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Scourge

A scourge causes death to open enemies,
How hard are those who whip and punish severely?
A threat cascades into the death of a man of blasphemies,
His throat hurts from exertions and everything nearly.

The misery of life is clearly made by those in-charge,
A scourge politely masters us in full daylight;
Sincere reflections are received and then enlarge
To accumulate and enter, and also create a bite.

You must not act when the paradigm fixes,
Think over this standard example so named,
An arrangement of sense and butter mixes
To complete the sauce so flamed and famed.

I agree with some secrets, in the conversation,
They echo in the scourge once delighted in,
Fixing and mixing like top secrets with abbreviation,
Echoing and finding new tours herein.

poem by Naveed Akram
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William and Helen

I.
From heavy dreams fair Helen rose,
And eyed the dawning red:
'Alas, my love, thou tarriest long!
O art thou false or dead?'-

II.
With gallant Fred'rick's princely power
He sought the bold Crusade;
But not a word from Judah's wars
Told Helen how he sped.

III.
With Paynim and with Saracen
At length a truce was made,
And every knight return'd to dry
The tears his love had shed.

IV.
Our gallant host was homeward bound

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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Sonnet XXIIII

WHen I behold that beauties wonderment,
And rare perfection of each goodly part;
of natures skill the only complement,
I honor and admire the makers art.
But when I feele the bitter balefull smart,
which her fayre eyes vnwares doe worke in mee:
that death out of theyr shiny beames doe dart,
I thinke that I a new Pandora see.
Whom all the Gods in councell did agree,
into this sinfull world from heauen to send:
that she to wicked men a scourge should bee,
for all their faults with which they did offend,
But since ye are my scourge I will intreat,
that for my faults ye will me gently beat.

poem by Edmund Spenser
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A Sea-Disease

A disease cancelled my dreams,
Inside a dream was this dream,
I gather the affliction was burden
On the mind and soul, burdening me
When others were not. I gather
The cargo of thoughts was overwhelming
And charging my life with electricity,
With current that complains.

It is a life in a shell of the sea,
When direct eels are about me,
They lurch in the depths of the sea
Like the presence of currents
At this moment in my life.
I thought I was inflicted by the scourge
You call the sea unhappiness,
Where we’re in knowledge of movement
And lost limbs to the sharks of the underwater.
This is the disease, that is afterwards
A scourge on this sea of peace.

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poem by Naveed Akram
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The Morning Dream, A Ballad. To The Tune Of 'Tweed Side.

'Twas in the glad season of spring,
Asleep at the dawn of the day,
I dream’d what I cannot but sing,
So pleasant it seem'd as I lay.
I dream’d that, on ocean afloat,
Far hence to the westward I sail'd,
While the billows high lifted the boat,
And the fresh-blowing breeze never fail'd.

In the steerage a woman I saw,
Such at least was the form that she wore,
Whose beauty impress'd me with awe,
Ne'er taught me by woman before.
She sat, and a shield at her side
Shed light, like a sun on the waves,
And smiling divinely, she cried--
'I go to make freemen of slaves.'

Then, raising her voice to a strain
The sweetest that ear ever heard,

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poem by William Cowper
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An Appeal for the Oppressed

Daughters of the Pilgrim sires,
Dwellers by their mouldering graves,
Watchers of their altar fires,
Look upon your country's slaves!

Look! 't is woman's streaming eye,
These are woman's fetter'd hands,
That to you so mournfully
Lift sad glance, and iron bands.

Mute, yet strong appeal of woe!
Wakes it not your starting tears?
Though your hearts may never know,
Half the bitter doom of hers.

Scars are on her fetter'd limbs,
Where the savage scourge hath been;
But the grief, her eye that dims,
Flows for deeper wounds within.

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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Stabat Mater

Nigh the cross with sorrow laden,
Weeping stood the Mother-maiden
While her Son in torment hung:
Sadly moaning, deeply wailing,
Now the cruel sword prevailing
Pierced her soul with anguish wrung.

Oh how sad that spirit lowly,
Blessèd Virgin, pure and holy,
Mother of the Only-born.
She with bitter grief and sighing,
Piteous Mother of the dying,
Saw her son with anguish torn.

Who could, tearless, thus behold her,
While such agonies enfold her,
Mother of the Crucified?
Who could see the Christ before him
See his Mother grieving o'er Him,
And unpitying turn aside?

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poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Fragment Of A Satire On Satire

If gibbets, axes, confiscations, chains,
And racks of subtle torture, if the pains
Of shame, of fiery Hell’s tempestuous wave,
Seen through the caverns of the shadowy grave,
Hurling the damned into the murky air
While the meek blest sit smiling; if Despair
And Hate, the rapid bloodhounds with which Terror
Hunts through the world the homeless steps of Error,
Are the true secrets of the commonweal
To make men wise and just;...
And not the sophisms of revenge and fear,
Bloodier than is revenge...
Then send the priests to every hearth and home
To preach the burning wrath which is to come,
In words like flakes of sulphur, such as thaw
The frozen tears...
If Satire’s scourge could wake the slumbering hounds
Of Conscience, or erase the deeper wounds,
The leprous scars of callous Infamy;
If it could make the present not to be,

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poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Summer Morning

'T is beautiful, when first the dewy light
Breaks on the earth! while yet the scented air
Is breathing the cool freshness of the night,
And the bright clouds a tint of crimson wear,
Mix'd with their fleecy whiteness; when each fair
And delicate lined flower that lifts its head
Is bathed in dainty odours, and all rare
And beautiful things of nature are outspread,
With the rich flush of light that only morn can shed.

When every leafy chalice holds a draught
Of nightly dew, for the hot sun to drink,
When streams gush sportively, as though they laugh'd
For very joyousness, and seem to shrink,
In playful terror from the rocky brink
Of some slight precipice—then with quick leap,
Bound lightly o'er the barrier, and sink
In their own whirling eddy, and then sweep
With rippling music on, or in their channels sleep.

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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Rush Limbaugh Poem=FREEDOM & THE MADNESS OF WAR TELL THEIR STORY!

FREEDOM & THE MADNESS OF WAR TELL THEIR STORY!

In their new uniforms
The young march off
Not knowing who shall return.
With a proud devotion
They brandish their flag
Leaving loved ones to wonder and yearn.

May we all be buried
By all of our children
Is an ancient tribal prayer.
They're so easy to lose
But so hard to forget
Such a burden for a parent to bear.

The taste of victory
Shall soon be forgotten
But never that which was lost.
For those rows of white headstones

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poem by Tom Zart
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