The Poem thread
- Thread starter Contratrombone64
- Start date
marval
New member
Here is poem of mine.
Who owns the shadow
That stalks the lane
Whose are the feet
That walk with pain
Limping along
Dragging a heel
Someone is coming
Their breath you can feel
Fear surrounds you
It fills the air
A ghostly sound
But no figure there
Their presence you sense it
You feel it around
Someone who follows
But never is found
Maybe a ghost
Of someone no more
A victim of murder
Or killed in a war
Who follows me home
At the dead of night
Tracing my footsteps
Sensing my plight
I stop for a moment
Find the key to my door
I listen for footsteps
But hear them no more
The silence is eerie
I turn back to see
No sight of the ghost
That walked behind me
Who owns the shadow
That stalks the lane
Whose are the feet
That walk with pain
Limping along
Dragging a heel
Someone is coming
Their breath you can feel
Fear surrounds you
It fills the air
A ghostly sound
But no figure there
Their presence you sense it
You feel it around
Someone who follows
But never is found
Maybe a ghost
Of someone no more
A victim of murder
Or killed in a war
Who follows me home
At the dead of night
Tracing my footsteps
Sensing my plight
I stop for a moment
Find the key to my door
I listen for footsteps
But hear them no more
The silence is eerie
I turn back to see
No sight of the ghost
That walked behind me
Sylvie Pacey
New member
OOH! scary Margaret, I don't think I'll go out alone after dark. Perhaps it is a case of "Me and my shadow" Sylvie
Contratrombone64
Admiral of Fugues
To Sydney - Louise Mack
CITY, I never told you yet—
O little City, let me tell—
A secret woven of your wiles,
Dear City with the angel face,
And you will hear with frowning grace,
Or will you break in summer smiles?
O little City, let me tell—
A secret woven of your wiles,
Dear City with the angel face,
And you will hear with frowning grace,
Or will you break in summer smiles?
This is the secret, little town,
Lying so lightly towards the sea;
City, my secret has no art,
Dear City with the golden door;
But oh, the whispers I would pour
Into your ears—into your heart!
Lying so lightly towards the sea;
City, my secret has no art,
Dear City with the golden door;
But oh, the whispers I would pour
Into your ears—into your heart!
You are my lover, little place,
Lying so sweetly all alone.
And yet I cannot, cannot tell
My secret, for the voice will break
That tries to tell of all the ache
Of this poor heart beneath your spell.
Lying so sweetly all alone.
And yet I cannot, cannot tell
My secret, for the voice will break
That tries to tell of all the ache
Of this poor heart beneath your spell.
Dreaming, I tell you all my tale;
Tell how the tides that wash your feet
Sink through my heart and cut its cords.
Dreaming, I hold my arms, and drag
All, all into my heart—the flag
On the low hill turned harbourwards,
Tell how the tides that wash your feet
Sink through my heart and cut its cords.
Dreaming, I hold my arms, and drag
All, all into my heart—the flag
On the low hill turned harbourwards,
And all the curving little bays,
The hot, dust-ridden, narrow streets,
The languid turquoise of the sky,
The gardens flowing to the wave,
I drag them in. O City, save
The grave for me where I must lie.
The hot, dust-ridden, narrow streets,
The languid turquoise of the sky,
The gardens flowing to the wave,
I drag them in. O City, save
The grave for me where I must lie.
Yet humbly I would try to build
Stone upon stone for this town’s sake;
Humbly would try for you to aid
Those whose wise love for you will rear
White monuments far off and near,
White, but unsoiled, undesecrate
Stone upon stone for this town’s sake;
Humbly would try for you to aid
Those whose wise love for you will rear
White monuments far off and near,
White, but unsoiled, undesecrate
Contratrombone64
Admiral of Fugues
I get the impression she wasn't impressed by London's fogs ...
163. Homesick
By Dorothy Frances McCrae
I’M sick of fog and yellow gloom, Of faces strange, and alien eyes,
Your London is a vault, a tomb, To those born ’neath Australian skies.
O land of gold and burning blue, I’m crying like a child for you!
The trees are tossing in the park Against the banked-up amethyst,
At four o’clock it will be dark, And I a blind man in the mist.
Hark to old London’s smothered roar,Gruff jailer growling at my door!
Each day I see Fate’s wheel whirl round, And yet my fortunes are the same,
My hopes are trodden in the ground, Good luck has never heard my name,
O friends, O home, beyond the seas,Alone in darkness here I freeze!
The day is dead: night falls apace; I reach my hand to draw the blind,
To hide old London’s frowning face, And then (alas) I call to mind
The shining ways we used to roamThose long, light evenings at home.
I hate this fog and yellow gloom, These days of grey and amethyst;
I want to see the roses bloom, The smiling fields by sunshine kissed—
O land of gold and burning blue!I’m crying like a child for you!
163. Homesick
By Dorothy Frances McCrae
I’M sick of fog and yellow gloom, Of faces strange, and alien eyes,
Your London is a vault, a tomb, To those born ’neath Australian skies.
