Humanity is never more sphinxlike than when it is expressing itself.
quote by Rebecca West
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Looking At The Many People
Looking at the many people.
Looking at the many people,
Waiting to live a life they like.
The many people...
In a luxurized hype.
Looking at the people,
Waiting for a life they like.
The many people.
Looking at the many people.
Embittered and lamenting.
Looking at the many people.
Living venting and resenting.
Looking at the many people.
Condescending and offending.
Looking at the many people.
Expressing their sad sentiments...
And in their minds they're losing sense.
Looking at the many people.
Looking at the many people.
Waiting for a life they like.
The many people.
Looking at the many people.
Looking at the many people.
Waiting for a life they like.
The many people.
Looking at the many people.
Embittered and lamenting.
Looking at the many people.
Living venting and resenting.
Looking at the many people.
Condescending and offending.
Looking at the many people.
Expressing their sad sentiments...
And in their minds they're losing sense.
Looking at the many people.
Looking at the many people.
Expressing their sad sentiments...
And in their minds they're losing sense.
Looking at the many people.
Looking at the many people.
Expressing their sad sentiments...
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Man Of A Thousand Faces
(music: marillion lyrics: john helmer)
Im the man of a thousand faces
A little piece of me in every part I take
I hold the tape for a thousand races
A different point of view in every speech I make
Cut me a piece of my divided soul
Cry me a river, call it rock and roll
Speak to a leader with the voice of command
And when I talk to God I know hell understand
I speak to machines with the voice of humanity
Ill speak to the wise with the voice of insanity
Im the man of a thousand faces
A little piece of me in every part I take
I hold the tape for a thousand races
A different point of view in every speech I make
Cut me a piece of my divided soul
Cry me a river, call it rock and roll
Give me an attitude and watch me make it lie
Pass me a microphone
I need to testify
Well I speak to machines with the voice of humanity
Speak to the wise with the voice of insanity
Speak to the present in the past and future tense
Speak to a slave with the voice of obedience
Im the man of a thousand ages
You see my face in the stones of the parthenon
You hear my song in the babble of babylon
Im the man of a thousand riches
Be my guest at the feast of satyricon
You spend the money that my logos printed on
Well Ill speak to machines with the voice of humanity
Speak to the wise with the voice of insanity
Speak to the present in the past and future tense
Speak to a slave with the voice of obedience
I stole a fire but it burned up much too soon
I took a leap and I landed on the moon
Look at my life and it looks like cnn
You see something once yknow its gonna come around again
Well Ill speak to machines with the voice of humanity
Speak to the wise with the voice of insanity
Speak to a woman with the fatal charm of a snake
Forgive like a giver and account for all I take
Yes, I speak to machines with the voice of humanity
Speak to the wise with the voice of insanity
Speak like a leader with the voice of power and command
And when I talk to God I know hell understand
Cause Im the man of a thousand faces
Yes Im the man of a thousand faces
I stole a fire but it burned up too much too soon
I took a leap and I landed on the moon..
[...] Read more
song performed by Marillion
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The Song Of Mankind
If human fails to help humanity..
Who will think for humanity
With a feeling of li’l sympathy
Won’t be a matter of indignity…? ? ?
If human fails to help humanity
Who will think for humanity
With a feeling of li’l sympathy
Won’t be a matter of indignity…? ? ?
If human fails to help humanity…..
When a man sells his fellow men..
When a man bids for fellow men..
When a man sells his fellow men..
When a man bids for fellow men..
Uncivilized and uncultured….
Won’t be a matter of indignity? ?
If human fails to help humanity
Who will think for humanity
With a feeling of li’l sympathy
Won’t be a matter of indignity…? ? ?
If human fails to help humanity…
Let us stretch our hands..
To help the needy and poor..
With a feeling of warmth
We can make it sure! ! !
Let us stretch our hands..
To help the needy and poor..
With a feeling of warmth
We can make it sure! ! !
If a man cant be a human…
How would a demon become human? ?
If a man cant be a human…
How would a demon become human? ?
And If a demon becomes human
Won’t be a matter of indignity? ?
