Random poems
Zepheria: Canzon. 1
Lvld in an heauenly Charme of pleasing passions,
Many their well thewd rimes doe fayre attemper
Vnto their amours, while another fashions
Loue to his lines, and he on fame doth venter.
And some againe in mercinary writ
Belch forth desire, making reward their Mistresse:
And though it chaunce some Lais Patron it,
At least they sell her prayses to the presse.
The Muses Nurse I reade is Euphemie,
And who but honor makes his lines reward,
Comes not by my consent within my petigree,
'Mongst true borne sonnes enherit may no bastard.
All in the humble accent of my Muse,
Whose wing may not aspire the pitch of fame,
My grieues I here vnto ombe, sweete them peruse.
Though low he flye, yet honor is his game,
All while my pen quests on Zepherias name,
Whom when it sprung thy wing did thee releeue,
Now flowne to marke, thus doth desire thee retreeue.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Hester
WHEN maidens such as Hester die
Their place ye may not well supply,
Though ye among a thousand try
With vain endeavour.
A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed
And her together.
A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate,
That flush'd her spirit:
I know not by what name beside
I shall it call: if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied,
She did inherit.
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Lamb
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The Last Garden
Finding a rusty nail in the half-black earth,
becoming scared for my hands
(swelled with secret rivers) ,
morning breath shortens, my arms
hang deadened at my sides, as
a hawk circles in the dark white sky,
watching my changing into earth and wood,
prepared to be angelic, watching over
the final digging, at least at the moment,
for this time.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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Sonnet: Time Is Most Precious
The time given by God is most precious;
One can’t afford to waste by any means;
Yet, God has been to everyone gracious;
He watches always all the earthly scenes.
There is no time to feel jealous or fight;
There is no time to waste in gambling games;
There is no time to sleep enough at night;
There is no time to achieve many aims.
There is no time to love your neighbor/hate;
There is no time to wonder why or find;
There is no time to earn enough or mate;
There is no time to work or rest your mind.
So, make the best use of your precious time;
Love God, His creatures: make your life sublime.
poem by John Celes
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Venomized
They feel and see 'them' in the shadows.
And the minds of those 'venomized'
Are haunted by such lurkings.
No eye peeking or shut will escape.
'They' are here...
To rectify past uncomforts.
Clarifying what is meant to be meek!
And deliver a new game to play!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Except Love Life Is Meaningless
The soldier, my life, at war
Fighting the adversaries soul out there
Without any error or dearth in effort,
But at the end got ignominious defeat
In the barrack pondering deep, what is life?
Now life is hell, and death is bliss
My life, my soldier, thinks
Joy or sorrow, defeat or victory
Time eats up all and relieve in history
Two pennies more or less
Except love life is meaningless.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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Your mirror frame
Methinks I see your mirror frame,
Ornate with photographs of them.
Place mine therein, for, all the same,
I'll have my little laughs at them.
For girls may come, and girls may go,
I think I have the best of them;
And yet this photograph I know
You'll toss among the rest of them.
I cannot even hope that you
Will put me in your locket, dear;
Nor costly frame will I look through,
Nor bide in your breast pocket, dear.
For none your heart monopolize,
You favour such a nest of them.
So I but hope your roving eyes
Seek mine among the rest of them.
[...] Read more
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Enchanting Day
My eloquent enchanting day of speech
Finds a fortnight in discussion, with midnight;
Hollow and lovely life is a way of driving down,
Cordial thanks are offered now that you define.
Behold the sorrow of worlds and their gallantry,
The enduring sight is the best sight,
With trouble as the meaning of the day,
Felicity enters the mind afterwards.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Who’s Dot Pulleteen?
To the Editor of The Albany Observer
Dear Sir,
Smarting from the effects of a neat back-hander administered to it by the Sydney Bulletin, the W.A. Bulletin prints the following:—“Says the S. Bulletin—‘The talented Henry Lawson has left Sydney for Western Australia.’ Who’s Henry Lawson?” The W.A. Bulletin might reasonably ask this question, but it is not right that an unknown writer should be used as a weapon of spite by one paper against another, and this mysterious individual in question, who might be a German, could easily relieve his injured feelings as follows:
O my prow vas plack mit curses,
Ven I dries to write dose verses;
Ven I dries to write dot boem,
Dot de best was effer been.
All in vain my peer I guzzles,
But I gannod solve dot broblem,
“Who’s dot Western Pulleteen?”
Und I swear mit pleets and dvonder,
Und I ferry often wonder,
Would dot paber’s cirgulation
Shusta little pigger been,
If dey toog deir seissor-pinchers,
Shust to cut some leetle inches
From that smarty-smarty writer
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Lazy Roof
The Roof it has a Lazy Time
A-Lying in the Sun;
The Walls, they have to Hold Him Up;
They do Not Have Much Fu
poem by Gelett Burgess
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