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One can not be just if one is not humane.

quote by Luc de Clapier
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A Poem Upon The Death Of O.C.

That Providence which had so long the care
Of Cromwell's head, and numbred ev'ry hair,
Now in its self (the Glass where all appears)
Had seen the period of his golden Years:
And thenceforth onely did attend to trace,
What death might least so sair a Life deface.
The People, which what most they fear esteem,
Death when more horrid so more noble deem;
And blame the last Act, like Spectators vain,
Unless the Prince whom they applaud be slain.
Nor Fate indeed can well refuse that right
To those that liv'd in War, to dye in Fight.
But long his Valour none had left that could
Indanger him, or Clemency that would.
And he whom Nature all for Peace had made,
But angry Heaven unto War had sway'd,
And so less useful where he most desir'd,
For what he least affected was admir'd,
Deserved yet an End whose ev'ry part
Should speak the wondrous softness of his Heart.
To Love and Grief the fatal Writ was sign'd;
(Those nobler weaknesses of humane Mind,
From which those Powers that issu'd the Decree,
Although immortal, found they were not free.)
That they, to whom his Breast still open lyes,
In gentle Passions should his Death disguise:
And leave succeeding Ages cause to mourn,
As long as Grief shall weep, or Love shall burn.
Streight does a slow and languishing Disease
Eliza, Natures and his darling, seize.
Her when an infant, taken with her Charms,
He oft would flourish in his mighty Arms;
And, lest their force the tender burthen wrong,
Slacken the vigour of his Muscles strong;
Then to the Mothers brest her softly move,
Which while she drain'd of Milk she fill'd with Love:
But as with riper Years her Virtue grew,
And ev'ry minute adds a Lustre new;
When with meridian height her Beauty shin'd,
And thorough that sparkled her fairer Mind;
When She with Smiles serene and Words discreet
His hidden Soul at ev'ry turn could meet;
Then might y' ha' daily his Affection spy'd,
Doubling that knot which Destiny had ty'd:
While they by sence, not knowing, comprehend
How on each other both their Fates depend.
With her each day the pleasing Hours he shares,
And at her Aspect calms her growing Cares;
Or with a Grandsire's joy her Children sees
Hanging about her neck or at his knees.

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Marvell
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Metamorphoses: Book The First

OF bodies chang'd to various forms, I sing:
Ye Gods, from whom these miracles did spring,
Inspire my numbers with coelestial heat;
'Till I my long laborious work compleat:
And add perpetual tenour to my rhimes,
Deduc'd from Nature's birth, to Caesar's times.
The Creation of Before the seas, and this terrestrial ball,
the World And Heav'n's high canopy, that covers all,
One was the face of Nature; if a face:
Rather a rude and indigested mass:
A lifeless lump, unfashion'd, and unfram'd,
Of jarring seeds; and justly Chaos nam'd.
No sun was lighted up, the world to view;
No moon did yet her blunted horns renew:
Nor yet was Earth suspended in the sky,
Nor pois'd, did on her own foundations lye:
Nor seas about the shores their arms had thrown;
But earth, and air, and water, were in one.
Thus air was void of light, and earth unstable,
And water's dark abyss unnavigable.
No certain form on any was imprest;
All were confus'd, and each disturb'd the rest.
For hot and cold were in one body fixt;
And soft with hard, and light with heavy mixt.
But God, or Nature, while they thus contend,
To these intestine discords put an end:
Then earth from air, and seas from earth were
driv'n,
And grosser air sunk from aetherial Heav'n.
Thus disembroil'd, they take their proper place;
The next of kin, contiguously embrace;
And foes are sunder'd, by a larger space.
The force of fire ascended first on high,
And took its dwelling in the vaulted sky:
Then air succeeds, in lightness next to fire;
Whose atoms from unactive earth retire.
Earth sinks beneath, and draws a num'rous throng
Of pondrous, thick, unwieldy seeds along.
About her coasts, unruly waters roar;
And rising, on a ridge, insult the shore.
Thus when the God, whatever God was he,
Had form'd the whole, and made the parts agree,
That no unequal portions might be found,
He moulded Earth into a spacious round:
Then with a breath, he gave the winds to blow;
And bad the congregated waters flow.
He adds the running springs, and standing lakes;
And bounding banks for winding rivers makes.
Some part, in Earth are swallow'd up, the most
In ample oceans, disembogu'd, are lost.