(Originally composed in Assamese as ‘Manuhe Manuhor Babe’ by Dr. Bhupen Hazarika)
(Set to original tune)
poem by Kamal Jyoti Borah
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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.
[...] Read more
poem by Khalil Gibran
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Paradise Bars No Race Embrace Humanity
even when life low ebbs
muddied exhausted drained
by a flu wonder awaits
in words soft still spoken
universal life chime spoken
haunting in stillness carried
on a breeze sparkling across
winds of time grace gift
of incredible verse may await
on line posted by a friend
who sings causes close embedded
in mine own heart soul that must
ever sing for all life embodied
upon this time tortured planet
earth that must bear witness
to divine angelic and beast
holocaust in nature of conflicted
global civilization humanity
then when tired weary cast
down from burden of voice
to ghost souls who cannot
voice injustices speak crimes
committed against their humanity
rises up sings clear voice
of a poet friend who shares
this burden life distilled chosen
carry a torch aflame in memory
hope to lives lost lives we yet
may save quiet listen to voice
of Eric Cockrell as ‘Sounds
Of The Earth' plead your soul
with conscience birthed immortal
breath breathed into humanity
knowing well concepts noble
uphold righteousness denounce evil
embrace bless all humanity
incredibly beautiful hymns
celebrating pride strength
in nature before the contrasted
turn in life cities civilizations
are written now await readers
who will read wisdom's words
who will transcend sing songs
gift blessing each unique portion
celebrating diversity in humanity
who will denounce crime of greed
excess hoarding precious life blood
of humanities victims hope stripped
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society
Epigraph
Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.
I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.
You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Prosperity to humanity
Prosperity, prosperity
Prosperity to humanity
I brought to you
Love and solidarity
Peace and harmony
Kings go to war
And humanity fall
But i brought prosperity to humanity
So why then should you curse me
Instead of blessing me
I need you to love me
For it is prosperity
I brought to humanity
It power and glory to humanity
Accountability and transparency
A higher levity
Prosperity, prosperity
Prosperity to humanity
poem by Matt Ancient
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The Murder Of Humanity
Once there lived two friends,
human and humanity.
human was loving and caring,
while humanity spread peace and brotherhood.
under their friendship tree,
everyone was happy and merry.
in the same world lived Hate and Greed, full of sinister.
very different from all the other.
who were always jealous of human and humanity,
and they tried hard to part the friends
and throw them away in different ends.
the did succeed,
in the heart of human they planted hate-seed.
soon the seed started to rear,
and human was left with no love and care.
it turned furious towards humanity.
all their friendship woes turned into enmity.
hate and greed infected human one after the other.
and made human to commit the murder.
end of peace was marked with the murder of humanity,
in some lost corner is the grave of humanity,
now the world knows only hate, greed and enmity.
poem by Arfa Iris
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The Secret (Roswell 1947)
On a warm summer day, I glanced at the sky,
On July 8th,1947, I saw a circle-like object a high,
Intent to search our world, the unidentified flying object,
A so-called encounter against humanity, the search project,
The object was shot by national security due to fright,
The object burned to bits before the dawning of night,
It landed in the desert in New Mexico, Roswell 1947,
But were the intent made for evil? it could’ve came from heaven,
The closed minds of humanity, justified by force,
Instead of letting nature and fate take it’s course,
On July 8th 1947, in Roswell New Mexico, I still remember,
The broken pieces that lay in the sand glowing from embers,
Humanity scared of chaos, confusion and disease,
Humanity, the naïve, that uses violence rather than perceive,
I still remember, the metallic pieces with the pink light code,
But forever government hiding what really happened so nobody will know,
Money the greed, that steals the knowledge of an event surreal,
Never will the world see the sky under steel,
Hidden tapes, and confidential info to keep for themselves,
Info humanity that would want to experience from ourselves,
Humanity has a right to know what really occurred,
Only I can spread what really happened, a true story preferred,
I still remember, when the sky was split by that bright beam,
The opening of the skies with neon seams,
Perceived as a loss of control, or a crash to the earth,
Perceived as a natural disaster in nature rather than mirth,
But it was a sight to see! Only can we imagine what the secret is worth,
It was then July 8th,1947, that the sky was a pattern of girth,
As it flew in a curve like motion, a pattern of its own,
This flying object that flies from the unknown,
But what makes Roswell 1947 different than any other event,
Why is the incident in Roswell 1947 publicity bent?