O land of gold and burning blue, I’m crying like a child for you!
The trees are tossing in the park Against the banked-up amethyst,
At four o’clock it will be dark, And I a blind man in the mist.
Hark to old London’s smothered roar,Gruff jailer growling at my door!
Each day I see Fate’s wheel whirl round, And yet my fortunes are the same,
My hopes are trodden in the ground, Good luck has never heard my name,
O friends, O home, beyond the seas,Alone in darkness here I freeze!
The day is dead: night falls apace; I reach my hand to draw the blind,
To hide old London’s frowning face, And then (alas) I call to mind
The shining ways we used to roamThose long, light evenings at home.
I hate this fog and yellow gloom, These days of grey and amethyst;
I want to see the roses bloom, The smiling fields by sunshine kissed—
O land of gold and burning blue!I’m crying like a child for you!
marval
New member
The London eye
The London eye
Is a giant wheel
All white and bright
And made of steel
It’s slowly turning
Round and round
Offering views of London
Above the ground
Famous landmarks and
Sights dramatic
The nations history
Panoramic
Old visitors express
Sentiment
In children’s faces
Wonderment
But all agree
It’s worth the fee
To ride the wheel
The sights to see
Paul Curtis
The London eye
Is a giant wheel
All white and bright
And made of steel
It’s slowly turning
Round and round
Offering views of London
Above the ground
Famous landmarks and
Sights dramatic
The nations history
Panoramic
Old visitors express
Sentiment
In children’s faces
Wonderment
But all agree
It’s worth the fee
To ride the wheel
The sights to see
Paul Curtis
Contratrombone64
Admiral of Fugues
Margaret - I hope I've caused you no offence at the London poem, I just found its poignancy endearing. I love the London Eye (I've been on it and it's wonderful).
Contratrombone64
Admiral of Fugues
It's not that bad, and I suffer from Vertigo, but I wouldn't go any higher, besides, the capsules are so enormous you can lie in the middle in fetal position rocking from side to side it it all becomes too much.
marval
New member
The Organ-Blower
DEVOUTEST of my Sunday friends,
The patient Organ-blower bends;
I see his figure sink and rise,
(Forgive me, Heaven, my wandering eyes!)
A moment lost, the next half seen,
His head above the scanty screen,
Still measuring out his deep salaams
Through quavering hymns and panting psalms.
No priest that prays in gilded stole,
To save a rich man's mortgaged soul;
No sister, fresh from holy vows,
So humbly stoops, so meekly bows;
His large obeisance puts to shame
The proudest genuflecting dame,
Whose Easter bonnet low descends
With all the grace devotion lends.
O brother with the supple spine,
How much we owe those bows of thine!
Without thine arm to lend the breeze,
How vain the finger on the keys!
Though all unmatched the player's skill,
Those thousand throats were dumb and still:
Another's art may shape the tone,
The breath that fills it is thine own.
Six days the silent Memnon waits
Behind his temple's folded gates;
But when the seventh day's sunshine falls
Through rainbowed windows on the walls,
He breathes, he sings, he shouts, he fills
The quivering air with rapturous thrills;
The roof resounds, the pillars shake,
And all the slumbering echoes wake!
The Preacher from the Bible-text
With weary words my soul has vexed
(Some stranger, fumbling far astray
To find the lesson for the day);
He tells us truths too plainly true,
And reads the service all askew,--
Why, why the-- mischief-- can't he look
Beforehand in the service-book?
But thou, with decent mien and face,
Art always ready in thy place;
Thy strenuous blast, whate'er the tune,
As steady as the strong monsoon;
Thy only dread a leathery creak,
Or small residual extra squeak,
To send along the shadowy aisles
A sunlit wave of dimpled smiles.
Not all the preaching, O my friend,
Comes from the church's pulpit end!
Not all that bend the knee and bow
Yield service half so true as thou!
One simple task performed aright,
With slender skill, but all thy might,
Where honest labor does its best,
And leaves the player all the rest.
This many-diapasoned maze,
Through which the breath of being strays,
Whose music makes our earth divine,
Has work for mortal hands like mine.
My duty lies before me. Lo,
The lever there! Take hold and blow!
And He whose hand is on the keys
Will play the tune as He shall please.
Oliver Wendell Holmes
DEVOUTEST of my Sunday friends,
The patient Organ-blower bends;
I see his figure sink and rise,
(Forgive me, Heaven, my wandering eyes!)
A moment lost, the next half seen,
His head above the scanty screen,
Still measuring out his deep salaams
Through quavering hymns and panting psalms.
No priest that prays in gilded stole,
To save a rich man's mortgaged soul;
No sister, fresh from holy vows,
So humbly stoops, so meekly bows;
His large obeisance puts to shame
The proudest genuflecting dame,
Whose Easter bonnet low descends
With all the grace devotion lends.
O brother with the supple spine,
How much we owe those bows of thine!
