Car poems
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Oh, My Goodie Gracious
© Burke Johnny
Oh, herself Anastatia felt mopish and queer, She hadn't been well, I should say, for a year,The bright healthy color is gone from her cheek, And it's only just once in a year that she'll speak
The Kelligrews Soiree
© Burke Johnny
You may talk of Clara Nolan's ball, Or anything you chooseBut it couldn't hold a snuff-box To the spree in Kelligrews
If Your Wife Is Run Down, Give Her Cod Liver Oil
© Burke Johnny
I'm a young married man, Who is tired of my life,Ten years I'm glued on To a pale sickly wife,She does nothing all day, Only sit down and cry,And I hope to the Lord She'll get better or die.
The Rubaiyat of Omar Cayenne
© Gelett Burgess
WAKE! For the Hack can scatter into flightShakespere and Dante in a single Night! The Penny-a-liner is Abroad, and strikesOur Modern Literature with blithering Blight.
The Pied Piper of Hamelin: A Child's Story
© Robert Browning
(Written for, and inscribed to, W. M. the Younger)
The Bishop Orders his Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church Rome, 15--
© Robert Browning
Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?Nephews--sons mine
Sonnets from the Portuguese: XV
© Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wearToo calm and sad a face in front of thine;For we two look two ways, and cannot shineWith the same sunlight on our brow and hair
Risus Dei
© Brown Thomas Edward
Methinks in Him there dwells alwayA sea of laughter very deep,Where the leviathans leap,And little children play,Their white feet twinkling on its crisped edge;But in the outer bayThe strong man drives the wedgeOf polished limbs,And swims
Opifex
© Brown Thomas Edward
As I was carving images from clouds, And tinting them with soft ethereal dyes Pressed from the pulp of dreams, one comes, and cries:--"Forbear!" and all my heaven with gloom enshrouds.
Waggawocky
© Brooks Shirley
A parody on "Jabberwocky, the Chattertonian poem" in Mr. Lewis Carroll's fairy book "Alice through the Looking Glass."
Deep mists of longing blur the land
© Christopher John Brennan
Deep mists of longing blur the landas in your late October eve:almost I think your hand might leaveits old caress upon my hand--
1908
© Christopher John Brennan
The droning tram swings westward: shrillthe wire sings overhead, and chillmidwinter draughts rattle the glassthat shows the dusking way I passto yon four-turreted square towerthat still exalts the golden hourwhere youth, initiate once, endearsa treasure richer with the years
The Photographer
© Bramer Shannon
What it means to carry a camerais to speak out of the emptyframe seeing God, Sky, Road, her returnand faith in the perfection of deserts
the pedestrian
© Bramer Shannon
i never cross against thesignal, can't get the knackof the green light
Where the Dead Men Lie
© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
Out on the wastes of the Never Never-- That's where the dead men lie!There where the heat-waves dance for ever-- That's where the dead men lie!That's where the Earth's loved sons are keepingEndless tryst: not the west wind sweepingFeverish pinions can wake their sleeping-- Out where the dead men lie!
Where brown Summer and Death have mated-- That's where the dead men lie!Loving with fiery lust unsated-- That's where the dead men lie!Out where the grinning skulls bleach whitelyUnder the saltbush sparkling brightly;Out where the wild dogs chorus nightly-- That's where the dead men lie!
Deep in the yellow, flowing river-- That's where the dead men lie!Under the banks where the shadows quiver-- That's where the dead men lie!Where the platypus twists and doubles,Leaving a train of tiny bubbles;Rid at last of their earthly troubles-- That's where the dead men lie!
East and backward pale faces turning-- That's how the dead men lie!Gaunt arms stretched with a voiceless yearning-- That's how the dead men lie!Oft in the fragrant hush of nooningHearing again their mothers' crooning,Wrapt for aye in a dreamful swooning-- That's how the dead men lie!
Only the hand of Night can free them-- That's when the dead men fly!Only the frightened cattle see them-- See the dead men go by!Cloven hoofs beating out one measure,Bidding the stockman know no leisure--That's when the dead men take their pleasure! That's when the dead men fly!
Ask, too, the never-sleeping drover: He sees the dead pass by;Hearing them call to their friends--the plover, Hearing the dead men cry;Seeing their faces stealing, stealing,Hearing their laughter pealing, pealing,Watching their grey forms wheeling, wheeling Round where the cattle lie!
Strangled by thirst and fierce privation-- That's how the dead men die!Out on Moneygrub's farthest station-- That's how the dead men die!Hardfaced greybeards, youngsters callow;Some mounds cared for, some left fallow;Some deep down, yet others shallow; Some having but the sky
A Vision out West
© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
Far reaching down's a solid sea sunk everlastingly to rest,And yet whose billows seem to be for ever heaving toward the westThe tiny fieldmice make their nests, the summer insects buzz and humAmong the hollows and the crests of this wide ocean stricken dumb,Whose rollers move for ever on, though sullenly, with fettered wills,To break in voiceless wrath upon the crumbled bases of far hills,Where rugged outposts meet the shock, stand fast, and hurl them back again,An avalanche of earth and rock, in tumbled fragments on the plain;But, never heeding the rebuff, to right and left they kiss the feetOf hanging cliff and bouldered bluff till on the farther side they meet,And once again resume their march to where the afternoon sun dipsToward the west, and Heaven's arch salutes the Earth with ruddy lips