But I can still remember looking into those black eyes,
I can still remember the sensation I felt as the creature slowly died,
I felt a sense of sorrow for the black eyed creature, empathy,
A creature that proved no bad intentions, I felt sympathy,
A creature with a fairly large head, a small body, and black eyes,
The same creature that was a pilot of the UFO that split the sky,
Forever, must you really know what happened in Roswell,
But never will you see what really occurred,
But maybe again we’ll experience an event when the sky dispearse.
poem by Kurt Kacich
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As His Wife
As Christ’s Church and as His wife, we have a purpose in our life,
When we gather together as one, under the headship of The Son,
In worship and instruction friend, together we seek a glorious end.
When we fellowship in one place, as believers to express our faith.
Worship friend’s an integral part, of expressing what’s in our heart,
As we worship Christ our King, with all our hearts in song we sing.
Worship through heartfelt song, from all The Lord’s earthly throng,
Praises lifted to The Lord above, thanking Him for all Christ’s Love.
Instruction we get from The Word, when The Truth of God is heard,
God using The Word of the Lord, sharper than a two-edged sword,
Instructing believers in our daily life, how to live each day for Christ.
As God’s Word cuts deep within, helping The Body to deal with sin.
Fellowship too, is an essential key, to prepare believers for eternity,
While building up the Body of Christ, God shapes us for eternal life.
Fellowship in every local church, strengths us in our Savior’s worth,
Reaching out unto your brother, as believers building up each other.
Expressing our faith in The Lord, is what Christ’s Church is here for,
Making disciples in every nation, to share with all men His salvation.
Expressing our faith in Jesus Christ, while being for Him a sacrifice,
Whatever the pain or the cost, to reach for Christ a world that’s lost.
(Copyright ©06/2006)
poem by Bob Gotti
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Farewell Misunderstandings - Parody John Dryden - Farewell, Ungrateful Traitor!
Farewell, misunderstandings
Farewell, past perjury!
Let not unhappy landings
void voyage verity.
The pleasure of possessing
surpasses all expressing
though bitter-sweet its blessing
once seemed, heave-ho heart’s pain!
If upgrades site proposes
can't counter weary tears
when downgrade fate opposes
encounters change of gears,
those trophies once adorning
night, morning, witness mourning,
departure tells no dawning
when Judgement Day appears.
Deceptions past prepare us,
for neither pity, pain,
though some say: “Should you leave us,
has journey proved in vain? ”
Before you have denied it
there is no bliss beside it
yet she that once has tried it
shall find joy where all gain.
Some passion have pretended,
as game aimed to obtain
your charms – their charm soon ended,
the charmer you disdain.
Past tears have taken measure
of losing precious treasure,
but parting seems slight pleasure
when sharing hopes again.
© Jonathan Robin 16 June 2007 Parody John Dryden - Farewell, Ungrateful Traitor! revised 19 October 2008 for previous version see below
Farewell, misunderstandings
Farewell, past perjury!
Let not unhappy landings
Presume life’s verity.
The pleasure of possessing
Surpasses all expressing
Though bitter-sweet its blessing
Once seemed, - farewell Love’s pain.
Deceptions past prepare us,
For neither pity, pain,
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Face And Fix Those Obstacles
Face and fix those obstacles.
If ignored they will continue to grow.
If you don't do it,
They will never let you go.
And you will be the one regretting...
With eyes not words seen,
With an eyebrow or two lifted...
Expressing this, 'We told you so! '
Face and fix those obstacles.
If ignored they will continue to grow.
If you don't do it,
They will never let you go.
And you will be the one regretting...
With eyes not words seen,
With an eyebrow or two lifted...
Expressing this, 'We told you so! '
Scoop them up with a boot.
Don't be the one regretting.
Snip them quick from the root,
Don't be the one regretting.
Don't adorn your stress as if...
Accessories to brag about,
Like you've been given gifts.
Face and fix those obstacles.
If ignored they will continue to grow.