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poem by Ovid
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Absalom and Achitophel

In pious times, e'er Priest-craft did begin,
Before Polygamy was made a sin;
When man, on many, multiply'd his kind,
E'r one to one was, cursedly, confind:
When Nature prompted, and no law deny'd
Promiscuous use of Concubine and Bride;
Then, Israel's monarch, after Heaven's own heart,
His vigorous warmth did, variously, impart
To Wives and Slaves; And, wide as his Command,
Scatter'd his Maker's Image through the Land.
Michal, of Royal blood, the Crown did wear,
A Soyl ungratefull to the Tiller's care;
Not so the rest; for several Mothers bore
To Godlike David, several Sons before.
But since like slaves his bed they did ascend,
No True Succession could their seed attend.
Of all this Numerous Progeny was none
So Beautifull, so brave as Absalon:
Whether, inspir'd by some diviner Lust,
His father got him with a greater Gust;
Or that his Conscious destiny made way
By manly beauty to Imperiall sway.
Early in Foreign fields he won Renown,
With Kings and States ally'd to Israel's Crown
In Peace the thoughts of War he could remove,
And seem'd as he were only born for love.
What e'er he did was done with so much ease,
In him alone, 'twas Natural to please.
His motions all accompanied with grace;
And Paradise was open'd in his face.
With secret Joy, indulgent David view'd
His Youthfull Image in his Son renew'd:
To all his wishes Nothing he deny'd,
And made the Charming Annabel his Bride.
What faults he had (for who from faults is free?)
His Father could not, or he would not see.
Some warm excesses, which the Law forbore,
Were constru'd Youth that purg'd by boyling o'r:
And Amnon's Murther, by a specious Name,
Was call'd a Just Revenge for injur'd Fame.
Thus Prais'd, and Lov'd, the Noble Youth remain'd,
While David, undisturb'd, in Sion raign'd.
But Life can never be sincerely blest:
Heaven punishes the bad, and proves the best.
The Jews, a Headstrong, Moody, Murmuring race,
As ever try'd th' extent and stretch of grace;
God's pamper'd people whom, debauch'd with ease,
No King could govern, nor no God could please;
(Gods they had tri'd of every shape and size
That Gods-smiths could produce, or Priests devise.)

[...] Read more

poem by John Dryden
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Humane

is a
mystery or magic
going to happen here
to unveil
the HUMANE
from human

a lovely
flower from bud
to receive the
good morn kiss

the sun's
tender hands
opens the
bud to flower

no mystery
no magic
just a
daily fare

human to HUMANE
too...
a natural daily fare

in that gathering
of HUMANE humans
in its glow and shine
the sun will be put to shame

poem by Samanyan Lakshminarayanan
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A pulse in the eternal mind-Anagram Poem

Inhumane lisper talented.
Hell! I am a superintendent
Inane, up hell’s terminated
Headier, small, unpenitent.

Shut inane, an ill tempered
Leaden lush, I’m a pertinent
Humane perils in talented
Ill-natured, shape eminent

Inhumane let and reptiles
Help! I’m a sunnier talented
Inhumane talented perils
Neat hills, I am unrepented

Humane and silent reptile
Handle in sleepier mutant
Underneath ailments pile
An idle, supereminent halt

I’m a lethal, unrepented sin
Up ill mannered ‘n’ hesitate
Lamented pleasure in thin
idle snarl-up, heat eminent

Serene handle, up militant
Up eminent idea enthralls
I am the nude sin repellant
Lupine time Neanderthals.

Inane semen, putrid, lethal
Humane, planted, resilient,
Puerile hand, sentimental
Mushier and penile talent

Pluralist heed, an eminent
I 'm a stunner, idle elephant
Inane sell, I am the prudent
Serene handle, up militant

A pulse in the eternal mind
Help uninterested animal!
Insane elephant, true, mild
Unite simple Neanderthal.

In neat prudish elemental
Annihilated supreme lent

[...] Read more

poem by Marieta Maglas
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I am ANIMAL...by talile ali

For the longest time
I have aspired to
so many high minded
humane goals.

Unfortunately,
I have not attained any of them
for any real amount of
time

Why?

Its not from a lack of commitment,
I don't think.
It is more about
something else.

