the trumpets' glad sound,
The multitude's voices so thrilling;
For the monarchless period, with horror rife,
Has ended now, after long baneful strife,
And the earth had a lord to possess her.
No longer ruled blindly the iron-bound spear,
And the weak and the peaceful no longer need fear
Being crushed by the cruel oppressor.
And the emperor speaks with a smile in his eye,
While the golden goblet he seizes:
"With this banquet in glory none other can vie,
And my regal heart well it pleases;
Yet the minstrel, the bringer of joy, is not here,
Whose melodious strains to my heart are so dear,
And whose words heavenly wisdom inspire;
Since the days of my youth it hath been my delight,
And that which I ever have loved as a knight,
As a monarch I also require."
And behold! 'mongst the princes who stand round the throne
Steps the bard, in his robe long and streaming,
While, bleached by the years that have over him flown,
His silver locks brightly are gleaming;
"Sweet harmony sleeps in the golden strings,
The minstrel of true love reward ever sings,
And adores what to virtue has tended--
What the bosom may wish, what the senses hold dear;
But say, what is worthy the emperor's ear
At this, of all feasts the most splendid?"
"No restraint would I place on the minstrel's own choice,"
Speaks the monarch, a smile on each feature;
"He obeys the swift hour's imperious voice,
Of a far greater lord is the creature.
For, as through the air the storm-wind on-speeds,--
One knows not from whence its wild roaring proceeds--
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poem by Friedrich Schiller
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