Our Poetry Page

DECEMBER 1^ST 2003

EIGHTY TODAY

Anon

Dear Lord, I am eighty, and there is much I have not done.  
I hope, dear Lord, you’ll let me live until I’m eighty-one.  
 But if I have not finished all I want to do,  
Would you let me stay a while, until I’m eighty-two?  
 So many places I want to go, so much I want to see,  
Do you think you could manage to make it eighty-three?  
 Many things I may have, but there’s so much left in store  
I would like it very much to live until I’m eighty-four.  
 And if I am then still alive, I’d like to stay to eighty-five.  
 The world is changing very fast, so I’d really like to stick  
And see what happens to the world when I am eighty-six.  
 I know it is a lot to ask, and it will be nice in heaven,  
But I’d really like to stay around until I’m eighty-seven.  
 I know that I then won’t be fast, and sometimes I’ll be late,  
But it would be oh-so-good to be around at eighty-eight.  
 I’ll have seen so many things and have had such a great time,  
I’m sure to go and will be ready when I reach eighty-nine. WELL, MAYBE!

A MOONLIGHT COMEDY

sent in by Beryl Reed (with many thanks to the magazine 'Down Your Way')

 Pale, cold and brightly  
The round moon was shining,  
Flooding the Earth with her soft mellow light;  
When I, a poor mortal,  
with life's cares o'erburdened,  
Sought solace by wandering out in the night.

 I passed the churchyard where  
together lie sleeping,  
The wise and the simple, the fool and the knave.  
When lo, I espied, in the silvery moonlight,  
A man who was digging a deep narrow grave.

 Approaching the man with all reverence due,  
I spoke to him softly, with voice sad and low.  
Said I: 'Man, wouldst thou tell me,  
for whom thou art digging  
this deep narrow grave  
In the moonlight's pale glow?

 'Is it for child, or for man, or for woman?  
Rich man or poor man, husband or wife?  
'For death is capricious, and all must obey him,  
When he bids us depart from this battle of life.

 'Cease from thy labour a moment and tell me--  
Tell me what I am most anxious to hear.  
For truly, to see thee thus working by moonlight,  
Has roused mingled feelings of hope and of fear.'

He ceased from his labour and leant on his spade.
For one moment a deep solemn silence did reign.  
And then with a voice loud and harsh he exclaimed:  
'Goa hooam, tha gurt lumpheead,  
Ah'm diggin a drein!'

IF A STRANGER CALLS . . .

by Kathleen Hoggarth

If a stranger came to my home  
And said his name was Jesus
Of course I'd be polite to him
But just a bit suspicious

I think I'd look into his eyes
Also his hands and feet
And then I'd know he was the Lord
The one I'd like to meet

And yes I would invite him in
The family clan to meet
Offer him a bed for the night
A drink and something to eat

We wouldn't make a great big fuss
It just is not our way
But I know that he'd invite us all
To kneel with him and pray

I'd hope we'd made him welcome
As he went along his way
And sometime in the future
He'd call again and stay

This poem, written by a cancer patient in a New York Hospital , was contributed by Beryl Lowson.  The young poet's dying wish was for it to be passed on to as many people as possible.

 SLOW DANCE

Have you ever watched kids on a merry-go-round?
Or listened to the rain slapping on the ground?  
Ever followed a butterfly's erratic flight?  
Or gazed at the sun into the fading night?  
You'd better slow down, don't dance so fast.  
Time is short, the music won't last.

Do you run through each day on the fly?  
When you ask, 'How are you?' do you hear the reply?  
When the day is done, do you lie in your bed  
With the next hundred chores running through your head?  
You'd better slow down, don't dance so fast.  
Time is short, the music won't last.

Ever told your child, we'll do it tomorrow?  
And in your haste, not see his sorrow?  
Ever lost touch, let a good friendship die,  
Cause you never had time, to call and say, 'Hi'?  
You'd better slow down, don't dance so fast.  
Time is short, the music won't last.

When you run so fast to get somewhere,  
You miss half the fun of getting there.  
When you worry and hurry through your day,  
It is like an unopened gift thrown away.  
Life is not a race.  
Do take it slower  
Before the song is over.

THE EARTH IS DYING

by Toni Hart

I am Mother Earth and I am crying,  
Take heed, do not ignore me, for I am dying,  
I cannot speak for I am weak, but the signs are there.  
Look at my trees, once so beautiful, now stark and bare.  
The acid rain burns to my soul,  
Browns my leaves and poisons the air.

Look at my waters once so pure and clear,
Now thick and putrid, seas and rivers to fear.  
Full of chemicals, sewage and all things nuclear,  
Our creatures are suffering and pitifully crying,  
As you poison their bodies and watch them dying.

 Little children are starving and dying through need,  
While the wicked among you fight only for greed,  
You burn all my forests, my beautiful trees,  
Planted be nature and sown on the breeze.  
You may be destroying far more than you know,  
As many natural medicines, are known here to grow.