Some would say its lust,
desire, greed, envy, fear

But after so much time
and a great deal of contemplation
does it really matter
how i feel?

I have been lying to my self.
I have been conditioned to deny
the truth about
myself my
being.

I have been told
by so many
self-interested individuals
and have also read
in so many
great books and journals
about who and what we are
suppose to be
humane
beings.

All of them speak
of this fact that we are
not
animals.

This truth for me is
as I explored greatly
from so many

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poem by Talile Ali
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Fire and Ice! ! !

I got the inspiration for this poem from a quote called 'Fire and Ice.'

This world will eventually come to an end.
But will we get to choose how it does?
What would you choose?
Fire or Ice?

Fire would burn everything.
It would be a fast death.
It would wipe out the whole world.
But would it be more humane than Ice?

Ice would slowly kill every living thing; Human or Plant.
Ice would chill everything to the very centre of their core.
Ice would take a while to wipe out this civilisation.
But is this more humane than Fire?

Neither would be humane;
But what would you rather?
Fire or Ice?

poem by MaddiiAnne O'Leary
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God As A Super Computer

God is a super computer in which there are two folders,
Vile and humane,

.……………………. Vile ………………….

All the unfair work you do,

All the crimes you do,

All the injustice work you do,

…………………….. Humane ………………...

All the fair work you do,

All the social services you do,

All the justifiable work you do.

All the files of vile are converted to a new file called hard, sorrow and obstacles.

All the files of humane are
Converted to a new file called
Smooth, happiness and
Good living.

poem by Ram Kausik
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We must never relinquish the vision of a humane society and a humane world.

quote by Kjell Magne Bondevik
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To Attest To It

You're very much humane!
With your love towards me and of your concerns;
To attest to it,
For the very intent,
To support me,
For, everything in this life is possible! !
And, to attest to it from my experiences,
Because, you're very much humane.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Is this the Face?

Is this the Face?
Is this the face?
That Witnessed alot of Evil,
I saw Evil from the Other Side of Humane,
Is this the Choice that I made?
Seein that Iam captured in Ignorance,
There is no Value greater than God's eyes,
Seeing what Humane hast been Doing,
I see alot of Evil from the Other Side,
This Day,
My Choice is doing what is right upon my day and face.

poem by Maxpoet Beauty
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The Discontent

I.

1 Here take no Care, take here no Care, my Muse,
2 Nor ought of Art or Labour use:
3 But let thy Lines rude and unpolisht go,
4 Nor Equal be their Feet, nor Num'rous let them flow.
5 The ruggeder my Measures run when read,
6 They'l livelier paint th'unequal Paths fond Mortals tread.
7 Who when th'are tempted by the smooth Ascents,
8 Which flatt'ring Hope presents,
9 Briskly they clime, and Great Things undertake;
10 But Fatal Voyages, alas, they make:
11 For 'tis not long before their Feet,
12 Inextricable Mazes meet,
13 Perplexing Doubts obstruct their Way,
14 Mountains with-stand them of Dismay;
15 Or to the Brink of black Dispaire them lead,
16 Where's nought their Ruine to impede,
17 In vain for Aide they then to Reason call,
18 Their Senses dazle, and their Heads turn round,
19 The sight does all their Pow'rs confound,
20 And headlong down the horrid Precipice they fall:
21 Where storms of Sighs for ever blow,
22 Whre raped streams of Tears do flow,
23 Which drown them in a Briny Floud.
24 My Muse pronounce aloud, there's nothing Good,
25 Nought that the World can show,
26 Nought that it can bestow.

II.

27 Not boundless Heaps of its admired Clay,
28 Ah, too successful to betray,
29 When spread in our fraile Vertues way:
30 For few do run with so Resolv'd a Pace,
31 That for the Golden Apple will not loose the Race.
32 And yet not all the Gold the Vain would spend,
33 Or greedy Avarice would wish to save;
34 Which on the Earth refulgent Beams doth send,
35 Or in the Sea has found a Grave,
36 Joyn'd in one Mass, can Bribe sufficient be,
37 The Body from a stern Disease to free,
38 Or purchase for the Minds relief
39 One Moments sweet Repose, when restless made by grief,
40 But what may Laughter, more than Pity, move:
41 When some the Price of what they Dear'st Love
42 Are Masters of, and hold it in their Hand,

