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A poem on divine revelation

This is a day of happiness, sweet peace,
And heavenly sunshine; upon which conven'd
In full assembly fair, once more we view,
And hail with voice expressive of the heart,
Patrons and sons of this illustrious hall.
This hall more worthy of its rising fame
Than hall on mountain or romantic hill,
Where Druid bards sang to the hero's praise,
While round their woods and barren heaths was heard
The shrill calm echo of th' enchanting shell.
Than all those halls and lordly palaces
Where in the days of chivalry, each knight,
And baron brave in military pride
Shone in the brass and burning steel of war;
For in this hall more worthy of a strain
No envious sound forbidding peace is heard,
Fierce song of battle kindling martial rage
And desp'rate purpose in heroic minds:
But sacred truth fair science and each grace
Of virtue born; health, elegance and ease

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Survival

In the dark shaded border
World turns upside down
Though everything’s in order
And black is never brown!
Supposedly in order
But really in mess
The dark shaded border
Never shows its true face!
Mischief is a fun, lies sacred
Throats are slit for a small chunk of bread
It’s a savage race, the stakes are too close
Friends this moment turn into foes!

In the dark shaded border
Disorderliness is order
Money and muscle thrive
In a blind zeal to survive!

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Charles Baudelaire

Les Phares (The Beacons)

Rubens, fleuve d'oubli, jardin de la paresse,
Oreiller de chair fraîche où l'on ne peut aimer,
Mais où la vie afflue et s'agite sans cesse,
Comme l'air dans le ciel et la mer dans la mer;

Léonard de Vinci, miroir profond et sombre,
Où des anges charmants, avec un doux souris
Tout chargé de mystère, apparaissent à l'ombre
Des glaciers et des pins qui ferment leur pays;

Rembrandt, triste hôpital tout rempli de murmures,
Et d'un grand crucifix décoré seulement,
Où la prière en pleurs s'exhale des ordures,
Et d'un rayon d'hiver traversé brusquement;

Michel-Ange, lieu vague où l'on voit des Hercules
Se mêler à des Christs, et se lever tout droits
Des fantômes puissants qui dans les crépuscules
Déchirent leur suaire en étirant leurs doigts;

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Pantoum - To Near Perfection

on sandy beaches with no wind
gentle sunshine warming skin
turquoise water topaz skies
periwinkle shaded eyes

gentle sunshine warming skin
perfect summer days begin
periwinkle shaded eyes
blocking sun and hiding lies

perfect summer days begin
on this spinning rock time flies
blocking sun and hiding lies
on sandy beaches with no wind

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The Blue Flower

A little flower in the garden
Unnamed to all my knowledge
The faintness eggshell of blue
The colour of its petals
Shaded in midday it sits
Beneath the gardens hedge
A solitary flower so small
Yet so perfectly beautiful
That I have to stop and sit
Only to look upon its picture
I would love to share its beauty
Though I will not pick it
For soon it would wilt away
Taken from its mother earth
A little flower in the garden
Unnamed for all I known
An eggshell blue in colour
Shaded from the midday sun

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Within the woodlands for M'lady Lucianne

Glosa

Within the woodlands flowery gladed
Beside the oak trees mossy moot
The shining grass blades timber shaded
Now do quiver underfoot.

William Barnes

Within the woodlands flowery gladed.
A lover and his lass embrace.
She was not to be persuaded
this was the time nor yet the place.

Beside the oak trees mossy moot
he begged and pleaded but in vain
she rejected his urgent suit
Her maidenhead she would retain

The shining grass blades timber shaded

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Her Last Poem

She sat beneath a shaded tree
She thought for a while
She thought about her life
For the first time
She wrote her first poem
She sat in her desk at school
She smiled a lot
Because smiles meant happy
And she wanted happy
She frowned when no one looked
She sat with her friends at lunch
She wondered what they thought
Did they think about her?
She wondered if they wondered
If her smiles were real
She sat beside the boy in school
They held hands
And he thought she was beautiful
Just a girl
And not much else

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Ulmarra

Alone — alone!
With a heart like a stone,
She maketh her moan
At the feet of the trees,
With her face on her knees,
And her hair streaming over;
Wildly, and wildly, and wildly;
For she misses the tracks of her lover!
Do you hear her, Ulmarra?
Oh, where are the tracks of her lover?
Go by — go by!
They have told her a lie,
Who said he was nigh,
In the white-cedar glen —
In the camps of his men:
And she sitteth there weeping —
Weeping, and weeping, and weeping,
For the face of a warrior sleeping!
Do you hear her, Ulmarra?
Oh! where is her warrior sleeping?

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Scr

There will be a uniting of states.
There will be a shakedown coming...
To break away from past mistakes.
There will be a declaration made,
That brings the constitution...
Out of areas that have been shaded.
And degraded by those who interpretated it...
To fit their needs,
While the majority of people have been ignored...
By thieves,
And their deceitful misdeeds.

There will be a united nation done!
Many will not accept,
What for them comes.
The future is more global,
Than anytime before.
And those with beliefs they are superior over others...
Will see an increase of less division.
As their racist tactics will end.

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Rudyard Kipling

Rimmon

1903 -- After Boer War


Duly with knees that feign to quake--
Bent head and shaded brow,--
Yet once again, for my father's sake,
In Rimmon's House I bow.

The curtains part, the trumpet blares,
And the eunuchs howl aloud;
And the gilt, swag-bellied idol glares
Insolent over the crowd.

"This is Rimmon, Lord of the Earth--
"Fear Him and bow the knee!"
And I watch my comrades hide their mirth
That rode to the wars with me.

For we remember the sun and the sand
And the rocks whereon we trod,

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