Without thine arm to lend the breeze,
How vain the finger on the keys!
Though all unmatched the player's skill,
Those thousand throats were dumb and still:
Another's art may shape the tone,
The breath that fills it is thine own.
Six days the silent Memnon waits
Behind his temple's folded gates;
But when the seventh day's sunshine falls
Through rainbowed windows on the walls,
He breathes, he sings, he shouts, he fills
The quivering air with rapturous thrills;
The roof resounds, the pillars shake,
And all the slumbering echoes wake!
The Preacher from the Bible-text
With weary words my soul has vexed
(Some stranger, fumbling far astray
To find the lesson for the day);
He tells us truths too plainly true,
And reads the service all askew,--
Why, why the-- mischief-- can't he look
Beforehand in the service-book?
But thou, with decent mien and face,
Art always ready in thy place;
Thy strenuous blast, whate'er the tune,
As steady as the strong monsoon;
Thy only dread a leathery creak,
Or small residual extra squeak,
To send along the shadowy aisles
A sunlit wave of dimpled smiles.
Not all the preaching, O my friend,
Comes from the church's pulpit end!
Not all that bend the knee and bow
Yield service half so true as thou!
One simple task performed aright,
With slender skill, but all thy might,
Where honest labor does its best,
And leaves the player all the rest.
This many-diapasoned maze,
Through which the breath of being strays,
Whose music makes our earth divine,
Has work for mortal hands like mine.
My duty lies before me. Lo,
The lever there! Take hold and blow!
And He whose hand is on the keys
Will play the tune as He shall please.
Oliver Wendell Holmes
Sylvie Pacey
New member
The Organ Blower
Loved the poem Margaret. Ifmy P.C holds out I am sending a little follow up to same.
"To the Organ Blower"
However humble is your task,
There is no more that we could ask.
For with your strength and concentration
Your work provides the congregation
With the music for their singing
Sending anthems upward winging.
Without your mighty efforts, he,
The organist would silent be.
However skillful is his playing
Without the BREATH you are relaying
The pipes would have no voice and we
Would never hear the harmony. Sylvie Pacey
Loved the poem Margaret. Ifmy P.C holds out I am sending a little follow up to same."To the Organ Blower"
However humble is your task,
There is no more that we could ask.
For with your strength and concentration
Your work provides the congregation
With the music for their singing
Sending anthems upward winging.
Without your mighty efforts, he,
The organist would silent be.
However skillful is his playing
Without the BREATH you are relaying
The pipes would have no voice and we
Would never hear the harmony. Sylvie Pacey
marval
New member
Hi Sylvie,
I am glad you liked the poem. Yours was very good.
This is juat a little on I wrote.
Friend ship
Will you put your hand in mine
So I can give you trust
Or will you walk the other way
As some poor people must
Will you be my friend today?
So I may stay with you
Or will you be my enemy
And leave me feeling blue
I can frown at the ground below
And smile at the skies above
But nothing makes me happier
Than to receive your love
I am glad you liked the poem. Yours was very good.
This is juat a little on I wrote.
Friend ship
Will you put your hand in mine
So I can give you trust
Or will you walk the other way
As some poor people must
Will you be my friend today?
So I may stay with you
Or will you be my enemy
And leave me feeling blue
I can frown at the ground below
And smile at the skies above
But nothing makes me happier
Than to receive your love
Sylvie Pacey
New member
Hello Margaret, Lovely poem, reminds me of the saying "A stranger's just a friend you do not know" I've loved G & S ever since seeing The Gondoliers in Regents Park during the latter part of the war when there were a lot of open air performances. Sylvie
marval
New member
I found this poem, I don't know who wrote it. It is possibly suitable for vegetarians.
Cabbage always has a heart;
Green beans string along.
You're such a Tomato,
Will you Peas to me belong?
You've been the Apple of my eye,
You know how much I care;
So Lettuce get together,
We'd make a perfect Pear.
Now, something's sure to Turnip,
To prove you can't be Beet;
So, if you Carrot all for me
Let's let our Tulips meet.
Don't Squash my hopes and dreams now,
Bee my Honey, dear;
Or tears will fill Potato's eyes,
While Sweet Corn lends an ear.
I'll Cauliflower shop and say
Your dreams are Parsley mine.
I'll work and share my Celery,
So be my Valentine.
Cabbage always has a heart;
Green beans string along.
You're such a Tomato,
Will you Peas to me belong?
You've been the Apple of my eye,
You know how much I care;
So Lettuce get together,
We'd make a perfect Pear.
Now, something's sure to Turnip,
To prove you can't be Beet;
So, if you Carrot all for me
Let's let our Tulips meet.
Don't Squash my hopes and dreams now,
Bee my Honey, dear;
Or tears will fill Potato's eyes,
While Sweet Corn lends an ear.
I'll Cauliflower shop and say
Your dreams are Parsley mine.
I'll work and share my Celery,
So be my Valentine.