If you don't do it,
They will never let you go.
And you will be the one regretting...
With eyes not words seen,
With an eyebrow or two lifted...
Expressing this, 'We told you so! '
Scoop them up with a boot.
Don't be the one regretting.
Snip them quick from the root,
Don't be the one regretting.
Don't adorn your stress as if...
Accessories to brag about,
Like you've been given gifts.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Prescribed Thought A Prescribed Mode Of Action
There is no such a thing
There is no such a thing as a most natural way
There is no such a thing as a most natural way of expressing a thought
There is no such a thing as a most natural way of expressing a thought a mode of action
There is no such a thing as a most natural way of expressing a thought a mode of action a form of logic
After so much thought
After so much thought about loneliness
It becomes apparent
Logic can no longer be relied upon
Logic can no longer be relied upon as a base for studying the structure of language
The structure of my poetry
The structure of my soul
The structure of my God
I dare think
I dare to know
I dare to think
I will not be hardwired from the thinking of my birth rising from some dogmatic slumber.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Book the Second
Thou hearest the Nightingale begin the Song of Spring.
The Lark sitting upon his earthly bed, just as the morn
Apears, listens silent; then springing from the waving Corn-field loud
He leads the Choir of Day! trill, thrill, thrill, trill,
Mounting upon the wings of light into the great Expanse,
Reechoing against the lovely blue & shining heavenly Shell.
His little throat labours with inspiration; every feather
On throat & breast & wings vibrates with the effluence Divine.
All Nature listens silent to him, & the awful Sun
Stands still upon the Mountain looking on this little Bird
With eyes of soft humility & wonder, love & awe.
Then loud from their green covert all the Birds begin their Song:
The Thrush, the Linnet & the Goldfinch, Robin & the Wren
Awake the Sun from his sweet reverie upon the Mountain;
The Nightingale again assays his song, & thro’ the day
And thro’ the night warbles luxuriant, every Bird of Song
Attending his loud harmony with admiration & love.
This is a Vision of the lamentation of Beulah over Ololon.
Thou perceivest the Flowers put forth their precious Odours,
And none can tell how form so small a center comes such sweets,
Forgetting that within that Center Eternity expends
Its ever during doors that Og & Anak fiercely guard.
First, e’er the morning breaks, joy opens in the flowery bosoms,
Joy even to tears, which the
Sun rising dries; first the Wild Thyme
And Meadow-sweet, downy & soft, waving among the reeds,
Light springing on the air, lead the sweet Dance: they wake
The Honeysuckle sleeping on the Oak; the flaunting beauty
Revels along upon the wind; the White-thorn, lovely May,
Opens her many lovely eyes; listening the Rose still sleeps –
None dare to wake her; soon she bursts her crimson curtain’d bed
And comes forth in the majesty of beauty; every Flower,
The Pink, the Jessamine, the Wall-flower, the Carnation,
The Jonquil, the mild Lilly opes her heavens; every Tree
And Flower & Herb soon fill the air with an innumberable Dance,
Yet all in order sweet & lovely. Men are sick with Love.
Such is a Vision of the Lamentation of Beulah over Ololon.
And Milton oft sat upon the Couch of Death, & oft conversed
In vision & dream beatific with the Seven Angels of the Presence:
‘I have turned my back upon these Heavens builded on cruelty.
My Spectre still wandering thro’ them follows my Emanation;
He hunts her footsteps thro’ the snow & the wintry hail & rain.
The idiot Reasoner laughs at the Man of Imagination,
And from laughter proceeds o murder by undervaluing calumny.’
Then Hillel, who is Lucifer, replied over the Couch of Death,
And thus the Seven angels instructed him, & thus they converse:
‘We are not Individuals but States, Combinations of Individuals.
We were Angels of the Divine Presence, & were Druids in Annandale,
Compell’d to combine into Form by Satan, the Spectre of Albion,
[...] Read more
poem by William Blake from Milton (1810)
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Girl Alone
You are hurting
Girl alone.
You wonder
If anyone can know
How you hurt
Or is it known just to you.
You are hurting
Girl alone.
But your hurt
Is familiar
To humanity.
You are hurting
Girl alone.