[...] Read more

poem by Anne Killigrew
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All Is Vanity

I

How vain is Life! which rightly we compare
To flying Posts, that haste away;
To Plants, that fade with the declining Day;
To Clouds, that sail amidst the yielding Air;
Till by Extention into that they flow,
Or, scatt'ring on the World below,
Are lost and gone, ere we can say they were;
To Autumn-leaves, which every Wind can chace;
To rising Bubbles, on the Waters Face;
To fleeting Dreams, that will not stay,
Nor in th' abused Fancy dance,
When the returning Rays of Light,
Resuming their alternate Right,
Break on th' ill-order'd Scene on the fantastick Trance:
As weak is Man, whilst Tenant to the Earth;
As frail and as uncertain all his Ways,
From the first moment of his weeping Birth,
Down to the last and best of his few restless Days;
When to the Land of Darkness he retires
From disappointed Hopes, and frustrated Desires;
Reaping no other Fruit of all his Pain
Bestow'd whilst in the vale of Tears below,
But this unhappy Truth, at last to know,
That Vanity's our Lot, and all Mankind is Vain.

II

If past the hazard of his tendrest Years,
Neither in thoughtless Sleep opprest,
Nor poison'd with a tainted Breast,
Loos'd from the infant Bands and female Cares,
A studious Boy, advanc'd beyond his Age,
Wastes the dim Lamp, and turns the restless Page;
For some lov'd Book prevents the rising Day,
And on it, stoln aside, bestows the Hours of Play;
Him the observing Master do's design
For search of darkned Truths and Mysteries Divine;
Bids him with unremitted Labour trace
The Rise of Empires, and their various Fates,
The several Tyrants o'er the several States,
To Babel's lofty Towers, and warlike Nimrod's Race;
Bids him in Paradice the Bank survey,
Where Man, new-moulded from the temper'd Clay,
(Till fir'd with Breath Divine) a helpless Figure lay:
Could he be led thus far--What were the Boast,
What the Reward of all the Toil it cost,
What from that Land of ever-blooming Spring,
For our Instruction could he bring,

[...] Read more

poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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Guy and Amarant

Guy journeyes towards that sanctifyed ground
Whereas the Jewes fayre citye sometime stood,
Wherin our Saviours sacred head was crownd,
And where for sinfull man he shed his blood.
To see the sepulcher was his intent,
The tombe that Joseph unto Jesus lent.

With tedious miles he tyred his wearye feet,
And passed desart places full of danger;
At last with a most woefull wight did meet,
A man that unto sorrow was noe stranger.
For he had fifteen sonnes made captives all
To slavish bondage, in extremest thrall.

A gyant called Amarant detaind them,
Whom noe man durst encounter for his strength,
Who, in a castle which he held, had chaind them.
Guy questions where, and understands at length
The place not farr. - 'Lend me thy sword,' quoth hee;
'Ile lend my manhood all thy sonnes to free.'

With that he goes and lays upon the dore
Like one that sayes, I must and will come in.
The gyant never was soe rowz'd before,
For noe such knocking at his gate had bin;
Soe takes his keyes and clubb, and cometh out,
Staring with ireful countenance about.

'Sirra,' quoth hee, 'what busines hast thou heere?
Art come to feast the crowes about my walls?
Didst never heare noe ransome can him cleere
That in the compasse of my furye falls?
For making me to take a porters paines,
With this same clubb I will dash out thy braines.'

'Gyant,' quoth Guy, 'y'are quarrelsome, I see;
Choller and you seem very neere of kin;
Most dangerous at the clubb belike you bee;
I have bin better armd, though nowe goe thin.
But shew thy utmost hate, enlarge thy spight,
Keene is my weapon, and shall doe me right.'

Soe draws his sword, salutes him with the same
About the head, the shoulders, and the side,
Whilst his erected clubb doth death proclaime,
Standinge with huge Colossus' spacious stride,
Putting such vigour to his knotty beame
That like a furnace he did smoke extreame.

