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Crucify Me

I hurt the ones I love the most.
My truths, they were all lies.
It was too late when I realized.
That she had said goodbye.

Say Goodbye to all I was.
That person is no more.
He took his things and packed them up.
And threw him out the door

I was the unholy trinity.
It was me, myself & I.
Living my life just like a blind man.
While life around me died.

All the drugs and alcohol.
The lies, deceit and lust.
The ways of me were acid.
Dissolving all the trust.

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poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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The General Public

"Ah, did you once see Shelley plain?" -- Browning.
"Shelley? Oh, yes, I saw him often then,"
The old man said. A dry smile creased his face
With many wrinkles. "That's a great poem, now!
That one of Browning's! Shelley? Shelley plain?
The time that I remember best is this --

A thin mire crept along the rutted ways,
And all the trees were harried by cold rain
That drove a moment fiercely and then ceased,
Falling so slow it hung like a grey mist
Over the school. The walks were like blurred glass.
The buildings reeked with vapor, black and harsh
Against the deepening darkness of the sky;
And each lamp was a hazy yellow moon,
Filling the space about with golden motes,
And making all things larger than they were.
One yellow halo hung above a door,
That gave on a black passage. Round about
Struggled a howling crowd of boys, pell-mell,

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poem by Stephen Vincent Benet
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To Carmen Sylva

Oh, that the golden lyre divine
Whence David smote flame-tones were mine!
Oh, that the silent harp which hung
Untuned, unstrung,
Upon the willows by the river,
Would throb beneath my touch and quiver
With the old song-enchanted spell
Of Israel!

Oh, that the large prophetic Voice
Would make my reed-piped throat its choice!
All ears should prick, all hearts should spring,
To hear me sing
The burden of the isles, the word
Assyria knew, Damascus heard,
When, like the wind, while cedars shake,
Isaiah spake.

For I would frame a song to-day
Winged like a bird to cleave its way

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poem by Emma Lazarus
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf XIX. -- King Olaf's War-Horns

'Strike the sails!' King Olaf said;
'Never shall men of mine take flight;
Never away from battle I fled,
Never away from my foes!
Let God dispose
Of my life in the fight!'

'Sound the horns!' said Olaf the King;
And suddenly through the drifting brume
The blare of the horns began to ring,
Like the terrible trumpet shock
Of Regnarock,
On the Day of Doom!

Louder and louder the war-horns sang
Over the level floor of the flood;
All the sails came down with a clang,
And there in the mist overhead
The sun hung red
As a drop of blood.

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Thoughts Of Christmas-Day In India

IT is Christmas, and the sunshine
Lies golden on the fields,
And flowers of white and purple
Yonder fragrant creeper yields.

Like the plumes of some bold warrior,
The cocoa-tree on high,
Lifts aloft its feathery branches,
Amid the deep blue sky.

From yonder shadowy peepul,
The pale fair lilac dove,
Like music from a temple,
Sings a song of grief and love.

The earth is bright with blossoms,
And a thousand jewelled wings,
Mid the green boughs of the tamarind
A sudden sunshine flings.

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poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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The Maniac

I saw them sitting in the shade;
The long green vines hung over,
But could not hide the gold-haired maid
And Earl, my dark-eyed lover.
His arm was clasped so close, so close,
Her eyes were softly lifted,
While his eyes drank the cheek of rose
And breasts like snowflakes drifted.

A strange noise sounded in my brain;
I was a guest unbidden.
I stole away, but came again
With two knives snugly hidden.
I stood behind them. Close they kissed,
While eye to eye was speaking;
I aimed my steels, and neither missed
The heart I sent it seeking.

There were two death-shrieks mingled so
It seemed like one voice crying.

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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Naturalist's Summer-Evening Walk

To Thomas Pennant, Esquire.

... equidem credo, quia sit divinitus illis
Ingenium.
Virg., Georg.

When day declining sheds a milder gleam,
What time the may-fly haunts the pool or stream;
When the still owl skims round the grassy mead,
What time the timorous hare limps forth to feed;
Then be the time to steal adown the vale,
And listen to the vagrant cuckoo's tale;
To hear the clamorous curlew call his mate,
Or the soft quail his tender pain relate;
To see the swallow sweep the dark'ning plain
Belated, to support her infant train;
To mark the swift in rapid giddy ring
Dash round the steeple, unsubdu'd of wing:
Amusive birds! -- say where your hid retreat

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poem by Gilbert White
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Wrestling Match

What guts he had, the Dago lad
Who fought that Frenchman grim with guile;
For nigh an hour they milled like mad,
And mauled the mat in rare old style.
Then up and launched like catapults,
And tangled, twisted, clinched and clung,
Then tossed in savage somersaults,
And hacked and hammered, ducked and swung;
And groaned and grunted, sighed and cried,
Now knotted tight, now springing free;
To bend each other's bones they tried,
Their faces crisped in agony. . . .

Then as a rage rose, with tiger-bound,
They clashed and smashed, and flailed and flung,
And tripped and slipped, with hammer-pound,
And streamin sweat and straining lung,
The mighty mob roared out their joy,
And wild I heard a wench near-by
Shriek to the Frenchman: "Atta Boy!

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poem by Robert William Service
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His Gift

The gift it lies within you
It’s sits there wrapped up tight
It’s a gift one day you’ll open up
When God says the time is right

It’s a gift to do His bidding
It’s a gift that’ll change your life
And it will change the lives of others
And take away all your strife

But the puzzle has many pieces
And right now they just don’t fit
To see the bigger picture
You must not ever quit

The devil will try to deceive you
He’ll make your gift feel wrong
He’ll say it is a weakness
But in fact it will make you strong

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poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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Robot City

I live in the city of Wanna-Be
In the State of Much-Too-Hard,
And watch for the all If-Only folk
Who stick to their own backyard,
The schools are breeding their robot kids
That I call, I-Know-My-Rights,
The courts acquit them of larceny
And turn them loose in the night.

And some are ticketed Not-My-Fault,
Or Somebody-else-Not-Me!
Along with the other Why-Should-I?
They all just Wanna-Be-Free,
Then I-Had-A-Lousy-Childhood think
They can moan, and cry on the stairs,
While I have a word to answer them:
Find-Somebody-Who-Cares!

But often I notice, way out there
The ones who greet with a smile,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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