But humanity,
Even though it knows your hurt,
Will not help you.
Because humanity
Wants you
To get over your hurt
And help humanity.
Because the only succor
Humanity knows
Is from you
Girl.
poem by Lonely People Champion
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Margrave
On the small marble-paved platform
On the turret on the head of the tower,
Watching the night deepen.
I feel the rock-edge of the continent
Reel eastward with me below the broad stars.
I lean on the broad worn stones of the parapet top
And the stones and my hands that touch them reel eastward.
The inland mountains go down and new lights
Glow over the sinking east rim of the earth.
The dark ocean comes up,
And reddens the western stars with its fog-breath
And hides them with its mounded darkness.
The earth was the world and man was its measure, but our minds
have looked
Through the little mock-dome of heaven the telescope-slotted
observatory eyeball, there space and multitude came in
And the earth is a particle of dust by a sand-grain sun, lost in a
nameless cove of the shores of a continent.
Galaxy on galaxy, innumerable swirls of innumerable stars, endured
as it were forever and humanity
Came into being, its two or three million years are a moment, in
a moment it will certainly cease out from being
And galaxy on galaxy endure after that as it were forever . . .
But man is conscious,
He brings the world to focus in a feeling brain,
In a net of nerves catches the splendor of things,
Breaks the somnambulism of nature . . . His distinction perhaps,
Hardly his advantage. To slaver for contemptible pleasures
And scream with pain, are hardly an advantage.
Consciousness? The learned astronomer
Analyzing the light of most remote star-swirls
Has found them-or a trick of distance deludes his prism-
All at incredible speeds fleeing outward from ours.
I thought, no doubt they are fleeing the contagion
Of consciousness that infects this corner of space.
For often I have heard the hard rocks I handled
Groan, because lichen and time and water dissolve them,
And they have to travel down the strange falling scale
Of soil and plants and the flesh of beasts to become
The bodies of men; they murmur at their fate
In the hollows of windless nights, they'd rather be anything
Than human flesh played on by pain and joy,
They pray for annihilation sooner, but annihilation's
Not in the book yet.
So, I thought, the rumor
Of human consciousness has gone abroad in the world,
The sane uninfected far-outer universes
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Otherside
Somewhere in the mystic future, on the road to Paradise,
There’s a very pleasant country that I’ve dreamed of once or twice,
It has inland towns, and cities by the ocean’s rocky shelves,
But the people of the country differ somewhat from ourselves;
It is many leagues beyond us, and they call it Otherside.
And there is among its people more Humanity than Pride.
Now, a social system never was complete, without a flaw,
And among the Othersiders there is love and gold and war.
But if one is fairly beaten he can turn upon the track,
For in such a case there isn’t any shame in going back;
And a broken-hearted mortal never thinks of suicide,
For he finds amongst his brothers more Humanity than Pride.
And the lords of that creation never scoff at simple things,
Never scorn the lad who’s tethered to his mother’s apron-strings.
He will speak of “home” and “mother” without shame when he’s inclined,
Yet the blow he strikes in battle mostly leaves a mark behind.
They are brave against invasion; they can die in Otherside,
Though there is among the people more Humanity than Pride.
Poets sing in simple language that a child might understand,
Yet their songs are sung for ages by the elders of the land;
And the people know that Freedom never shall be wanting guards,
For the foremost in the vanguard waves the banner of the Bards.
O the poets march together, and at home in peace abide,
For there is amongst the people more Humanity than Pride.
And when I am very weary, ’neath a load of “worldly care”,
There are times when I’ve a longing just to hump my bluey there;
But alone I could not reach it, for the track is barred to one—
I must take the nations with me—all mankind must go, or none—
And we’d trample one another on the way to Otherside,
For I find among my brothers less Humanity than Pride.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Amazing Power of Humanity
People here, people there
People using their power everywhere
Humanity toward others
With a humbleness not seen by many
The power, the excitment seen on faces when people give and recieve
It's so bloody tremendous!