But on the ground he spent his strokes in vaine,

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Think noble, Talk noble and Get Nobel

Noble are those
Who have self evolved
Humane values
And who stand by what they value
Not necessarily nobility
Of a person is assessed
On what they own or acquired
On whether they have power and authority

Any way present day requirement is that
A person needs to be rich and powerful
For he or she to be declared noble

Nobility enhances with popularity
The more popularity the greater nobility
The cumulative effect of
Power and popularity is
Immensely reflected on
The hurry in which one gets into
Noble cadre

Thus a person with
Self evolved humane values
Popularity, fame and power
Assumes greater nobility
In the society

But note the fame one acquires
Through notoriety
Does not and will add to his
Nobility scale

The person may even create
Controversies without, of course,
Affecting the social harmony
And remain noble

What about acting on your noble ideas
It looks from one of the recent
Nobel awardees
That you need not act
On your ideas
Just keep talking about them
In all possible gatherings
But ensure that the crowd accepts
Whatever great things you have to say

To become a Nobel Laureate
You require to do only these
Think noble

[...] Read more

poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Euterpe: A Cantanta

Argument.
Hail to thee, Sound!—The power of Euterpe in all the scenes of life—
in religion; in works of charity; in soothing troubles by means of music;
in all humane and high purposes; in war; in grief; in the social circle;
the children’s lullaby; the dance; the ballad; in conviviality;
when far from home; at evening—the whole ending with an allegorical chorus,
rejoicing at the building of a mighty hall erected for the recreation
of a nation destined to take no inconsiderable part in the future history
of the world.

Overture

No. 1 Chorus

All hail to thee, Sound! Since the time
Calliope’s son took the lyre,
And lulled in the heart of their clime
The demons of darkness and fire;
Since Eurydice’s lover brought tears
To the eyes of the Princes of Night,
Thou hast been, through the world’s weary years,
A marvellous source of delight—
Yea, a marvellous source of delight!

In the wind, in the wave, in the fall
Of the water, each note of thine dwells;
But Euterpe hath gathered from all
The sweetest to weave into spells.
She makes a miraculous power
Of thee with her magical skill;
And gives us, for bounty or dower,
The accents that soothe us or thrill!
Yea, the accents that soothe us or thrill!

All hail to thee, Sound! Let us thank
The great Giver of light and of life
For the music divine that we’ve drank,
In seasons of peace and of strife,
Let us gratefully think of the balm
That falls on humanity tired,
At the tones of the song or the psalm
From lips and from fingers inspired—
Yea, from lips and from fingers inspired.

No. 2 Quartette and Chorus

When, in her sacred fanes
God’s daughter, sweet Religion, prays,

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poem by Henry Kendall
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The Castle Of Indolence

The castle hight of Indolence,
And its false luxury;
Where for a little time, alas!
We lived right jollily.

O mortal man, who livest here by toil,
Do not complain of this thy hard estate;
That like an emmet thou must ever moil,
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date:
And, certes, there is for it reason great;
For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail,
And curse thy star, and early drudge and late;
Withouten that would come a heavier bale,
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale.
In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,
With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round,
A most enchanting wizard did abide,
Than whom a fiend more fell is no where found.
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground;
And there a season atween June and May,
Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrown'd,
A listless climate made, where, sooth to say,
No living wight could work, ne cared even for play.
Was nought around but images of rest:
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between;
And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest,
From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green,
Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
Meantime, unnumber'd glittering streamlets play'd,
And hurled every where their waters sheen;
That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills,
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale:
And, now and then, sweet Philomel would wail,
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep,
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale;
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep;
Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep.
Full in the passage of the vale, above,
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood;
Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move,
As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood:
And up the hills, on either side, a wood
Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro,
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood;
And where this valley winded out, below,
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.

