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Good-Children Street

There's a dear little home in Good-Children street -
My heart turneth fondly to-day
Where tinkle of tongues and patter of feet
Make sweetest of music at play;
Where the sunshine of love illumines each face
And warms every heart in that old-fashioned place.

For dear little children go romping about
With dollies and tin tops and drums,
And, my! how they frolic and scamper and shout
Till bedtime too speedily comes!
Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet
With little folk living in Good-Children street.

See, here comes an army with guns painted red,
And swords, caps, and plumes of all sorts;
The captain rides gaily and proudly ahead
On a stick-horse that prances and snorts!
Oh, legions of soldiers you're certain to meet -
Nice make-believe soldiers - in Good-Children street.

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poem by Eugene Field
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Lambasted Deferral Of My Puissant Muse

In this world of odes
Every whisper is a trap
Rummaging for preys
A lascivious answer
Where hunger feeds on
Another a hunger;
An ouroboros inscribed
Without a concatenation
To fill in the famished lapses

In this clandestine world
A flaccid orb of gas
From the cigarette parting
Your thin veneered lips
And streams from gutters
Of your slicing eyes,
The land, fertile for the dead,
In your taut skin of white
The odes, traipsed in
The wrinkles nonexistent to the eye

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poem by Norman Santos
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Weak Beacons

The sunset of November leaned against
The propinquity of a hostile defense
And a yearning for all the suspended tears
Channeling from a cloyed and battered heart
Its alloyed blood rushed with a vexation
That molted daggers of vengeance
Unyielding to the farce world of stones
But in the illustrious night, the bones quivered
And rattled like the austere pebbles
Carrying our impeding lamentations

Somewhere, the red sun's beam engulfed
A drab bud uncurling its ancient wishes
Left unheard as the pollens shook away
Like dusts waning from the sun's graze
Whilst a flower withered to decadence
As its corolla expanded into a circle
Touching each other and coming closer
To the juxtaposition of life and death

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poem by Norman Santos
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Cui Bono

Oh! wind that whistles o'er thorns and thistles,
Of this fruitful earth like a goblin elf;
Why should he labour to help his neighbour
Who feels too reckless to help himself?
The wail of the breeze in the bending trees
Is something between a laugh and a groan;
And the hollow roar of the surf on the shore
Is a dull, discordant monotone;
I wish I could guess what sense they express,
There's a meaning, doubtless, in every sound,
Yet no one can tell, and it may be as well —
Whom would it profit? — The world goes round!

On this earth so rough we know quite enough,
And, I sometimes fancy, a little too much;
The sage may be wiser than clown or than kaiser,
Is he more to be envied for being such?
Neither more nor less, in his idleness
The sage is doom'd to vexation sure;
The kaiser may rule, but the slippery stool,

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poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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The Poet and the Dun

'These are messengers
That feelingly persuade me what I am.' -Shakspeare.

Comes a dun in the morning and raps at my door-
'I made bold to call-'tis a twelvemonth and more-
I'm sorry, believe me, to trouble you thus, sir-
But Job would be paid, sir, had Job been a mercer.'
My friend, have but patience-'Ay, these are your ways.'
I have got but one shilling to serve me two days-
But, sir-prithee take it, and tell your attorney,
If I han't paid your bill, I have paid for your journey.
Well, now thou art gone, let me govern my passion,
And calmly consider-consider? vexation!
What whore that must paint, and must put on false locks,
And counterfeit joy in the pangs of the pox?
What beggar's wife's nephew, now starved, and now beaten,
Who, wanting to eat, fears himself shall be eaten?
What porter, what turnspit, can deem his case hard?
Or what Dun boast of patience that thinks of a Bard?
Well, I'll leave this poor trade, for no trade can be poorer,

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poem by William Shenstone
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To The Man of Multitude

In a jet black guise
With the patina of bold vying
You are the nighttime sky,
You are the fathoms of the pit,
And the quintessence of the labyrinth
Is within the scars of the manacles
That had marred the luster
Of your candor vision
But the lurking predators
In the fringes of your capitulating flame
Could never halt nor corrupt
The spangling splendor
Draped in the jet black guise.

I've seen you knead against the quakes
Sullied by the caustic impalement
Of a sardonic rebellion
To oust the dexterous entanglement
In a cajoling bereavement
But more than this, I have seen

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poem by Norman Santos
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The Squatter’s Daughter

OUT in the west, where runs are wide,
And days than ours are hotter,
Not very far from Lachlan Side
There dwelt a wealthy squatter.

Of old opinions he was full—
An Englishman, his sire,
Was hated long where peasants pull
Their forelocks to the squire.

He loved the good old British laws,
And Royalty’s regalia,
And oft was heard to growl because
They wouldn’t fit Australia.

This squatter had a lovely child—
An angel bright we thought her;
And all the stockmen rude and wild
Adored the squatter’s daughter.

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poem by Henry Lawson
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Daughter's Vexation, Father's Explication and Idealization

Stanza I-Vexation

Where were you Daddy, when I turned one,
I want for your approval, yet there is none?
Where again were you, when I turned two?
I am right here Daddy, but where are you?

Each day I repeat: 'I miss Daddy-maybe before
The day's done, he will come though the door...'!
Do you not love me Daddy, why are you not here?
Why do you not comfort me, when I am in fear?

I need your hand in mine as I cross the street;
I want to show my Daddy to all the people I meet;
Where are you when I need to be tucked into bed?
When I fall, why are you not here to kiss my forehead?
But, you said I was the most important person in the world!
I do not understand Daddy, I thought I was your little girl! ?

Stanza II-Explication

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poem by Maurice Harris
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The Vanity of All Worldly Things

As he said vanity, so vain say I,
Oh! Vanity, O vain all under sky;
Where is the man can say, "Lo, I have found
On brittle earth a consolation sound"?
What isn't in honor to be set on high?
No, they like beasts and sons of men shall die,
And whilst they live, how oft doth turn their fate;
He's now a captive that was king of late.
What isn't in wealth great treasures to obtain?
No, that's but labor, anxious care, and pain.
He heaps up riches, and he heaps up sorrow,
It's his today, but who's his heir tomorrow?
What then? Content in pleasures canst thou find?
More vain than all, that's but to grasp the wind.
The sensual senses for a time they pleasure,
Meanwhile the conscience rage, who shall appease?
What isn't in beauty? No that's but a snare,
They're foul enough today, that once were fair.
What is't in flow'ring youth, or manly age?
The first is prone to vice, the last to rage.

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poem by Anne Bradstreet
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Vanity of All Worldly Things, The

As he said vanity, so vain say I,
Oh! Vanity, O vain all under sky;
Where is the man can say, "Lo, I have found
On brittle earth a consolation sound"?
What isn't in honor to be set on high?
No, they like beasts and sons of men shall die,
And whilst they live, how oft doth turn their fate;
He's now a captive that was king of late.
What isn't in wealth great treasures to obtain?
No, that's but labor, anxious care, and pain.
He heaps up riches, and he heaps up sorrow,
It's his today, but who's his heir tomorrow?
What then? Content in pleasures canst thou find?
More vain than all, that's but to grasp the wind.
The sensual senses for a time they pleasure,
Meanwhile the conscience rage, who shall appease?
What isn't in beauty? No that's but a snare,
They're foul enough today, that once were fair.
What is't in flow'ring youth, or manly age?
The first is prone to vice, the last to rage.

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poem by Anne Bradstreet
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