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One Leg Anne and the Innocent Flirt.

Sister Mary pushed Anne
in her wheelchair
to the white table
where you were sitting

with Lydia Sad
and Malcolm
and a curly headed girl
with burn scars

on her face and neck
there
said the nun
here you can sit

and wait for breakfast
and catch the morning sun
Anne looked glumly
at the sky

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poem by Terry Collett
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Nest of Vipers

'Twas early spring.
When I got out to smell.
Wood, flowers, amidst melting snow.
Last ice, early birds and all.

Saw cranes, sparrows and swans.
Arriving by group and flock.
With the mourning wind.
Warmth of sun, to end the winter-chill.

Darkness, of heart.
It often seeded and brought.
So I went, a walk.
Within the woods.

Alone, for a while.
I wanted.
To witness, taste.
Smell it all!

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poem by Ilari Rahja
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The Church of Wenslow Haze

The sea that batters the eastern coast
Has often subdued the land,
Five hundred years have seen the retreat
Of a mile of cliffs and sand,
When tides are low in the summertime
From beneath the distant swell,
The villagers lying abed at night
Hear the tolling of a bell.

The bell resounds up the village street
And rattles the cobblestones,
As the villagers close the shutters tight
And lock the doors of their homes,
They hear the thump of a wooden stump
As it echoes along the street,
The wooden leg of the mate, John Clegg
From Drake's Armada Fleet!

The thump is steady and purposeful
As it heads towards the sea,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Coven

I had shot a couple of pheasants,
Was returning, deep from the wood,
Avoiding the crackle of branches, making
As little noise as I could,
The sky was clear and a harvest moon
Shone down through the old oak leaves,
When I saw the glimmer of candlelight
Shimmering through the trees.

I hid myself by the mighty oak
That had grown, six hundred years,
And heard the mutter of chanting there,
The rhyme of an evil verse,
I looked on out to a clearing where
The Devil and all were stood,
Thirteen candles and thirteen cloaks
And thirteen wearing a hood.

The Devil stood on an ancient stump
His face was hid from the mass,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Giving Tree

Once there was a tree....
and she loved a little boy.
And everyday the boy would come
and he would gather her leaves
and make them into crowns
and play king of the forest.
He would climb up her trunk
and swing from her branches
and eat apples.
And they would play hide-and-go-seek.
And when he was tired,
he would sleep in her shade.
And the boy loved the tree....
very much.
And the tree was happy.
But time went by.
And the boy grew older.
And the tree was often alone.
Then one day the boy came to the tree
and the tree said, 'Come, Boy, come and

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poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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The Dresser

AN old man bending, I come, among new faces,
Years looking backward, resuming, in answer to children,
Come tell us, old man, as from young men and maidens that love me;
Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these
chances,
Of unsurpass'd heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was equally
brave;)
Now be witness again--paint the mightiest armies of earth;
Of those armies so rapid, so wondrous, what saw you to tell us?
What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics,
Of hard-fought engagements, or sieges tremendous, what deepest
remains?

O maidens and young men I love, and that love me, 10
What you ask of my days, those the strangest and sudden your talking
recalls;
Soldier alert I arrive, after a long march, cover'd with sweat and
dust;
In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the

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poem by Walt Whitman
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The Wound Dresser

1

AN old man bending, I come, among new faces,
Years looking backward, resuming, in answer to children,
Come tell us, old man, as from young men and maidens that love me;
(Arous'd and angry, I'd thought to beat the alarum, and urge relentless war,
but soon my fingers fail'd me, my face droop'd and I resign'd myself,
To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead
Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances,
Of unsurpass’d heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was equally brave
Now be witness again—paint the mightiest armies of earth;
Of those armies so rapid, so wondrous, what saw you to tell us?
What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics,
Of hard-fought engagements, or sieges tremendous, what deepest remains?

2

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poem by Walt Whitman
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A Prisoner of Sobibor

On an early autumn day
a train coming from Minsk rolled
into the railway station of Sobibor,
a village in the Lublin district of Poland.

The passengers of the train
were unaware that the outskirts
of this dusty small town
concealed a dreadful Nazi death camp
where gas chambers poisoned victims
with carbon monoxide.

It was September 23,1943,
and a Soviet prisoner of war,
First Lieutenant Alexander Pechersky
was also in one of the boxcars
of the deported Jews.

His mind in captivity
wandered restlessly.

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poem by Paul Hartal
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Johnson’s Antidote

Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp,
Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp;
Where the station-cook in terror, nearly every time he bakes,
Mixes up among the doughboys half-a-dozen poison-snakes:
Where the wily free-selector walks in armour-plated pants,
And defies the stings of scorpions, and the bites of bull-dog ants:
Where the adder and the viper tear each other by the throat,—
There it was that William Johnson sought his snake-bite antidote.
Johnson was a free-selector, and his brain went rather queer,
For the constant sight of serpents filled him with a deadly fear;
So he tramped his free-selection, morning, afternoon, and night,
Seeking for some great specific that would cure the serpent’s bite.
Till King Billy, of the Mooki, chieftain of the flour-bag head,
Told him, “Spos’n snake bite pfeller, pfeller mostly drop down dead;
Spos’n snake bite old goanna, then you watch a while you see,
Old goanna cure himself with eating little pfeller tree.”
“That’s the cure,” said William Johnson, “point me out this plant sublime,”
But King Billy, feeling lazy, said he’d go another time.
Thus it came to pass that Johnson, having got the tale by rote,
Followed every stray goanna, seeking for the antidote.

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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Execution, The : A Sporting Anecdote Hon. Mr. Sucklethumbkin's Story

My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day;
It was half after two,
He had nothing to do,
So his Lordship rang for his cabriolet.

Tiger Tim
Was clean of limb,
His boots were polish'd, his jacket was trim
With a very smart tie in his smart cravat,
And a smart cockade on the top of his hat;
Tallest of boys, or shortest of men,
He stood in his stockings just four foot ten
And he ask'd, as he held the door on the swing,
'Pray, did your Lordship please to ring?'

My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his head,
And thus to Tiger Tim he said,
'Malibran's dead,
Duvernay's fled,
Taglioni has not yet arrived in her stead;

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poem by Richard Harris Barham
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