 In fact you are altering the balance of life,  
nd the edge is so fine like the blade of a knife.  
Even the weather is changing, oh what have you done?  
And you're dying of cancer because of the sun,  
For the ozone is going and ice caps are melting,  
Yet still out of your chimneys the toxins are belting.

It's nearly too late, oh can you not see,  
How centuries of progress are now killing me?  
I writhe in my torment and earthquakes arise,  
And my volcanic fury spews flames to the skies,  
I shriek with the wind, tornadoes lash through the air  
And the storms and the rains are my tears of despair.

 So help me my children before it's too late,  
Don't destroy my world with your greed and your hate.  
Open your eyes and see what is there,  
This beautiful planet of earth, sea and air.  
From the year of 2000 is the time you must face,  
The fight of your planet and the whole human race.

The Delights of the Muses, 1646

To these, whom Death again did wed,  
This grave's the second Marriage-bed.  
For though the hand of Fate could force  
'Twixt Soul and Body a Divorce,

It could not sunder man and wife,  
'Cause they both lived but one life.  
Peace, good Reader.  Doe not weep.  
Peace, the lovers are asleep.

They, sweet Turtles, folded lie  
In the last knot Love could tie.  
And though they lie as they were dead,  
Their pillow stone, their sheetes of lead

(Pillow hard, and sheets not warm)  
Love made the bed; they'll take no harm.  
Let them sleep: let them sleep on,  
Till this stormy night be gone,  
Till the Eternal morrow dawn;

Then the curtaines will be drawn  
And they wake into a light  
Whose day shall never die in Night.

HARVEST SUPPER
by Leslie Burnham

  At St Augustine's every year
In autumn, when October's here
And harvest's home, they choose a date
(Mid-week) for us to celebrate.
We gather first for Evening Prayer
In church at seven-thirty. There
We have a really rousing sing.
Old harvest hymns go with a swing,
And who can bear to stand by, dumb?
So, come, ye thankful people, come…

Our rector's sermon's short: he's vowed
Not to delay the happy crowd
Who, service ended, take the route
Up to the Parish Institute
Where is revealed a sumptuous spread --
Ham, tongue, and salad, home-made bread,
Iced buns, and apple-pie and cheese,
And pickled onions, if you please!
We find our places eagerly:
The Mothers' Union pour our tea.
A pause for Grace, and we begin.
Oh what a chatter, what a din!

When all have had enough to eat,
The Rector, rising to his feet,
Thanks those Church Council members who
Have organised this splendid 'do';
And adds, "I hope that, if you're able,
You'll lend a hand to clear your table;
help fold the clothes, and then we'll stack
The trestles. Move the benches back.
As everyone by now will know,
There's going to be a picture-show."

(For this we've Mr Brown to thank.
Retired from the local bank,
He flew one June to sunny Spain
But found it dark and damp.  The rain
Fell nearly every day, yet he
Made light of that catastrophe,
And studying his camera-guides,
Produced some sets of coloured slides.)

Ah, yes; it seems they're nearly ready.
Projector fixed. "Just hold it steady…
A little lower -- that's the height.
Can you all see the screen alright?
Those ladies who've worked so hard to cater,
Do leave your washing-up till later.
Will everybody please sit down.
Lights out….Grand…Thank you, Mr Brown."

"Good evening, friends.  It gives me pleasure
To share with you these slides I treasure.
They're pictures you'll enjoy, I'm sure.
I call my show 'A Spanish Tour' …
First, at the airport -- on our way
(A somewhat dull and gloomy day)…
Next, from the plane -- you must agree
We had a good view of the sea …
Here's our hotel, 'The Golden Flower',
(During a heavy thunder shower)…"

Some of the slides are rather good;
But soon we feel the speaker should
Reduce the lengthy explanation
Of each new shot.  Our irritation
Is hard to hide.  We're not amused.
Then someone asks to be excused:
He doesn't want to make a fuss,
But can't afford to miss his bus;
And others think of tales to tell
So they may leave the room as well.

Rector, perspiring in his cassock
Wishes he'd planned to bring a hassock
Along from church, on which to sit
In greater comfort. "Surely it
Can't last much longer?  And yet when
His pocket-watch says half-past ten,
The slides proceed … A river-cruise
With Mrs Brown (and daughter who's
Dressed up in Spanish gypsy style) …
More mountain scenes -- yet all the while
Folk are departing one by one.
The helpers have already gone
Out to the kitchen.  Quiet as mice
(And against Rector's firm advice)
They're washing up.  He dare not wrong them
Because he knows his wife's among them!

And Mr Brown's attention's been
So centred on the silver screen,
He has not heard the coughs and moans,
The sighs and badly-stifled groans.
He does not know he is bereft,
With hardly any viewers left,
Till Rector, peering through the gloom,
Perceives an almost empty room --
Only himself, and deaf Miss Heap
Who obviously is sound asleep!

(The message of this saga's plain.
If you agree to entertain
Your friends with pictures, words or song,
Then do not make the show too long,
Lest, falling into such a trap, you
Find that no one stays to clap you!)