[...] Read more

poem by James Thomson
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Satyr

Were I (who to my cost already am
One of those strange prodigious Creatures Man)
A Spirit free, to choose for my own share,
What Case of Flesh, and Blood, I pleas'd to weare,
I'd be a Dog, a Monkey, or a Bear,
Or any thing but that vain Animal,
Who is so proud of being rational.
The senses are too gross, and he'll contrive
A Sixth, to contradict the other Five;
And before certain instinct, will preferr
Reason, which Fifty times for one does err.
Reason, an Ignis fatuus, in the Mind,
Which leaving light of Nature, sense behind;
Pathless and dang'rous wandring ways it takes,
Through errors Fenny -- Boggs, and Thorny Brakes;
Whilst the misguided follower, climbs with pain,
Mountains of Whimseys, heap'd in his own Brain:
Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong down,
Into doubts boundless Sea, where like to drown,
Books bear him up awhile, and make him try,
To swim with Bladders of Philosophy;
In hopes still t'oretake th'escaping light,
The Vapour dances in his dazling sight,
Till spent, it leaves him to eternal Night.
Then Old Age, and experience, hand in hand,
Lead him to death, and make him understand,
After a search so painful, and so long,
That all his Life he has been in the wrong;
Hudled in dirt, the reas'ning Engine lyes,
Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise.
Pride drew him in, as Cheats, their Bubbles catch,
And makes him venture, to be made a Wretch.
His wisdom did his happiness destroy,
Aiming to know that World he shou'd enjoy;
And Wit, was his vain frivolous pretence,
Of pleasing others, at his own expence.
For Witts are treated just like common Whores,
First they're enjoy'd, and then kickt out of Doores:
The pleasure past, a threatning doubt remains,
That frights th'enjoyer, with succeeding pains:
Women and Men of Wit, are dang'rous Tools,
And ever fatal to admiring Fools.
Pleasure allures, and when the Fopps escape,
'Tis not that they're belov'd, but fortunate,
And therefore what they fear, at heart they hate.
But now methinks some formal Band, and Beard,
Takes me to task, come on Sir I'm prepar'd.
Then by your favour, any thing that's writ
Against this gibeing jingling knack call'd Wit,
Likes me abundantly, but you take care,

[...] Read more

poem by Lord John Wilmot
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Amarantha. A Pastorall

Up with the jolly bird of light
Who sounds his third retreat to night;
Faire Amarantha from her bed
Ashamed starts, and rises red
As the carnation-mantled morne,
Who now the blushing robe doth spurne,
And puts on angry gray, whilst she,
The envy of a deity,
Arayes her limbes, too rich indeed
To be inshrin'd in such a weed;
Yet lovely 'twas and strait, but fit;
Not made for her, but she to it:
By nature it sate close and free,
As the just bark unto the tree:
Unlike Love's martyrs of the towne,
All day imprison'd in a gown,
Who, rackt in silke 'stead of a dresse,
Are cloathed in a frame or presse,
And with that liberty and room,
The dead expatiate in a tombe.
No cabinets with curious washes,
Bladders and perfumed plashes;
No venome-temper'd water's here,
Mercury is banished this sphere:
Her payle's all this, in which wet glasse
She both doth cleanse and view her face.
Far hence, all Iberian smells,
Hot amulets, Pomander spells,
Fragrant gales, cool ay'r, the fresh
And naturall odour of her flesh,
Proclaim her sweet from th' wombe as morne.
Those colour'd things were made, not borne.
Which, fixt within their narrow straits,
Do looke like their own counterfeyts.
So like the Provance rose she walkt,
Flowerd with blush, with verdure stalkt;
Th' officious wind her loose hayre curles,
The dewe her happy linnen purles,
But wets a tresse, which instantly
Sol with a crisping beame doth dry.
Into the garden is she come,
Love and delight's Elisium;
If ever earth show'd all her store,
View her discolourd budding floore;
Here her glad eye she largely feedes,
And stands 'mongst them, as they 'mong weeds;
The flowers in their best aray
As to their queen their tribute pay,
And freely to her lap proscribe
A daughter out of ev'ry tribe.

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Lovelace
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This Holiday Of Reason

As we gather round our tables and break bread
We need to remember those who are dead
The ones who we've lost in so many senseless wars
The children that were abducted by the wicked deep in gore
The women who have been denied their right to walk free
In our streets and our towns because of the disrespect that we breed
By hooligans, perverts, and the criminally insane
Our societies so sick that it threatens our gains
When will we become a land of care and concern
When will we be responsible for the crimes we have learned
When will we acknowledge the madness and the greed
In our need for more money and our neglect of those in need
We can never be humane while we ignore all these crimes
And deny really treating the ill and confined
If we do not take hold and be true to just this
Our existence will be only a pause in the mist
Let us do what's right for the world where we live
Equal pay and equal rights for the people who live
In the shelters and cabins and castles and lands
We need to be beholding for all they demand
Our world is a Hodge podge of worldly delights
It's up to us all to recognize our own plight
And address the woes of being less than human
So that we may be a race humane once again

Talile Ali 11/30/12

poem by Talile Ali
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