Poem for the Day

Posted: 22 April 2014

Give us a wreck – or two, Good Lord
For winter in Topsail Tickle is hard
With grey frost creepin' like a Mortal Sin
And perishin' lack of bread in the bin

A grand, rich wreck, we do humbly pray
Busted abroad at the break-of-day...
And hove clear in 'cross Topsail Reef
With vittles and hear to beguile our grief

One grand wreck, or maybe two
With gear and vittles to see us through
Til the spring starts up like the leap-of-day
And the fish strike back into Topsail Bay

Lord of reefs and tides and sky
Heed ye our need and hark to our cry:
Bread by the bag and beef by the cask
Ease for sore bellies is all we ask

One rich wreck, for Thy hand is strong
A barque or a brig from up-along
Bemused by the twisty tides, oh Lord
For winter in Topsail Tickle is hard

Loud and long will we sing thy praise
Merciful Father, O Ancient of Days
Master of fog and tide and reef
Heave us a wreck to beguile our grief

The Wreckers Prayer
Theodore Goodridge Roberts

Poem for the Day

Posted: 21 April 2014

‘And are these cold, light words your last?’ he said,
And rose, his face made pale with outraged love.
She answered gaily, ‘Are they not enough?’
And lightly laughed until his spirit bled,
While snake-like on his grief her beauty fed.
He looked upon her face once more for proof,
Then through and through his lips the sharp teeth drove,
Till with the bitter dew of blood made red....
At length he said, ‘And so ‘twas but a jest,
Yet now may God forgive you, if God can!’
And, passing, left her calm and self-possessed.
She watched him cross the lawn with eyes bent low,
Where she had kissed his face one hour ago.

Love's Warfare
Philip Bourke Marston

Poem for the Day

Posted: 20 April 2014

The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,
And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:
In splendour and in light the Pope passed home....
My heart stole back across wide wastes of years
To One who wandered by a lonely sea,
And sought in vain for any place of rest:
'Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest.
I, only I, must wander wearily,
And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.'

Easter Day
Oscar Wilde

Easter Haiku #8 Sunday, Holy Week - Easter Sunday

Posted: 20 April 2014

Magdalene morning.
An empty grave discovered,
The hot, bitter tears.

Then a holy thing.
Divine gardener recognised.
Mary spreads the news.
Breakfast on the shore.
At the end of a hard shift
Men need food, not prayers.

Bill Adair

Poem for the Day

Posted: 19 April 2014

Farewell you northern hills, you mountains all goodbye,
Moorland and stony ridges, crags and peaks goodbye.
Glyder Fach farewell, Cul Beag, Scafell, cloud-bearing Suilven,
Sun warmed rock and the cold of Bleaklow's frozen sea.
The snow and the wind and the rain of hills and mountains,
Days in the sun and the tempered wind and the air like wine,
And you drink and you drink ...till you're drunk
On the joy of living.

Farewell to you my love, my time is almost done,
Lie in my arms once more until the darkness comes.
You filled all my days, held the night at bay, dearest companion,
Years pass by and they're gone with the speed of birds in flight.
Our life like the verse of a song heard in the mountains,
Give me your hand then love and join your voice with mine,
We'll sing of the hurt and pain
And the joy of living.

Farewell to you my chicks, soon you must fly alone,
Flesh of my flesh, my future life, bone of my bone.
May your wings be strong, may your days be long, safe be your journey,
Each of you bears inside of you the gift of love.
May it bring you light and warmth and the pleasure of giving,
Eagerly savour each new day and the taste of its mouth,
Never lose sight of the thrill
And the joy of living.

Take me to some high place of heather, rock and ling,
Scatter my dust and ashes, feed me to the wind.
So that I will be part of all you see, the air you are breathing,
I'll be part of the curlew's cry and the soaring hawk.
The blue milkwort and the sundew hung with diamonds,
I'll be riding the gentle wind that blows through your hair,
Reminding you how we shared
In the joy of living.

The Joy of Living
Ewan MacColl

291-295 of 841 blog entries

<<< 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 >>>

Valid XHTML 1.0 Strict Valid CSS!

Site by Desktop Solutions