We all have that power to provide to others
But not all are giving, some take
Some really show it's fake
It's amazing, the power of humanity
Being humble without a grumble
Even if you stumble
It's OK
Never give up, humanity needs you
For with your power, you can break though
The strength that you show provides many others with comfort
A feeling that they too can grow
Humanity, the power, the freeing
The true caring, wow, what a passionate feeling
If only more would show such compassion for others
Maybe then humans could all truly become one
That's the true amazing power of humanity
poem by Craig Piercy
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Every Day Is Thy Day
Humanity looks upon Jesus the Nazarene as a “poor
born”, who suffered misery and humiliation with all of the
weak. And He is pitied, for humanity believes He was
crucified painfully…And all that humanity offers to
Him is crying and wailing, and lamentation. For centuries
humanity has been worshipping weakness in the person of
The Savior.
The Nazarene was not weak! He was strong and is
strong! But the people refuse to heed the true meaning of
strength.
Jesus never lived a life of fear, nor did He die suffering or
complaining…He lived as a leader; He was crucified as
a crusader; He died with a heroism that frightened His
tormentors and killers.
Jesus was not a bird with broken wings; He was a raging
tempest who broke all crooked wings. He feared not His
persecutors nor His enemies. He suffered not before His
killers. Free and brave and daring He was. He defied all
despots and oppressors. He saw the contagious pustules
and cut them out…He muted evil, crushed
falsehood and He choked treachery.
Jesus came not from the heart of the circle of light to
destroy the homes and build upon their ruins the convents
and monasteries. He did not persuade the strong man to
become a monk or a priest, but He came to send forth
upon this Earth a new spirit, with power to crumble the
foundation of any monarchy built upon human bones and
skulls…He came to demolish the majestic palaces, con-
structed upon the graves of the weak, and crush the idols,
erected upon the bodies of the poor. Jesus was not sent
here to teach the people to build magnificent churches and
temples amidst the cold wretched huts and dismal hovels.
He came to make the human heart a temple, and the
soul and altar, and the mind a priest.
These were the missions of Jesus the Nazarene, and
these are the teachings for which He was crucified, and if
Humanity were wise, she would stand today and sing in
strength the song of conquest and the hymn of triumph.
Oh, Crucified Jesus…
Who looks sorrowfully, and hears the clamour of dark
Nations…Do they not understand the dreams of Eternity?
Thou art, on the cross, more glorious and
dignified than one thousand kings upon
[...] Read more
poem by Ray Lucero
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Alsace-Lorraine
I
The sister Hours in circles linked,
Daughters of men, of men the mates,
Are gone on flow with the day that winked,
With the night that spanned at golden gates.
Mothers, they leave us, quickening seed;
They bear us grain or flower or weed,
As we have sown; is nought extinct
For them we fill to be our Fates.
Life of the breath is but the loan;
Passing death what we have sown.
Pearly are they till the pale inherited stain
Deepens in us, and the mirrors they form on their flow
Darken to feature and nature: a volumed chain,
Sequent of issue, in various eddies they show.
Theirs is the Book of the River of Life, to read
Leaf by leaf by reapers of long-sown seed:
There doth our shoot up to light from a spiriting sane
Stand as a tree whereon numberless clusters grow:
Legible there how the heart, with its one false move
Cast Eurydice pallor on all we love.
Our fervid heart has filled that Book in chief;
Our fitful heart a wild reflection views;
Our craving heart of passion suckling grief
Disowns the author's work it must peruse;
Inconscient in its leap to wreak the deed,
A round of harvests red from crimson seed,
It marks the current Hours show leaf by leaf,
And rails at Destiny; nor traces clues;
Though sometimes it may think what novel light
Will strike their faces when the mind shall write.
II
Succourful daughters of men are the rosed and starred
Revolving Twelves in their fluent germinal rings,
Despite the burden to chasten, abase, depose.
Fallen on France, as the sweep of scythe over sward,
They breathed in her ear their voice of the crystal springs,
That run from a twilight rise, from a twilight close,
Through alternate beams and glooms, rejoicingly young.
Only to Earth's best loved, at the breathless turns
Where Life in fold of the Shadow reclines unstrung,
And a ghostly lamp of their moment's union burns,
Will such pure notes from the fountain-head be sung.
Voice of Earth's very soul to the soul she would see renewed:
[...] Read more
poem by George Meredith
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